The of the Booby-Trapped Pickup

by John R. Erickson

  We dogs rode back to the ranch in the bed of the pickup. When we pulled up in front of the machine shed, I jumped out and walked away.

  It was over with us. Forty dollars’ worth of greasy donuts had cost me one of the dearest friends of my life.

  Chapter Six: I Lost My Pal in a Pile of Dough

  By this time, you probably have mist in your eyes and the pages of the book are beginning to blur. I understand. It almost broke my heart, leaving Slim forever. In fact, it was such an unspeakable tragedy that I sat down in the musty silence of the machine shed and composed a song of farewell. If it causes you to burst out crying . . . well, there’s nothing we can do about that.

  I Lost My Pal in a Pile of Dough

  That scene in town was no big shucks.

  They won’t go broke for forty bucks.

  And what occurred brought them no shame.

  They’ve always got old Hank to blame.

  Perhaps I could have shown restraint

  And saved poor Slim from social taint.

  But grease is deadly, that we know,

  I lost my pal in a pile of dough.

  I regret all the feelings this deal has evoked,

  Resentment and anger my actions have stoked.

  I guess he’d be happy if I had just croaked,

  Expired from the grease in which I was soaked.

  I never thought it would come to this.

  Our friendship wasn’t perfect bliss,

  But true it was, or so I thought,

  Now, it seems, it’s come to naught.

  I thought our bond could stand the test,

  At times it seemed the very best.

  But now it’s gone, like melted snow.

  I lost my pal in a pile of dough.

  Okay, I was foolish for fooling around,

  Plundering donuts and wolfing them down,

  Then leaving them there in a pile on the ground,

  Embarrassing Slim in the middle of town.

  For years I’ve been his closest mate.

  You’d think that he could tolerate

  A fault or two . . . or even ten.

  I thought he had a thicker skin.

  It’s sad, so sad, to contemplate

  What might have been . . . but it’s too late.

  He had a friend but let me go.

  I lost my pal in a pile of dough.

  But for crying out loud, nobody got hurt!

  It wasn’t a crisis or national alert.

  We didn’t have bodies or blood in the dirt.

  A dog merely happened to toss his dessert.

  A dog merely happened to toss his dessert!

  Pretty sad song, huh? You bet. As I wrote those painful words, tears were streaming down both sides of my face, dripping off my chin, and forming a Pool of Tragedy at my feet. No kidding, composing that song was one of the toughest assignments of my whole career, but it was a job that had to be done.

  To be honest, I wasn’t sure that I could go on. For all those years, Slim had been such an impointant park of my life . . . important part of my life, I just couldn’t imagine that it had all come to an end. I mean, think about all the happy times we’d known: feeding cattle together in the snow, sharing the same bed on cold winter nights, splitting a mackerel sandwich in the shade of a cottonwood tree . . .

  Actually, the mackerel sandwich brought back a few unpleasant memories, since it had given me incredible indigestion, but you get the point.

  Slim and I had been as close as two peas in a pot, two toes on a foot, two feet in a boot, two boots on a porch, two porches on a house, two houses on a street. In me, he’d had a loyal friend who didn’t care that he was nasty bachelor, and in him, I’d had . . . well, not much, it appeared, since he’d allowed our relationship to be destroyed over one measly incident in town.

  Okay, I had to accept a tiny share of the blame. If I’d eaten two donuts instead of two hundred, maybe things would have turned out differently, but still . . .

  Well, it was over now, years of friendship down the Toilet of Life. I would have to leave the ranch, of course, and become a homeless wanderer, but I was so distressed and broken up that I decided to postpone my departure until the following day. I spent a restless night on a bed of rags in a dark corner of the machine shed.

  The next morning, just as I was preparing to leave, I heard someone calling my name. “Hank? Are you in there? Hank?”

  It was Drover, of course, the last true friend I had in the world. That gives you some idea of how far I had fallen. I jacked myself up from the bed of rags and made my way to the big sliding doors. Sure enough, there he stood in morning’s light, a simple, pea-brained little mutt who seemed delighted to see me.

  When I appeared, he started hopping around in circles. “Oh good, I’m so happy! I worried about you all night. I thought maybe you’d . . . well, run away or something. You sure looked sad when we got back from town.”

  I slipped through the crack between the big sliding doors and stepped outside. “Thanks, Drover. I’m touched by your concern, but you probably shouldn’t waste your time worrying about me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? That incident in town pretty muchly sank my ship. It’s all over between me and Slim.”

  He stopped jumping around and stared at me. “You mean, eating all those donuts?”

  “Right. I don’t know what came over me. If I’d just eaten a couple, it would have been no big deal, but was I satisfied with two or three? Heck no, I tried to eat the whole load! It was one of the dumbest stunts I’ve ever pulled.”

  “Yeah, but any dog would have done the same.”

  “Drover, any dog wouldn’t have done the same. You didn’t. You sat there in the pickup and watched the whole thing, and you didn’t get in trouble. You never get in trouble. I don’t know how you do that, but it really burns me up.”

  He grinned. “It’s easy. I’m a chicken.”

  I studied the runt for a long moment. “You’re admitting that you’re a chicken?”

  “Oh, sure. You would have found out sooner or later.”

  I wasn’t in a laughing mood, but that made me laugh. “Uh . . . Drover, it’s pretty obvious.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course it is. You’d have to be blind and deaf not to notice.”

  “Darn.” His head drooped. “I wanted to keep it a secret. See, I hate being such a chicken.”

  “Well, it seems to be working, pal. You’ve still got a job and I’m living under a cloud of shame and disgrace. An outside observer might say that you’ve got the better end of the deal.”

  “Yeah, but it’s so boring. Sometimes I wish I could be more like you, daring and bold.”

  “That’s me all right, daring and bold. Also homeless and out of a job.”

  He let out a gasp. “Gosh, you mean . . .”

  “I have no choice, Drover. After yesterday . . .” Just then, we heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. My first instinct was to go straight into the Alert and Alarm Procedure, but then I remembered: it wasn’t my job anymore. “Yes, Drover, I’m leaving the ranch.”

  “That’s Slim’s pickup. He’s coming this way.”

  “Well, that gives me all the more reason to hit the road. I’m sure he won’t want to see me hanging around.”

  I started to leave, but Drover darted after me. “No, wait. Give him a chance, see what he says. Maybe . . . Hank, I don’t think he’d want you to leave.”

  I stopped. “Really?”

  “Yeah, and if you look sad and sorry, maybe he’ll forget about it.”

  I gave that some thought. “Hmmm. Well, I’ve got nothing to lose. I could try the Deepest Remorse Program.”

  “Yeah, it’s worked before, and I’ll help. We’ll both
look sad and sorry.”

  I laid a paw on his shoulder. “Tell you what, let’s give it a shot. If it works, there just might be a promotion waiting for you.”

  “Oh, goodie, a promotion. I can hardly wait.”

  We hustled back to the machine-shed doors. “Okay, soldier, you set up here, and I’ll set up over there. We’ll need to be in position when he pulls up, and be ready to roll tape the very instant his foot touches the ground. And remember, Drover, what we’re selling here is Funeral.”

  “Funeral. Got it. Here I go!”

  He sprinted over to his position on the west side of the sliding doors and I took up mine on the east side. When Slim arrived, there would be no way he could avoid seeing our presentation.

  I heard the crunch of his tires on the gravel drive and hurried through my Looks of Deepest Remorse checklist: Dead Tail, Lifeless Ears, Drooped Head, Hollow Eyes, and Dispirited Lips. By the time Slim pulled up in front of the shed, I had everything set and ready. I shot a glance at Drover and was pleased to see that he was in position too.

  The stage was set. This would be one of the most important presentations of my whole career. If we could pull it off, maybe my life would return to its normal state. If we failed . . . I didn’t even want to think about it.

  Are you feeling the tension? I was. It was so thick, you could have cut it with a spoon.

  The pickup stopped. A door opened. Slim’s left foot touched the ground, then his right foot. The pickup door slammed. Moving at his usual pace (cold molasses), he walked toward the sliding doors, only . . . hey, what was the deal? He was looking at the ground, not at us, and . . .

  I couldn’t believe it. He walked right past us and went inside. He didn’t even see us!

  I shot a glance at Drover. He was looking discouraged. “Be brave, son, and try to stay on task. He’ll be back in a second and we’ll get another shot.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to keep my spirits up.”

  “No, no, keep your spirits down. Don’t forget: Funeral.”

  “Oh yeah, got it.”

  We heard Slim rummaging around for something on the workbench. Then . . . footsteps coming our way again. He stepped outside. I went to full power on the Remorse Transmitter. He walked toward the pickup . . . and his eyes were still on the ground.

  He still hadn’t seen us! What did it take to get this guy’s attention?

  He reached for the door handle. Okay, we were out of time. I had no choice but to go into Moans and Wails. I filled my lungs with air and unleashed a mournful groan that froze him in his tracks.

  “Ah-oooooooo-roooor!”

  Slowly, his head twisted around. He saw Drover. Then his gaze drifted over to me. His eyebrows lowered. “What’s going on around here? Y’all look like you just came back from a funeral.”

  It was working!

  He walked over to me and gave me a closer inspection. “You sick?”

  Uh . . . no, not sick. That was yesterday. Today . . . distressed. Sorrowful. Overwhelmed by regrets and remorse. And feelings of guilt, terrible guilt.

  He scratched the back of his neck. “Well, you ought to be sick, after what you done.”

  I rolled my eyes upward and went to Slow Taps on the last two inches of my tail.

  “Are you sorry you made a pig of yourself?”

  Oh yes, deeply sorry.

  “Are you sorry you barfed on the sidewalk?”

  Absolutely. I’d hardly slept a wink. The guilt and remorse had just eaten me alive. No kidding.

  He knelt down on one knee and laid a hand on top of my head. “Being a dumbbell sure hurts, don’t it?”

  Oh yes, definitely, although . . . well, I don’t know as I would have put it that way.

  “It happens that I have some personal experience with that myself, which is why I have trouble staying mad at you, pooch. You remind me so much of me.”

  Oh, really? Well, I . . . I hardly knew what to say.

  He aimed a finger at the end of my nose. “If I let you clowns go feed cattle this morning, reckon you could act halfway civilized?”

  Oh yes, no question. Halfway or even two-thirds. Absolutely. Yes.

  He pressed his lips together in a tight line and narrowed his eyes. “Okay, let’s load up. Maybe we’ll see my pet coyote today.”

  I hardly noticed his mention of the so-called pet coyote. All that mattered right then was that I had saved my job! Slim and I were pals again, oh, happy day!

  I couldn’t contain myself. I leaped into his loving embrace, only . . . well, he didn’t give me a loving embrace because I more or less knocked him backward, and while he was sprawled on the ground I licked his face from ear to ear. He laughed and grabbed me around the middle, and for several moments we wrestled and rolled around on the ground. Hey, it was just like old times. I’d gotten my life back and . . .

  HUH?

  Slim froze. I froze. Somebody was . . . standing over us.

  Chapter Seven: We Ride in the Fancy New Pickup

  My eyes moved up the stranger’s legs and came to rest on . . . Loper’s face. He was standing on one leg and sucking breakfast particles out of his teeth.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Slim grabbed his hat off the ground and pushed himself up to his feet. “Oh no, me and Hank was just . . . rassling.”

  “Rassling.”

  “Playing around.”

  “Oh. Well, I just wondered if there was a chance you might feed cattle this morning. ’Course, we could put it off for a few days, if it’s not convenient.”

  Slim gave him a scowl. “You just love catching me in awkward moments, don’t you?”

  Loper snorted a laugh. “I do, I really do. Thanks, Slimbo, you’ve made my whole day.” He started walking away, but when his eyes fell on me, his smile fell like a dead pigeon. “Forty bucks.” Shaking his head, he walked down to the corrals.

  Well, gee, did we have to bring up ancient history? Hey, we’d already worked through that crisis and had moved on with our lives.

  Oh well. Slim and I had made peace and he’d invited us to help him on his feed run. And you know what else? He even let us ride in the cab of that fancy new loaner pickup! No kidding. I could hardly believe it, after the fuss he’d made about the Donut Fiasco. But that was the nice thing about Slim. He didn’t hold a grudge. He didn’t hang on to his anger the way some people did. (I won’t mention any names.)

  Yes I will. Loper.

  Once we were settled inside the cab of the new pickup, Slim started the engine and listened to it for a second. “It’s a diesel. What do you think?”

  Well, it was . . . loud. Real loud. Sounded like a dump truck.

  “I like the sound of a diesel. And check this out.” He snapped on the radio. “It works, and so do the windshield wipers.” He turned on the wipers and grinned like a little boy. “Oh, and look at this.” He pushed a button on the armrest and. . . amazing. The window on the passenger side zipped up. He gave us a wink. “Heh. Electric winders. And it’s even got electric door locks.” He pushed another button on the armrest, causing the door-lock gizmos to move up and down. “What do you think of that?”

  Incredible. Drover and I were speechless. We had never known such luxury, or even imagined it.

  “This pickup’s way too fancy for me, but I won’t mind being pampered for a few days. Heck, I deserve it, after all those years of driving Loper’s junk heaps. Don’t you dogs agree?”

  Oh yes, no question about it. He deserved to be pampered . . . and, well, so did we. After all, we had put up with those junk-heap pickups too—the bad smells, the dust, the rough rides over pasture roads. I’d never been the kind of dog who craved luxury or pampering (it’ll make a poodle out of you if you’re not careful), but I figured that I could stand a couple of days of it.

  Slim stepped on the clutch and shifted up
into first gear, and we drove around to the stack lot to load up some hay. That winter, we were feeding cake (cubed feed in sacks) to most of the cows, but feeding hay to one bunch of cows that had baby calves. Why hay? Well, as I recall, it had something to do with . . . what was it? Milk production, there we go. Alfalfa hay, it seems, is a good type of feed for cows that are nursing calves. It helps them produce more milk . . . or something like that.

  Slim did most of the work of loading the bales onto the bed of the pickup. Okay, he did all the work. Ranch dogs can do many things, some of them really amazing, but loading bales of hay isn’t one of them. But that didn’t mean that I sat around on my duff and loafed while Slim was working hard, loading the bales. No sir. Every time he lifted a bale, I was right there beside him, checking for . . .

  “Hank, get out of the way.”

  . . . mice. See, when cold weather comes, your field mice leave the fields and pastures and . . .

  “Hank, move!”

  . . . take up residence in the cracks between the bales of hay. Once inside the stack, they’ll dig holes in the hay, build nests, and generally make a mess of . . .

  “HANK!”

  Huh?

  “I can’t carry this bale of hay to the pickup when I’m stumbling over you.”

  Oh.

  “Now get off the stack. Go sit on the ground and scratch a flea.”

  Sure, no problem.

  Anyway, as I was saying, sometimes a dog’s best course of action in these hay-loading situations is to sit on the ground, scratch a couple of fleas, and watch. But that’s not the same as loafing. Loafing is an entirely different deal, and it’s not something you’ll ever catch ME doing. Now, Drover’s a different story, but we don’t need to go into that.

  Slim loaded twenty bales onto the bed of the pickup and we set out for the northwest pasture. He rolled the windows down, which allowed me to stick my head outside. Dogs like to do that, you know. We like to hang our heads out the windows because . . . well, who wants to look out at the world through a piece of glass? Not me. I like to be involved, right in the middle of things.