It's a Dog's Life

by John R. Erickson

  “Hold it! What’s that?” We listened. There it was again, a clicking sound. “It’s a time bomb, Drover! Red Alert! Run for your life!”

  We dashed around to the front yard and hid behind that big hackberry tree there by the porch. I waited for the blast, and in the silence I heard that same clicking sound—right beside me.

  My ears, which are very sensitive scientific instruments, followed the sound and traced it to Drover. “Why are your teeth chattering?”

  “What?”

  “I said, why are your teeth chattering? And how can I conduct an investigation with you making noise?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Hank. I guess I’m scared about the end of the world.”

  I shook my head and walked a few steps away. “I don’t know, Drover, sometimes I just think you’re not worth the dadgum effort. How many times have I told you that a cowdog has to be fearless?”

  He hung his head. “I know, you’ve told me but . . . it’s the end of the world, Hank.”

  “Maybe it is and maybe it ain’t. At this point it’s merely a suppository proposition and all we’ve got to go on is circumscribal evidence. We won’t know for sure until we get into the house and check Sally May’s calendar. Now, are you going to help with this investigation or do I have to send you down to the gas tanks for the rest of the day?”

  He thought it over. “I guess I’ll go down to the gas tanks.”

  “Oh no you won’t.”

  “I guess I’ll stay here.”

  “That’s more like it. Drover, always remember this: it ain’t the size of the dog in the fight that matters; it’s the size of the fog in the dog. That’s what life is all about.”

  He stared at me and then nodded his head. “I’d wondered . . . what was it all about.”

  “Now listen very carefully.” I looked all around to be sure we were alone. “We’ve got no choice but to make a penetration into the house.”

  “A what?”

  “A penetration. We’ll make a small slit in that window screen and one of us will go inside.”

  “Which one?”

  “We’ll decide that when the time comes. You ready to move out?” He gulped and nodded. “All right, let’s go.”

  We slipped away from the tree and sneaked up to one of the south windows. The window was open. All we had to do was get past the screen.

  A lot of people think that you can keep a dog out by locking the doors. That’s not true. A cowdog who is highly skilled in penetration techniques can approach your ordinary window screen, make a small hole with one of his teeth, and then slit the screen.

  I began the procedure—went up on my hind legs, poked one of my large front teeth through the screen, and made a slashing upward motion with my head.

  The screen fell off and one corner of it hit Drover between the eyes. He yelped. “Sorry, Drover, but as you can see the screen was improperly installed. Typical cowboy job. But never mind. There’s our open window. We’re ready to make the penetration. I’ll go inside and you stand guard. If you see anything suspicious, give me the code word: Mayday. You got that?”

  He nodded.

  “Now remember: pay attention, don’t go to sleep, and keep your eyes open. The future of the entire world depends on us, Drover.”

  “What if we mess up?”

  “That gets into the realm of the unthinkable. There’s no margin for error. We’ve never played for bigger stakes. So, until we meet again . . .”

  I patted him on the shoulder, coiled my legs, and leaped through the window.

  Chapter Three: Playing for Big Steaks

  Why would anyone put a cactus plant right under a window? In fact, why would anyone want a dadgum cactus plant in the house?

  Cactus is a scourge. Out in the pasture you have to put up with it because it’s there. But why would anyone dig one up and bring it into the house? I can guarantee that no dog would do such a silly thing.

  As you might have guessed by now, Sally May had parked a cactus plant right under the window. I saw it as I cleared the window sill, tried to alter course in mid-air, but by then it was too late. Hit right in the middle of the sucker and fellers, it hurt. And I squalled.

  Drover must have heard me. “Oh my gosh, what is it, Hank, mayday, mayday, help, run, they’re after us Hank. I’ll meet you at the machine shed!”

  He was halfway across the yard and taking aim for the machine shed when I called him back. “Get yourself back here and stand your ground!”

  He came back. “Okay, Hank, but I thought . . .”

  “You thought you’d save your own skin and leave me in here without a guard, is what you thought. That’s very close to treason, Drover. Don’t let it happen again.”

  He took up his position under the window and I went on with my investigation, which was none too easy since I had cactus spines in my brisket and front paws. It’s not easy to limp on both feet at once.

  The house was quiet except for the ticking of a clock. I crept through the living room, past a pair of High Loper’s dirty socks and a recent issue of the West Texas Livestock Weekly.

  Near the center of the room I paused to study some photographs on the wall. There was one of Loper, another of Sally May, and another of the two of them together. Why do humans always grin in their photographs?

  I moved on, stuck my head into the bedroom, checked it out. Sally May had made the bed before she left in such a rush. That’s the kind of important clue you look for.

  The trouble with clues is that you have to figure out what they mean. For instance:

  1) Sally May had made her bed because she knew the end of the world was coming and she didn’t want the world to end with her bed unmade.

  2) She had made her bed because she thought the world wasn’t coming to an end. If she’d thought the end of the world was coming, she wouldn’t have cared what her bed looked like.

  3) She made her bed every day regardless of what the rest of the world was doing.

  So there you are, a little insight into the kind of heavy analysis that goes into an investigation.

  I tiptoed into the kitchen and started looking around for the telephone. According to Pete’s testimony, Sally May had written on her calendar while she was talking on the phone. Hence, the calendar had to be close to the phone.

  I was studying the layout of the room, when, all at once, I caught an unusual scent. I had a hunch that it needed checking out. It just might prove to be the missing piece of the puzzle.

  I sniffed the air until I got my parameters and followed the scent through a door and out to the utility room. The scent grew stronger. I knew I was getting close. This was no ordinary scent. In my many years of security work, I had never encountered a smell quite like this one.

  I went to the center of the room and took another reading. With no conscious effort on my part, my nose turned fifteen degrees to the left and stopped, then lowered seven degrees and stopped. You might say that my nose had traced out invisible crosshairs and had found the target.

  I felt myself moving, propelled by an unknown and mysterious force. At times like this I become a weapon, an instrument guided by secret powers that are known only to the top echelon of cowdogs.

  Experts have estimated that there are only three cowdogs in the entire world who have this kind of ability, and I guess I don’t need to point out that I’m one of them. It’s a real honor to be listed in the Top Three, but as I’ve said many times before, greatness without grace is mere vanity, so a guy needs to work on his humility even though he’s been listed in the Top Three.

  I crept forward. The scent grew stronger. It was indeed a remarkable smell. It wasn’t a skunk, it wasn’t a badger, it wasn’t a coyote, it wasn’t a coon. But I had a suspicion that it belonged to an animal of some kind, perhaps a species I had never encountered before. And whatever it was, it had powerful musk glan
ds.

  Up ahead, I saw two objects in a corner behind the back door. The room was dark and I was relying pretty much on instruments, you might say, which means that I couldn’t see very well.

  But as I drew closer I began to get visual readings. These creatures were built in the shape of an L, a strange configuration to say the least. They had leathery skin and no hair. And unless my eyes deceived me, they had no legs. How they managed to walk with no legs I didn’t know, but then it wasn’t my job at that point to explain such things.

  But here’s the real shocker, and you might want to get a good grip on your chair. They were headless. Yes sir, no heads, just long necks.

  I had no way of knowing whether they were hostile or friendly, and in my business a guy learns not to take chances. We usually attack and ask questions later. I mean, you can always apologize if you’ve erred on the side of toughness, whereas a mistake in the other direction can lead to grave consequences—and I mean grave as in shallow grave or unmarked grave.

  Three feet away from the enemy I stopped and took a final reading. The scent was very strong. It smelled bad. You might even say it was a stink.

  The creatures hadn’t moved. They were just huddled there in the shadows, staring at me. I stared back. Never let an enemy stare you down. Show the slightest bit of weakness or indecision in your eyes and they’ll get you.

  It was time to attack. I coiled my legs under me and flew through the air, buried both of ’em under my weight, knocked ’em to the floor. They must have released their musk because I could hardly stand the smell.

  I fought and slashed until I felt their bodies go limp. Then I stepped back and was a little surprised that there wasn’t any blood on the floor. But what surprised me even more . . .

  I don’t know how to say this. It was a simple case of mistaken identity. It could have happened to any dog, and remember that it was very dark on the back porch.

  What I’m driving at is that the creatures turned out to be an old smelly pair of High Loper’s cowboy boots. Why Sally May allowed them in her house I don’t know, but I can’t take the blame for that. I mean, I was doing my job and . . . never mind.

  You’d think that when a pair of boots got that old and rank, somebody would throw them away.

  Well, I’d wasted some valuable time. I had to get back to my investigation. I went into the kitchen. I was in the process of checking out the walls and conducting a search for the phone and calendar when I caught another scent—the kind that makes your mouth water.

  My ears shot up and my eyes got big and I went to sniffing the floor, the cabinets, under the dinner table, and the more I smelled the better I liked it. It was driving me nuts, it smelled good.

  At last I went up on my hind legs and looked on top of the table. And there they were: three of the biggest, thickest, juiciest, most bodacious delicious looking T-bone steaks I’d ever seen.

  Sally May had put ’em out on the table to thaw.

  Just then I heard Drover. “Hank, is anything wrong? Hurry up, I’m getting scared!”

  I went through the house and stuck my head out the window. “Relax, son, everything’s going according to plan. I’m still conducting my investigation, but it turns out that we’re playing for bigger steaks than I thought. It’ll take me another ten minutes to get all the data, uh, digested.”

  “Is the world going to end tomorrow?”

  “I’m still working on that, Drover. Just be patient. Stay at your post and keep a sharp lookout.”

  I left him and returned to the kitchen. I wasn’t sure I could eat three whole steaks at one sitting. I mean, when a guy eats nothing but Co-op dog food for years and years, his stomach shrinks. But I’m no quitter.

  I went up on my hind legs and started chewing on the first steak. It was half-frozen and not the easiest thing to chew, but I seem to thrive on adversity. While I was chewing on it, the plate fell off the table. It hit the floor and busted into a dozen pieces, and blood splattered all over the place.

  That was okay. Before Sally May came back, I’d have the floor shined up and she’d never be any the wiser.

  You know, when a guy’s been on Co-op dog food most of his life, he can sort of lose his head over a T-bone steak. That first steak was outstanding. I was chewing up the last bite, had my mouth plumb full of beef, when Drover sounded the alarm.

  “Hank! Mayday! Mayday! Sally May turned at the mailbox and she’s heading this way! Oh my gosh, do something, Hank!”

  Had to swaller that bite before I could answer, danged near strangled myself as it was so big. “I’ll be right with you, Drover. Let me get a few more details under my belt and I’ll be done.”

  I tore into the next steak. I had the time element figgered down to the last second. Sally May would pull up to the back door. When I heard the car door slam, I’d run to the front of the house, dive through the window, and disappear into the sunset, so to speak.

  I wasn’t about to leave those steaks unattended.

  I chewed and I chewed and I swallered and I chewed some more. Ever eat a half-frozen steak? It ain’t as easy as you might suppose. It sures make your tongue cold.

  “Hank, mayday, mayday! She’s . . . I’m leaving!”

  I got the last bite swallered, right on schedule. I spotted the calendar on the wall and jumped up so I could read what Sally May had written on it. In the square for Monday she had written, “Beauty shop, 10:00.”

  Ah ha! That’s why she had gone to town in such a rush. But the next square, the one for Tuesday, was the one that held the Ultimate Secret.

  I started reading: “End of the . . .”

  I heard the front door open. HUH? Sally May always went to the back door. She never used the front door. But she was sure as thunder using the front door this time and I was by George trapped.

  Chapter Four: The Case Is Solved

  Itook one last look at the calendar: “End of the month clearance sale, Stockman’s Western Store.”

  I heard Sally May gasp in the other room. “My cactus! Who . . . what on earth . . .”

  I was sitting there in the midst of the steak blood, trying to decide what to do, when she appeared in the doorway. She looked at me and her mouth dropped open. “Hank! What are you doing in here!”

  I gave her a smile and started whapping my tail on the bloody floor, as if to say, “Hi Sally May, how’s it going? I . . . uh . . . just got here and discovered that . . . uh . . . somebody stole your steaks, so to speak. And . . . uh . . . I realize that the . . . uh . . . evidence looks very damaging for me, but I would . . . uh . . . urge you not to leap to any . . . uh . . . hasty conclusions.”

  She was carrying the baby in one arm and a bag of groceries in the other. She set them down on the floor, reached into the closet, and came out with a broom. Her face was red and there were thunderclouds in her eyes.

  “YOU ATE OUR LUNCH, YOU SORRY GOOD FOR NOTHING STINKING COWDOG! AND LOOK AT THIS MESS!”

  How could I look at the mess when she was trying to hit me with the broom? Whap! She got me on the back. I tried to run, I mean I would have been glad to get out of her house but she had the door blocked. I ran in a circle and whap! She got me again.

  So I did the only sensible thing a dog in fear of his life could do: I jumped up on the dinner table. Was it MY fault the jelly jar fell off and broke? Was it MY fault that she swung at me and hit the sugar bowl instead? I’ve always been the kind of dog who could take a hint. I can tell when I’m not wanted. When Sally May drew back her broom for another shot, I leaped off the table, ran between her legs, shot through the door, sprinted across the living room, and made a flying leap through the window. And then I ran for my life.

  I went down to the feed barn, figgered that would be the safest place for a dog with a price on his head. The door on the feed barn was warped at the bottom and I squeezed through and took refuge inside.

&nb
sp; I went to the darkest corner and hid between two bales of prairie hay. After a bit I heard the pickup and stock trailer pull up to the corral. The cowboys had come in for lunch and were putting their horses in the side lot. I could hear them talking and laughing about some extraordinary roping feat they had performed that morning.

  They took their roping serious, those two guys. It didn’t bother them in the least that most of the sane and intelligent people in the world not only couldn’t rope but didn’t even want to learn. They seemed to think that if a guy could throw a rope he was something special.

  I won’t comment on that. I have no tacky re­marks to make about grown men who walk around swinging ropes. I learned long ago not to pass judgment on others, no matter how crazy they act.

  Well, the cowboys headed for the house. I could hear their spurs jingling. The back door opened and closed. Exactly one minute and thirty-two seconds later, the door opened again and I heard High Loper’s voice: “Hank! Come here, you sorry devil! When I get my hands on you . . .”

  I couldn’t make out the last part. Wind was banging a piece of loose tin on the roof. (If I’d had any say-so in the matter, that roof would have been fixed years ago, but nobody ever listens to Hank.) Anyway, I couldn’t make out the last part but I didn’t really need to. Loper wasn’t calling to wish me happy birthday.

  He yelled for a while, then went back inside. Everything got quiet. I wondered what they were having for lunch. Whatever it was, you can be sure they didn’t starve.

  I mean, you’ve got to put all this into perspective. Loper had missed one steak dinner, right? One meal out of a whole lifetime.

  Okay, then you have me, the Head of Ranch Security, who had put in years of faithful service and had eaten scraps, garbage, tasteless dry dog food, and an occasional rabbit. Wasn’t I entitled to one steak dinner? Was that too much to ask for a whole lifetime?

  Hence, through simple logic we discover that Sally May and Loper had ABSOLUTELY NO RIGHT TO BE MAD AT ME for eating a few crummy little steaks off their table.