The Case of the Mysterious Voice

by John R. Erickson

  I turned to Dink. “That’s Pete, the local cat. He loves birds, but not for any reasons that should make you happy. He’s not very smart, but if you get off that perch, he’ll eat you. I’m sorry to put it that way, but you might as well . . .” Now the bird was standing on one leg and pecking at his foot. “Hey, rookie, don’t scratch your feet during my lecture!”

  In a squawking voice, the bird said, “Polly want a cracker.”

  Drover was amazed. “Oh my gosh, he can talk!”

  “He’s a parrot, son. They don’t actually talk. They repeat meaningless phrases.”

  “Yeah, but who’s Polly?”

  I stuck my nose in his face. “The parrot was babbling, and Polly is a meaningless nobody.”

  “Can I have a cracker, too?”

  “No.” I turned back to the bird. “Okay, pal, that’s your orientation. You’ve met the staff of the Security Division and the local cat. I guess that’s it. Nobody’s glad you’re here, so have a nice day. Or don’t. We really don’t care.”

  I whirled around and marched away. Behind me, I heard a squawking voice say, “Awk! Polly’s a meaningless nobody! Polly’s a meaningless nobody! Awk!”

  That should have been my first clue that this bird was going to cause trouble, but I had other things on my mind. All at once, I . . . uh, felt a strange craving for . . . crackers.

  Chapter Five: Loper’s Present

  We didn’t have any crackers, but we had Co-op dog food, and I knew where to find it. Drover followed me up the hill to the machine shed. I went straight to the overturned Ford hubcap that served as our dog bowl.

  I refuse to rave and rant about how insulting it is that our people feed the entire Security Division out of an old hubcap. They’re too cheap to buy their dogs a decent food bowl, and that’s really sad.

  A lot of ranches serve their dogs fresh sirloin steak on a china plate. It makes a statement, see. It tells the world, “These dogs are special and we know it. They work around the clock, protecting our cattle, our equipment, our children, everything we own in this world, from dark and snicker forces, and by George, we’re proud of them!”

  Sinister forces, I guess it should be, not snicker forces.

  Yes, that’s the way your better grade of ranch dogs ought to be treated, with respect and maybe even a little bit of reverence, but I’m employed on a cheap outfit that . . .

  Do you know where they got that hubcap? They didn’t go to the Ford dealer in town and order a new one from the parts department. Oh no, that kind of extravagance might have thrown the entire ranch operation into bankrubble.

  Loper found it on the side of the road, in the ditch!

  I know I shouldn’t let this bother me, and most of the time I take it with a grain of sand, but every once in a while, it just comes flooding out.

  Sorry, it won’t happen again.

  Where were we? Oh yes, Dink the parrot. I had taken time out of my busy schedule to give him an introduction into life on our ranch. Did it do any good? It was hard to know. Before my presentation, he’d looked like a dumb bird. After I’d schooled him for half an hour, he didn’t look any dumber, so maybe it did him some good.

  Not that I cared. Educating birds isn’t part of my job. I’ll give ’em a few tips now and then, but pulling the entire bird population up the Mountain of Knowledge isn’t something you’ll see me doing, or wanting to do.

  Have we discussed my Position On Birds? May­be so, but let’s go over it again. As a whole, they are noisy, messy, and disrespectful of ranch property. Every summer, billions of them hang out in ranch trees, where they twitter and cheep and do their meaningless birdie things. They drive me nuts, but a dog can’t spend his whole life barking at the little morons.

  I met a pelican once and he turned out to be not such a bad guy. But ugly? Wow. The word “ugly” was invented the day pelicans showed up.

  What was that guy’s name? I don’t remember, so maybe we weren’t as good friends as I thought. Let’s just skip it.

  The point is, I have very little use for birds of any kind, but all at once, we had a parrot on the ranch. If he kept his mouth shut and minded his own business, he and I would get along okay. If he ran his beak and caused trouble, he would find no friends in the Security Division.

  Anyway, Drover and I made our way up the hill to the machine shed, where we launched ourselves into the daily, dismal routine of trying to extract nourishment from the slop they leave in our dog bowl—which, you already know, wasn’t a bowl at all, but a rusted, stinking Ford hubcap.

  It contained a substance called Co-op Dog Food. They sell it at the feed store and it comes in a fifty-pound bag. It’s made out of all the stuff that you can’t feed to cows, hogs, goldfish, or pet canaries. They dump it into a big vat, add some sawdust and grease, and bag it up.

  No human would eat the stuff, but they feed it to their dogs and feel no shame at all. I mean, when we look up from the bowl and give ’em the expression that says, “Is this all?” it makes ’em mad, and they start muttering about “ungrateful dogs.”

  Oh well. Food is only food, but here’s a piece of inside information: Dogs who are fed Co-op dog food find it very hard to keep a professional attitude about chickens. I’ll slurp say no more.

  So Drover and I crunched our way through our pitiful ration of dry, tasteless dog food kernels. The day had warmed up by then, so we, uh, held a meeting of the Executive Committee in the shade of the machine shed. There, we kemped a clerse eye on snicklefritz snerk snobly porkchops . . . kept a close eye on events down in the yard, shall we say, and perhaps I dozed off a time or two.

  Yes, I’m sure I did. The morning spent with Drover and Dink the parrot had pretty muchly worn me down to a nubbin, and don’t forget that unfortunate episode with the cat. I needed some rest to restore my precious bodily fluids, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

  I needed sleep, so I slept. I awoke sometime in the late afternoon, when Data Control sent out an All Points Bulletin (APB). I was sitting in the Ready Room when the announcement blared over the speakers: “Attention! We are tracking an unidentified vehicle on radar, incoming. Launch all dogs! Repeat: launch all dogs!”

  I grabbed my gear, dashed outside, and dived into the cockpit of my XM-235, whose rocket engines were already humming. (Our ground crew does a great job.) Moments later, I was streaking through the cloudless afternoon sky, in hot pursuit of . . .

  Okay, it was Loper, back from his trip to town. Ha ha. No big deal, just a routine interception procedure. This happens two or three times every day. A lot of mutts don’t trouble themselves to do those Scrambles in the heat of the day (Drover, for instance; he was a no-show), but I respond to every alert.

  You never know who might be in the next car or pickup that turns at the mailbox and comes creeping down the road toward the house. Today, it was Loper. Tomorrow, it might be a burglar, an enemy spy, or some kind of alien space monster, disguised as a postal employee.

  They are clever beyond our wildest dreams, and we must remain alert.

  I barked Loper a greeting and gave him an escort all the way to the house. By the time his feet hit the ground, I had splashed Secret Encoding Fluid on both tires on the right side of his pickup. I was on my way to the left rear tire when he reached the yard gate.

  And I heard him say, “What in the world? Slim! Come here!”

  I canceled the Encoding Procedure and headed for the gate, just as Slim came sludging around the southwest corner of the house, moving at his usual pace: slow.

  Loper’s arm and finger shot out and pointed. “What is that?”

  “It’s a parrot.”

  “I see it’s a parrot. What’s he doing on my back porch?”

  Slim arrived at the gate, removed his hat, and wiped the sweat away from his face. “Well, it don’t look like he’s doing much of anything, just sitting there.”

 
Loper wasn’t amused. “Where did he come from? Who did this to me?”

  “Well, Deputy Kile happened by.”

  “He happened by? And he happened to have a parrot in his car? And he happened to think that I needed one? Is that your story?”

  Slim shrugged. “Well, that’s pretty much what happened, all right. I tried to tell him you wouldn’t be interested in paying a thousand bucks for an exotic, high-powered talking bird.”

  “Well, you got that right.”

  “So he left it as a gift—for Father’s Day, I think it was.”

  Loper was fuming. He glared at his feet, then glared at the sky. “Somebody needs killing. I don’t know if it’s you or Bobby Kile, or both of you. That bird goes!” He stormed over to the perch, threw his hands in the air, and yelled, “Hyah! Get out of here!” Old Dink just sat there, didn’t even flinch. That made Loper madder than ever, and he whirled back to Slim. “Can’t he fly? What’s wrong with him?”

  Slim’s shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t know. May­be ya’ll have bonded and he don’t want to leave.”

  Loper stomped back to the gate and aimed a finger at Slim. “The bird goes. I’ll put up with cattle, horses, cats, dogs, two children, and a conniving hired hand, but no birds.”

  “Loper, he can talk.”

  Loper’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “So can you! I don’t want to adopt either one of you. Get that bird . . .”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, because just then, Sally May’s car pulled up into the driveway behind the house. We’d all been so occupied with Loper’s screeching, nobody had heard her coming.

  The instant she stepped out of the car, her eyes were on that parrot. She was smiling and she said, “What a beautiful bird!”

  I happened to be looking at Loper at that moment, and a terrible expression appeared on his face. “Hon, there’s been a mistake . . .”

  Too late. She swept through the yard gate and went straight to the perch and began admiring Dink. She turned back to Loper and said, “You know, I’ve always wanted a parrot.”

  Loper was mouse-trapped and he knew it. He turned back to Slim and . . . boys, you talk about Killer Eyes! He hissed, “You’ll pay for this. I don’t know how or when, but you’ll pay.”

  By that time, Slim’s grin had escaped the teeth that were trying to hold it down. “Heh. Loper, you’re trying to hang the wrong man. Hee. I was just an innocent bystander.”

  “Paybacks are terrible, Slim!”

  With that, Loper left our little gathering and stormed into the house, and the parrot started talking. “Hyah, get out of here! What’s wrong with him? Can’t he fly?”

  Sally May was shocked and delighted. She looked at Slim. “My stars, that sounded just like Loper’s voice. Does the bird have a name?”

  “Dink.”

  “Dink? What kind of name is that?” She turned an admiring gaze on the bird. “But him’s a beautiful bird, isn’t him? Yes him is. And him can talk so well!”

  When lady of the house starts speaking baby-talk to a parrot, it means that the bird is in like Flynn—and fixing to get promoted from a yard bird to a house bird.

  He did. Sally May was so impressed with Dink, she moved his perch into the kitchen, so he could keep her company while she started supper.

  Chapter Six: A Voice in the Night

  Slim was still wearing that naughty little grin. He winked at me and said, “Ain’t it nice when you can match up a lady with the parrot of her dreams? Heh. That’ll teach Loper to stick me with the yard work.”

  He went back to his mowing, a happy man.

  I stayed at the yard gate and monitored the events inside the house. Something told me that this situation needed watching.

  Through the open window, I could hear Dink putting on a show. “Awk! Polly want a cracker. Pieces of eight, pieces of eight! Pretty bird, pretty bird. Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Kile speaking. Paybacks are terrible. Awk!”

  Yes sir, he put on quite a show, and it lasted exactly thirty-two minutes. That’s how long it took Dink to wear out his welcome. The back door burst open and out stepped Loper, carrying the star of the show.

  Loper planted the perch on the perch . . . the porch on the perch . . . he planted the perch on the porch (that’s hard to say, isn’t it, ha) and he roasted the bird with his eyes. “Bird, keep up that racket and you might end up in my deep freeze.”

  Loper stomped back into the house, slamming the door behind him. Dink sat there on his perch, blinking his weird eyes and scratching his feathers with his beak. Then, in a wonderful imitation of Sally May’s voice, he squawked, “Pieces of eight! Pretty bird in the deep freeze!”

  I couldn’t resist putting in my two cents. “Hey Dink, it didn’t take you long to get canned, did it? Ha. In a quiet moment, you might try to remember what I told you: Keep your trap shut. Nobody on this ranch needs a blabbermouth bird.”

  With that stinging rebuke, I whirled around and marched away. I hadn’t gone more than ten steps when I heard what sounded like my own voice, saying, “Nobody needs a blabbermouth bird!”

  I had to admit it was pretty amazing, what that bird could do. On the other hand, we have to remember that mere imitation is a minor talent. Anyone can do it.

  Hmm. Okay, I couldn’t do it and neither could any other dog I knew, but imitation is still a minor talent. It’s pure mimicry. No parrot will ever achieve greatness, because all they can do is repeat someone else’s words.

  See, your truly gifted individuals create from scratch, pulling words and graceful sentences out of the shrouded vapors of the fog of the imagination. That was a pretty awesome sentence right there, wasn’t it? I’m not one to honk my own whistle, but when I put my mind to composition, the parrots might as well pack their bags and go back to Punkin’ Center . . . or wherever they come from.

  Where do they come from? Someplace with jungles and zoos, where noisy birds sit around in trees, chattering imitations of other noisy birds sitting around in trees.

  But the point is that your average garden-variety parrot has a tiny skill that can entertain an audience for about thirty-two minutes, whereas your higher breeds of cowdog can write poems and songs. Dogs improve over time, don’t you see, as we become older, deeper, and wiser. Parrots merely grow tiresome.

  I could go on, but that’s all the time we have to spend on parrots. Hey, I had a ranch to run, and before darkness fell, I had to do my Evening Walk-Around, checking out the corrals, the calf shed, Emerald Pond, the saddle house, and the chicken house slurp.

  Hold it! Please disregard the “slurp” at the end of that sentence. It meant nothing, almost nothing at all, and some readers might get the wrong impression. Let’s face it, some dogs go around all day, dreaming of the moment when they can bump off a careless slurp . . .

  Let’s just say that I was misquoted, and move along.

  I did my evening patrol, and darkness fell exactly where it always falls, right on top of the ranch, and everything got dark. Around ten o’clock, after I had put in my usual eighteen-hour day, I strolled into the lobby of the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex and rode the elevator up to the twelfth floor.

  When I strolled into the office, Drover was already there, curled up in a ball. He raised up and said, “Oh hi. How’s the parrot?”

  “The parrot is fine.”

  “I never thought we’d have a parrot on the ranch, did you?”

  “No.” I checked messages and stared at the stack of reports on my desk. I was too worn out to read them. I flopped down on my gunnysack bed and surrendered myself to its warm embrace.

  After a few moments of peace and quiet, Drover said, “Aren’t you going to say good night?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “Because the only way this will be a good night is if you let me go to sleep.”

 
“Yeah, but then you can’t say good night.”

  I raised my head and gave him a glare. “Drover, what is your problem?”

  “Well, it kind of hurts my feelings that you won’t tell me good night.”

  “All right, good night!” I lay back down and prepared for sleep.

  “You know what? That rhymes.” I tried to ignore him. “You said, ‘All right, good night.’ It’s a neat rhyme. I love rhymes, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “So do I. They’re kind of like flowers. They make the world a little more prettiful.”

  “Prettiful is not a word.”

  “I was just checking to see if you were awake.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What would you think if I sang you a little song?”

  “Please go away.”

  “I wrote it myself and I think it’s pretty neat. Ready? Here goes.” And believe it or not, the little mutt burst into song. Check this out.

  There Once Was a Doggie

  There once was a doggie named Noodle.

  His mom was a Frenchified poodle.

  His dad was a grench

  Who didn’t speak French

  And often was in a bad moodle.

  There once was a doggie name Buzzy.

  His muzzle was narrow and fuzzy.

  He tripped on his ear

  And fell on his rear.

  He wasn’t intelligent, was he?

  There once was a doggie name Rocket.

  He kept a pet bone in his pocket.

  But times got so bad,

  He got hungry and had

  To take it to Dallas and hock it.

  There once was a doggie named Nettie.

  She ate a whole can of spaghetti.

  But then she threw up

  And stared at the stuff

  And thought she had swallowed confetti.