The of the Booby-Trapped Pickup

by John R. Erickson

  Exactly. Windows that rolled themselves up, doors that locked for no reason. It was scandalous, shameful, outrageous. Slim and I were furious. This pickup was booby-trapped and not safe for innocent dogs.

  When Slim had calmed down enough to start the pickup, we drove back to headquarters and loaded twenty sacks of feed onto the bed of the pickup. Then we headed east on the Wolf Creek Road to feed some more cattle. Slim seemed to be in a better mood now and so was I.

  There was only one small dark cloud that blocked the sunshine in the clear sky of my horizon. The window on the Shotgun side was rolled up, see, and I wasn’t able to do my Fresh Air Procedures. Maybe you think that’s not a big deal, but for a ranch dog, it’s a big deal. I needed some air.

  But what’s a dog to do? I had to sit there in the Shotgun position, looking out at the world through a sheet of glass and breathing stale air. Have we discussed Air Quality? Studies have shown that dogs who breathe stale air for long periods of time become . . . well, stale. Dull-minded. Lazy. Legargic. I mean, look at what stale air had done to Drover.

  I definitely needed some fresh air, and that’s when I noticed that the window on Slim’s side was rolled down. Would he mind if I . . . well, eased over to his side and shared the window with him? Maybe he wouldn’t notice, and even if he did, I felt pretty sure that he would understand that we were experiencing a Bad Air Alert inside the pickup.

  Would he want the Head of Ranch Security eking out a miserable existence breathing stale air? Heck no. I was pretty certain that he would want me to share the window with him.

  Even though I was following Slim’s wishes on this deal, I had a feeling that I would need to do it in a . . . uh . . . how should I say this? In a stealthy manner, let us say. Slowly. Delicately. I mean, your ordinary run of low-class mutts wouldn’t have given a thought to delicacy. They would have just blundered across the seat, plopped themselves in the driver’s lap, and stuck their drippy mouths out the window.

  That’s not the way I do business. If we can’t do it properly, by George, we don’t do it at all.

  I began the procedure by studying Slim’s fose in prayfile . . . face in profile, let us say. His mind seemed far away, lost in thought. This was good. I reached for the keypad of my mind and punched in the commands for a procedure we call Slow Creep. I began inching my enormous body across the seat while at the same time keeping a careful eye on Slim.

  Pretty impressive, huh? You bet.

  Slim suspected nothing, but I knew there was little chance that I could slip past Drover without provoking some kind of comment. Sure enough, when I tried to slither myself through the tiny space between him and the seat, he noticed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Shhh, not so loud. My window’s rolled up and I’m about to gag on the stale air.”

  “When I said that, you told me to count my blessings.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah, I counted to one and quit.”

  “Well, do a recount. You must have missed something.”

  “Sunshine’s all I could think of.”

  “There are more blessings, Drover, hundreds of them. You just have to look for them in all of Life’s crannies and nannies. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  At last, he moved out of the way. “Well, it doesn’t seem fair that you always get the fresh air and I have to sit in the middle.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Okay, Drover, remember that little promotion we talked about? As of this moment, I am promoting you to the Shotgun Position.”

  His eyes lit up. “Oh goodie, Shotgun! I’ve always dreamed of riding Shotgun.” He dashed over to the right side of the seat, and there his smile faded. “Yeah, but . . . the window’s rolled up.”

  “Drover, I deal in large concepts, not tiny details. You’ll just have to work it out for yourself.”

  I resumed my Stealthy Scoot across the seat. By this time, I had made contact with Slim’s right leg. I paused and did another quick scan of his face. It came back negative, so I mushed on to the most delicate part of the procedure, entering the Lapalary Region of his lap. If a guy trips an alarm, this is where it happens, as he snail-crawls over that first leg and oozes himself toward the window, threading the upper portion of his body through, around, and between the driver’s two arms.

  It’s a toughie, let me tell you, and there are very few dogs who can pull it off. What usually happens is that the dog gets careless, presses too hard, sets off the motion sensors, and gets tossed to the other side of the pickup.

  But, heh heh, you’ll be pleased to know that I pulled it off. After minutes and minutes of slow, delicate creeping, I oozed myself onto the Lapalary Region and plunged my nose into the stream of crisp, clean fall air. YES! Oh, sweet air! Oh, happy lungs! It was delicious, well worth all the pain and suffering I had endured to get there.

  At that point, I moved rapidly into the next phase: resetting all the switches for Face, Tail, Ears, Eyes, and Mouth, and reconfiguring the system to produce an expression we call “I’ve Been Here All Day, No Kidding.” That’s a pretty important part of the procedure because, sooner or later, the driver is going to figure out that . . . well, he’s got a dog in his lap. The idea is to have “I’ve Been Here” ready to roll.

  It took Slim a while to respond, longer than I’d expected. I think I might have strung it out a little longer, but I made a poor calculation on Weight Distribution and pressed too hard with one of my hind paws. Also, I was sitting within the circle of his two arms, between his chest and the steering wheel, and I guess he was having a little trouble . . . well, seeing the road.

  Don’t forget, I’m a pretty big guy. Huge body, enormous shoulders, muscular thighs, the kind of body that causes the eyes of lady dogs to pop out of their heads.

  Anyway, he noticed. “Hank, you’re sitting in my lap.”

  Right. Yes. I was aware of that, and it was pretty touching, wasn’t it? I mean, out of all the laps of all the cowboys in the whole world, I had chosen to sit on his. A cowboy and his loyal dog, going off to feed cattle. Very touching.

  “I can’t drive like this.”

  Oh? Well, gee, I’d been there all day . . . most of the day. He hadn’t noticed?

  “Reckon you could move?”

  Well, I’d gone to quite a lot of trouble to get there, to be honest, and the air was really nice on his side of the pickup. So the bottom line was . . . no, I couldn’t see that moving was a very good option. Not anytime soon. Maybe later.

  “If I roll down the winder on your side, will you move?”

  Actually . . . actually I was more and more impressed with the Air Quality on his side. It seemed fresher, cleaner, and sweeter than the air on the other side. It seemed better in every—

  “Move!”

  Yikes. Suddenly and all at once, he flexed his body muscles and sent me flying out of his lap. Gee whiz, he didn’t need to be such a brute about it, I mean, if he’d wanted me to move, why hadn’t he just come right out and said so? I could take a hint.

  I tucked up my tail, lowered my ears, and beamed him an expression we call “Dog Rebuked.” I was disappointed that it caused him to laugh.

  “Do you want me to have a wreck and get us all killed?”

  Well . . . no, since he put it like that.

  Just then, something magical happened. By George, the Shotgun window rolled itself down! Slim noticed it too, and he said, “There. Stick your nose out that side . . . and Hank, try not to chop off your head. Remember them buttons.”

  Buttons? Why was everyone on the ranch talking about buttons? And what did Slim know about buttons anyway? He was a bachelor and I happened to know that half of the shirts he wore were missing at least one button.

  I marched over to my window and shoved Drover onto the floor. “Time’s up. Scram.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I thought I got a promotion.” />
  “You’ve been fired.”

  “Fired! I just got here. What did I do?”

  I beamed him a gaze of purest steel. “You’ve been wasting oxygen, Drover. You had your chance and you blew it. Sorry.”

  He whined and moaned, but I ignored him. I mean, oxygen is very precious and we couldn’t allow him to go on squindering it.

  I plunged my face and nose into the rushing river of fresh air, closed my eyes, and let the wind flap my ears and tongue, flutter my whiskers, and tickle my chin. OH YES! Fellers, this was very close to Life’s True Meaning and Purpose.

  And you know what? I decided that the air was sweeter on my side after all. If Slim wanted to be such a greedy goat, he could keep his old window . . . and ride the rest of the way without my warm presence in his lap.

  Pretty stern punishment, huh? You bet, but these people have to learn.

  Chapter Ten: My Head Gets Cut Off

  It took us maybe ten minutes to reach our next destination, the Dutcher Creek pasture. As we pulled across the cattle guard into the pasture, Slim said, “I wonder if that coyote’ll be on the feed ground today.” I gave him a blank stare, and he said, “There’s been a coyote coming up to eat with the cows.”

  Oh yes, that story, but I didn’t believe it. A coyote eating feed with the cows? Impossible.

  Most of the cows had already come in to the feed ground and were waiting for us—waiting impatiently, I might add, milling, bawling, complaining, and staring at us with empty bovine expressions.

  It’s always a little irritating to see them doing this. I mean, a cow has nothing better to do than stand around on the feed ground and wait for somebody to deliver her groceries, right? If they thought our service was too slow, then why didn’t they go eat the bark off a few trees? We’d fed them yesterday, but do you suppose they ever thanked us or showed even a shred of gratitude?

  No sir. Cows never say thank you. They gibble what we gob them and bawl for more, as though they’re starving to death. Well, they’re not. They’re all as fat as mud. You know the problem with cows? They have too much idle time and all they think about is food. Let ’em go get a job, that’s what I say.

  They gobble what we give them, is what I meant to say, not “gibble what we gobble them” or whatever it was. Givvle what we gob them.

  Skip it.

  We pulled up on the feed ground, an open space on the west side of the creek, and parked beneath some big cottonwood trees. Slim left the engine running, because that’s what you’re supposed to do with diesel engines in the wintertime, leave ’em running. You probably didn’t know that, but it’s true. Diesel engines run better when they’re hot. Why? I have no idea, but Slim said so and that’s good enough for me.

  While we waited for the rest of the cows to come in, he pushed his hat at a downward angle so that the brim almost touched his nose, and scrunched down in the seat. I guess he noticed that Drover and I were staring at him. Why were we staring at him? No particular reason. We were just . . . well, waiting for something to happen.

  “I’ll bet y’all wish I’d sing you a song.”

  What? Was he joking? Have we ever discussed Slim’s singing? Maybe not. See, when we’re out doing something on the ranch, he makes up these corny songs, and what can a dog do but sit there and listen? It seems a little weird to me, a grown man singing to his dogs, but he’s done it, not once, but many times.

  He seems to think we love his so-called music. Ha. We put up with it, that’s all, because we have to, because that’s one of the things we have to do to keep our jobs.

  He grinned. “Well, okay. If you’ll sit up and beg, maybe I’ll sing for you.”

  Oh, brother. This was so silly.

  “See, I want to be sure y’all really love my singing. When you’re a famous musician like me, you hate to perform for an audience of noodles. If you really love my singing, sit up and beg for a song.”

  Drover and I traded glances, and he whispered, “Is he kidding?”

  “I don’t think so. He wants us to go into the Begging Position.”

  “Should we do it?”

  “We have no choice, Drover. We’re trapped . . . unless you’d rather walk home.”

  “No, my feet hurt. Let’s beg.”

  “I agree. Let’s do the routine, listen to the tiresome thing, and get it over with. Surely it won’t take too long.”

  We settled ourselves into the seat, raised our front paws, and became nice little beggars. It was embarrassing, but what can you do?

  Slim nodded and grinned. “That’s pretty good, and I’m really honored, but I think it might be better if you whined too. Can you whine for a song?”

  Whine? No, absolutely not! I had never whined for a song in my whole life, and I wasn’t fixing to start now.

  I turned to Drover, who was sitting there like a little stooge with his paws in the air. “Cancel, abort. We’re calling this thing off, Drover. It’s just too ridiculous. We’re going on strike.”

  And with that, we lowered our front paws and braced ourselves for the consequences. Would he kick us out? Make us walk home? I didn’t care. We have our pride, you know, and a dog can stand only so much cowboy nonsense.

  Slim’s grin wilted. “You ain’t going to give me a whine?”

  No sir, no whines. Not today, not ever. If he wanted an audience of whiners, he should sing to a cat.

  “Dumb dogs. Y’all just don’t appreciate real talent.”

  This was so childish. I couldn’t believe he was doing it.

  He shrugged. “Oh well, I couldn’t think of a song anyway.”

  See? He’d put us through all that nonsense, and he didn’t even have a song to sing! This was outrageous.

  He looked off to the west and sat up in the seat. He was staring at something. “I’ll be derned. There she is, that same coyote.”

  This I had to see for myself. I pushed Drover aside, marched over to the left window, stepped up into Slim’s lap, and peered off to the west.

  “Watch where you’re stepping, bozo.”

  Sorry.

  Slim pointed into the distance. “Look yonder. See her on the edge of those cows? She’s a pretty little thing, has a nice coat of hair, and looks healthy. She’s waiting for me to toss her some feed.”

  I narrowed my eyes and focused them on the edge of the herd. Sure enough, there she was. So it was true. This wasn’t just another one of Slim’s windy tales. She stood off to herself, watching us with a steady coyote gaze. And, yes, she was kind of pretty.

  I looked closer. She was very pretty.

  I leaned against the window ledge. She was gorgeous! And suddenly my mind was flooded with a torrent of fragrant memories from long ago. Holy smokes, do you realize who that was? You won’t believe this, so hang on.

  IT WAS MISSY COYOTE!

  Missy Coyote, the lovely coyote princess, the woman of my dreams, my one and only true love! At one point in my career, I had given serious thought to throwing it all away, joining up with the coyotes, becoming a professional cannibal, and marrying Missy. That hadn’t quite worked out, but, wowee, here she was again!

  My whole body trembled with . . . something. Excitement. Delight. I wasn’t sure I could contain myself . . . and I didn’t. I lost it right there.

  Aaaaah-ooooooo! Aaaaaaa-ooooooo!

  “Hank, dry up, you’ll scare her off.”

  Dry up? Was he joking? Can you dry up a mighty river that rushes to the sea? He could forget about me drying up. I was too far gone for that. I hopped my front paws up on the armrest and reloaded my air tanks for another Announcement of Love.

  “Aaaaa-ooooo! Aaaaaa . . . SQUEAK! GULK! GORK!”

  You won’t believe this. The window glass had just rolled up on my neck!

  “HARK! HONK! ARG! HELP!”

  Was I going to just stand there while that thing cho
pped off my head? Heck no. I did what any brave, strong, red-blooded American cowdog would have done: I braced my feet against the armrest and went to Full Reverse on all engines, and we’re talking about claws that were . . .

  “Hank, hold still, you’ve got your neck in the winder!”

  . . . throwing up sparks and hunks of solid concrete. Did he need to tell me my neck was caught in the window? Hey, it was my neck and I knew exactly what was happening to it, and if he thought I was going to “hold still” while the window cut of my head, he was nuts.

  I thrashed and struggled, but . . . GULK! GORP!—the window pressed tighter, ever tighter, around my . . . GURP!—throatalary region.

  “Hank, get away from the button, you’re making it worse!”

  Buttons! Did I care about his buttons? My head was getting cut off!

  SNORP! GASP! WHEEZE! . . .

  Suddenly it was over—not my life, but the ordeal. It happened fast. One second I was thrashing wildly against the deadly grisp of the window’s grasp, and the next second . . . well, I was flying backward across the seat at a high rate of speed. My neck was free, my life was saved, and I sure gave Drover a plowing. We both ended up on the floorboard in a heap.

  Maybe you think I destroyed the window or jerked the door right off its hinges. Good guess, but the tooth is even stranger than friction. See, somehow in middle of the crisis, the terrible crisis, the window rolled itself down again, saving my life by the narrowest of margins.

  The cab of the pickup fell into an eerie silence. Nobody said a word. Slim looked at the backs of his hands. They showed . . . uh . . . long red marks, perhaps scratches. Okay, maybe I’d scratched him up a little bit.

  His eyes came at me like bullets. “Good honk, did you have to claw me half to death?”

  I was being decafinated. What did he expect? Decapitated.

  “And lookie here. You tore my shirt.”

  Shirt? He was worried about his shirt?