The of the Booby-Trapped Pickup

by John R. Erickson

  Slim watched as I stuck my head out the window. “Hank, those electric buttons are on your side too, so be careful where you step.”

  Sure, no problem. You know, there’s something really special about hanging your head out the window of a moving pickup. I’m speaking as a dog, of course. Humans don’t seem to get as much of a kick out of it as we do.

  For us, it’s something really special. Did you know, for example, that if you hold your head at a certain angle, the wind will cause your ears to flap around? No kidding. And at another angle, if you let your tongue hang out the side of your mouth, the wind will cause the old tongue to flutter. I’m serious. And it’s a pretty neat sensation.

  Anyway, there’s a little lesson on our Window Procedures, and it explains why I always choose to sit in the Shotgun Position, next to the window. I love the sensation of fresh air blowing across my face.

  But wouldn’t you know? Drover started whining about it. “Gosh, I wish I could ride Shotgun sometimes.”

  I pulled my head back inside and faced the runt. “What?”

  “I said, you never let me ride Shotgun, so I never get to stick my head out the window.”

  “That’s correct, and do you know why?”

  “Because you’re selfish?”

  “No, just the opposite. I’m doing it for your own good. Drover, do you have any idea just how dangerous it is to stick your face out the window of a moving pickup?”

  “I guess not.”

  “It’s very dangerous. Consider the facts. When you’re moving along at thirty miles an hour, if a grasshopper happened to fly up and hit you in the face, why, there’s no telling how much damage it might cause.”

  “I never thought about that.”

  “That’s why I’m here, son, to protect you from hazards you’re not aware of. Now, you take those big green grasshoppers. They can actually break off a tooth, damage your nose, or even knock out an eye.”

  “Oh my gosh. Knock out your eye?”

  “No kidding. They’ll knock it right out of your head. How would like that?”

  “I wouldn’t. This stub tail is bad enough.”

  “Well, there you are. You thought I was being selfish about the window? Well, now you know the truth.” I laid a paw on his shoulder. “I’m only trying to protect you from a deadly Grasshopper Encounter.”

  “Gosh, thanks.” He thought for a moment, then scowled. “Yeah, but we don’t have grasshoppers in the wintertime. I haven’t seen one in two months.”

  “Drover, the fact that you haven’t seen any grasshoppers doesn’t mean they’re not still lurking around. It merely means you haven’t seen one. They’re very sneaky, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “They are. Very sneaky. Never trust a grasshopper. Just when you think they’re all gone, one’ll fly up from the ditch and knock your eye out. We just can’t risk it.”

  He hung his head. “I guess you’re right. But I get tired of breathing stale air all the time.”

  “Drover, stale air is better than no air at all. How would you like to live in a deep dark mine shaft, where there was no air?”

  “I wouldn’t like it. I’m scared of the dark.”

  “Well, there you are. Sitting in the middle of the seat, you get plenty of sunshine and stale air. You should count your blessings and stop complaining. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my window.”

  I stuck my head out the window and feasted on a blast of clean, fresh air. WOW! Terrific. Over the roar of the wind, I heard Drover’s voice. “Yeah, but how come the grasshoppers never knock out your eye?”

  “I’m sorry, son, we’re out of time for questions. Save it for another day.”

  Hanging my head out the window was great, one of the special joys of being a dog. It saddened me that Drover couldn’t share the experience, but . . . well, there’s only one Shotgun window on a pickup and one of us had to . . .

  Huh?

  All at once the window glass began sliding up. Shocked and alarmed, I backed away from it and barked. That seemed to work. The window stopped dead in its tracks . . . although windows don’t exactly leave tracks. Anyway . . . no problem.

  When we reached the northwest pasture, the cows were standing on the feed ground, waiting for us. Twenty or thirty of them, all standing around in small clusters. Cows have a pretty good sense of time, did you know that? They do, which is pretty amazing, considering that cows are really dumb about most things. Once we’ve established a pattern for the daily feed run, they expect us to be there at the same time every day, and if we’re not, they’ll stand there, mooing and complaining until we show up.

  Slim stepped out of the pickup and counted the cows. They were all present. He got back inside and rigged the gearshift for Automatic Pilot, his usual feeding procedure. You might recall that when he fed hay by himself, he put the pickup in Grandma Low gear, let out on the clutch, and let the pickup drive itself, whilst he scrambled onto the bed on the pickup and tossed out the hay.

  This was nothing new to me, I mean, Slim and I had done it many times before and it had always worked to perfection. Okay, not always. You might recall that he had once jumped out when the windows were rolled up, and had somehow managed to lock himself out of the pickup. That had been a pretty scary deal, since I had been left alone in a runaway pickup.

  But Slim had learned from his careless mistake, and this time, he left both windows down so there was zero chance of it happening again.

  He put the pickup in low gear and let out on the clutch. It started moving. He stepped out, climbed up into the back end, and started throwing off hay. Me? As you might expect, I took this opportunity to stick my head out the Shotgun-side window and draw in more deep breaths of fresh . . .

  Zzzzzzzzzip.

  Huh?

  Chapter Eight: Trapped Alive!

  My goodness, unless I was badly mistaken, the window glass had moved again. What was the deal? For no good reason, the glass had moved, with nobody cranking it up and without my permission.

  No kidding. I stood there and watched as it zipped shut. You know, this was starting to get on my nerves. Not only had the window closed without any authorization from me, but it had denied me my source of fresh, wholesome air. But did I just sit there, moping and breathing stale air? No sir. I moved my freight over to the driver’s-side window.

  I stepped past Drover and headed for the open window. I suppose that his mind had been wandering and all at once it returned to his body. “What’s going on? How come . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it, son. I’ve got everything under control.” I stepped up to the window on the driver’s side and filled my lungs with fresh air.

  Behind me, Drover said, “Gosh, did the other window roll up by itself?”

  “Something like that. Yes.”

  “Oh, I get it now. You stepped on the button.”

  “Button? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, there’s a button . . .”

  “There’s a button on every shirtsleeve and a thread on every button, and I don’t have time to discuss threads and buttons. The impoitant point is that we still have a supply of fresh air.”

  “Yeah, but you’d better watch where you’re stepping or you’ll do it again.”

  “Drover, where I’m stepping has nothing to do with . . .”

  Zzzzzzzzzzzzip.

  HUH?

  I happened to be looking at Drover at that very moment, and was able to observe his eyes as they grew from small dots into wide circles. Then he let out a gasp. “Oh my gosh, you rolled up that window too! I knew it! I tried to warn you!”

  “Will you please hush? I had nothing to do with it. I was just standing here, minding my own business.” My gaze prowled around the cab. “Drover, there’s something very strange about this pickup. We
must stay alert.”

  He fell down on the seat and started wheezing. “Yeah, and now I can’t breathe!”

  Of course you can breathe.”

  “Yeah, but all the air’s gone stale, and I hate to breathe stale air. I think I’m fixing to smuthocate!”

  “Oh, rubbish. Drover, it’s common knowledge that these pickup cabs aren’t sealed airtight. There should be plenty of . . .” I took a big gulp of air. All at once it seemed . . . uh . . . pretty stale. I took another big gulp and . . . “Holy stokes, Droper, we’re running out of air!”

  “I knew it! Help, I’m smuthocating!”

  “Get control of yourself, son. We have to be professional about this. Try to . . .” My mind was racing. “Try to ration your air intake.”

  He stared at me. “How do you do that?”

  “Well, you just . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Ohhhhhhh!”

  “Stop groaning, that’s the first step. Groaning uses up large quantities of precious carbon diego. No more groaning.”

  “Well, I’ll try. And maybe we should sit still and not move.”

  “Great idea. Now we’re cooking.” I left the window and joined him in the middle of the seat. There, we went into Statue Mode and didn’t move a hair. The pickup chugged on across the pasture, Slim pitched off hay, and we rationed our breathing, cutting each breath by 46 percent. “I think this is working, son. Now, all we have to do is wait for Slim. What do you say? Can we tough it out?”

  No answer. I glanced to my right and saw that he had passed out. A cold chill moved down my spine.

  “Drover, speak to me. Can you hear me?”

  He moaned. “What did you say?”

  “Well, I haven’t actually said anything yet, except, ‘Speak to me.’”

  “Do you want me to speak or hear you?”

  “I don’t care, one or the other.”

  “Well, I can’t hear you. Everything’s fuzzy.”

  “Okay, then speak to me.”

  “I just did.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t say anything.”

  “Who can talk when he’s smuthocating?”

  “Try it, Drover, and give me a report on your condition.”

  “What? You’re fading out.”

  “I said, give me a comport on your rendition!”

  “Nothing makes sense, everything’s fading out!”

  “Hang on, son, don’t lose consciousness. Slim’s almost done, he’ll be here any second.”

  “Everything’s getting dark!”

  “Open your eyes, Drover!”

  He opened his eyes and blinked them several times. “That helped.”

  “See? Hang on for a few more minutes. Ration your air. Count sheep. Think of a letter between one and ten. Or . . . wait, we’ll play Twenty Questions. That’ll help pass the time.”

  “Who goes first?”

  “You go. I’m feeling a little rattled.”

  “Okay, I’ll try.” He wadded up his face in an expression of deep concentration. “Here’s my first question. How come you don’t roll down a window?”

  I stared at the runt. “Why don’t I roll down the window? Because there’s no crank or handle for doing it. Had you thought of that?”

  “Yeah, but maybe if you go back to the door and step on one of those buttons . . .”

  “Hold it, halt. We discontinued that conversation about threads and buttons.”

  “Yeah, but see those buttons on the door?”

  I narrowed my eyes and studied the alleged door. “Oh. Those buttons? Okay, what’s your point?”

  “Well, I think if you step on one of them, it’ll make the window roll down.”

  “Drover, that is one of the dumbest things you’ve ever said. How could a button roll down a window?”

  He heaved a sigh. “Hank, just try it. I think it’ll work.”

  I gave this half a minute of deep thought. “All right, I’ll trust you this time. Everything in my experience tells me that this is a mistake, but for you, I’ll try it.”

  “Thanks. You’ll be glad.”

  I marched over to the left-side door, placed my paw on the button, and pushed down.

  Click.

  That was odd. The sound of a window moving up or down is supposed to be a Zzzzzzzip. The sound I’d just heard had been more of a click. Obviously Drover’s experiment had ended in failure.

  Behind me, I heard him let out a groan. “Oh no! YOU LOCKED THE DOORS!”

  “I did no such thing. All I did was . . .” I looked closer at the little door-locker thing near the window. It appeared to be . . . gulp . . . in the down position. “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you . . .”

  “Help!”

  “. . . but something has gone badly wrong. This pickup has locked its own doors!”

  “Help!”

  “We are now locked inside a moving pickup!”

  “Help!”

  “Will you please shut your little trap and stop squeaking? I can’t think with all your noise.”

  “Murff!”

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to gag myself.”

  “Oh. Thanks. Listen carefully. We have only one course of action left.”

  “Bust out?”

  “No. We must hide. When Slim finds that the windows are rolled up and the doors are locked, he’ll probably blame it on us.”

  “Gosh, I never thought of that.”

  “Quick, son, into Bunker Positions! Hit the floor!”

  In a flash, we both dived out of the seat, hit the floor, and began burrowing as deeply as we could against the passenger-side door. To add to our concealment, we covered our eyes with our paws. We vanished into the darkness and became Invisible Dogs.

  “Nice job, son, I think this will work.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Oh yes. He’ll never suspect a thing.”

  We hovered there in the darkness, listening to the drone of the motor. But then . . . oops, I heard Slim pulling on the door handle, trying to get inside. Then he was banging on the window glass. Then we heard his voice: “Hey!”

  “Shhh. Not a peep, Drover. As long as he’s outside, we’re safe.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Drover said, “You know, I’m not so sure we’re safe.”

  “What?”

  “The pickup’s still moving . . . and nobody’s driving.”

  “Well, of course. What’s your point, Drover, and please be quick about it.”

  “Well, I was just wondering if maybe . . . we ought to try to let him in.”

  “What? Are you nuts? If we let him in, he’ll know we locked him out.”

  “You did, not me.”

  “Drover, I had nothing to do with it. On the other hand . . .” I uncovered my eyes and sat up. I could see Slim’s face in the window. He was yelling words I couldn’t hear. “Drover, Slim’s at the door. Maybe I’d better see what he wants.”

  I went to the door on the driver’s side. Through the window, I could see Slim, trotting along beside the moving pickup. He yelled and banged on the window and pointed to something up ahead. Hmmm. A canyon. Then he pointed to the little door-locker device on the window ledge. What was he trying to tell me?

  Bark? Okay, that made sense. He wanted me to bark. I filled my lungs with stale air and cut loose with a burst of deep, manly barking.

  This produced a very strange response. His eyes seemed to roll up inside his head and he continued screaming and pounding on the window.

  Bark louder? Sure, I could handle that. I refilled my tanks and unleashed an enormous barst of burking, one of the most impressive bursts of barking of my whole career. But even that didn’t seem to help. I mean, he was still out there, yelling and waving like a lunatic.

  Wh
at was he trying to say? Did he want me to start chewing on the steering wheel? Maybe that was it. I mean, sometimes in very stressful situation, a dog can make things better by, well, chewing on something. I stepped up on the armrest to tell him that I’d gotten his message, but then . . .

  Zzzzzzzzzzip.

  I’ll be derned. The window rolled down. Amazing! Slim reached his hand inside, pulled up the locking device, jerked open the door, pushed me out of the way, threw himself into the seat, turned the key, and shut off the motor. The pickup chugged to a stop.

  The atmosphere inside the cab became very . . . quiet, shall we say. Slim was panting and staring straight ahead with glazed eyes. He reached up a hand and removed his hat, then used it to fan his face. His hands were shaking.

  Drover and I exchanged uneasy glances. The silence became very heavy as we wondered what would happen next. Thunder and lightning? Screams of anger? Accusations hurled at us from all directions? We waited in the deadly silence, our hearts pounding like beating hearts.

  At last, Slim blinked his eyes and let out a big gust of air, then his gaze slid around to . . . uh . . . ME. I cringed and prepared myself for a blast.

  I sensed that I was in trouble. But for what?

  Chapter Nine: Drover Gets a Promotion

  I had done nothing, but it appeared that I was in trouble again, and let’s face the facts. This wasn’t a great time for me to be in trouble. I mean, the Donut Fiasco had done some serious damage to my reputation and I’d gone to a lot of trouble to redeem myself—less than an hour ago. The timing here was bad, very bad.

  I hung my head and waited for the storm to hit. To my amazement, it didn’t come. Slim wasn’t even mad! In a croaky voice, he said, “That canyon up yonder drops twenty feet straight down. If this new pickup had gone over the edge, Loper would have wrung my neck. Let’s try not to do that again, what say?”

  Whew! I could have hugged him. I hadn’t done anything in the first place, but I took a Pledge never to do it again.

  With a shaky hand, he pushed a shock of hair back from his forehead. “I forgot about the electric winders. They ought to outlaw them things for ranch trucks.”