The Case of the Prowling Bear

by John R. Erickson

  “Well, good luck. I’m going to alert all your neighbors. If you see the bear or find tracks, give me a call.” The deputy’s face grew solemn. “Slim, I’m going to let you off with a warning this time, but those dogs need to be wearing a seat belt.”

  They parted with a round of laughter. Deputy Kile blew his siren again and went on his way. Slim’s laughter faded out. “Dogs, there’s a bear running around our neighborhood, and we need to find him before he finds us.” He leaned toward me until our noses were almost touching. “Are you listening?”

  Maybe it wasn’t the best time for me to lick him on the nose, but sometimes we get these sudden impulses, don’t you see, and…well, my tongue leaped out and mopped his nose. I think it surprised him. He jerked backward, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and spit out the window.

  “That’s what I thought. I’m talking to chunk of firewood.”

  Well, gee, he didn’t need to get all huffy about it. I mean, we dogs don’t go around licking people we don’t care about. When we lick ‘em, it means…chunk of firewood. Boy, they really know how to hurt a dog.

  Slim put the pickup in gear and started on down the road. I whirled around to Drover. For once, he had been listening, and his eyes had grown as wide as plates. “Donkey Hoety, huh? Did you hear what the deputy just said?”

  “Yeah, but I’m hoping it was a joke.”

  “The only joke around here is us, the ranch’s Security Division. We got the Bear Report yesterday, and you botched it so badly, we were looking for donkeys and strawberries!”

  “Well, you said…”

  I stuck my nose in his face. “We look pathetic! Burros, berries, shadows on the wall…Drover, someone who didn’t know better might think we’re just a couple of dumb dogs.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes, and you know what? I’m beginning to wonder about that myself.”

  The little mutt was almost in tears. “Now I’m all discouraged. What’s left of life if we’re just a couple of dumb dogs? Where do we go from here?”

  His questions plunged us into a cloud of gloom, as each of us looked inward for some glimmer of hope. Did we find it? You’ll have to keep reading.

  Chapter Eight: I Encounter a Couple of Buzzards

  The Security Division had been plunged into a time of great darkness. At last, I spoke. “Soldier, we’ve got to learn from our mistakes and make a fresh start. The first thing we’ll do is destroy all the Wandering Donkey files. If someone in this office messed up, the world doesn’t need to know about it.”

  “Gosh, you mean…”

  “Yes. The case doesn’t exist. If anyone asks about Donkey Hoety, we never heard of him. Our second course of action—and this will have a tremendous positive effect on morale—our second course of action will be…” I looked my assistant straight in the eyes. “Drover, I think we can blame this whole shameful episode on the cat.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then a tiny ray of sunshine broke through the clouds of his fog. “Gosh, no fooling?”

  “Yes. Look at the evidence. Number one, the cat saw a bear this morning and didn’t tell us.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “He told me.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.”

  “Exactly. Number two, we have reason to suspect that Pete planted garbage bombs in our data systems. It caused just enough damage to throw us off the chase and send us down a blind alley. In other words, we can blame it all on the cat.”

  His grin spread from ear to shining sea. “You know, I’m starting to feel better. But what about the bear?”

  I took a deep breath and gazed out the window. “The bear remains a problem. We’ll just hope he doesn’t show up.”

  “I hear that. I’m scared of bears. Are you?”

  His question caught me off guard and it took me a moment to think of an answer. “I’ve never seen one, Drover. When I do, I’ll let you know.”

  That seemed to ease his mind, but it didn’t make me feel any better. Of course I was scared of bears! I’d never seen one, but I didn’t need to see one. They’re huge. They have long teeth, powerful jaws, and claws that can gut a deer.

  Any dog in his right mind is scared of bears, but the Head of Ranch Security can’t go around blabbing about all the things he’s scared of. If we did, what would happen to the Drovers of the world? They’d fall to pieces, and then what would we do?

  Part of being brave is pretending that you really are—and hoping you’ll never have to prove it.

  Once we had cleared the air and pinned all the blame on Pete, we went on about our feeding chores. This time, Drover and I kept a sharp eye out for bears, not for donkeys or burros, but the result was pretty muchly the same. We saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  The only excitement of the day came when Slim turned on the radio to listen to the weather report. If you recall, the ranch’s feed truck had a special radio antenna. Years ago, the original one had been amputated by a bale of hay that slid off the top of a load, and Slim had “fixed it” by wiring a metal clothes hanger to the stub. It worked sometimes, but to get decent reception, you had to drive to a high spot in the pasture.

  That’s what we did, and there we heard: “…Winter Storm Advisory for the Texas and Oklahoma Panhandles: falling temperatures, high winds, and wind chills in the range of twenty to thirty degrees below zero.”

  Slim’s eyebrows jumped. “Good honk, it’s fifty degrees right now, and they’re talking about thirty below zero? That’s serious cold. We’d better wind this up and cut some stove wood.”

  Right. We sure didn’t need any frozen dogs in the living room.

  We hurried through the rest of the feeding routine and picked up the chainsaw at the barn. We drove down along the creek and located several dead hackberry and chinaberry trees that we could harvest for stove wood. Slim went to work, buzzing his way through tree limbs and loading chunks of firewood into the back of the pickup.

  The weather that afternoon was so warm and soft, Slim stripped down to his tee shirt and had to stop several times to wipe the sweat off his forehead. It made you wonder if the guys at the Weather Bureau knew what they were talking about.

  While Slim ran the chainsaw, I sneezed the opportunity to do a little scouting. I mean, those of us in the Security Division had worked our way through the Donkey Disaster and we now had reliable information that a bear—an actual, living bear—had escaped on or near our ranch. It was time for us to get on the case and do some serious investigating.

  I went down to the creek and worked the north bank, sniffing for unusual scents and checking for tracks in the mud. I’d never seen a bear track before, but had reason to suppose that I would recognize one if I saw it. How? Huge. If I ran across the biggest track I’d ever seen in my life, I would be pretty sure that it belonged to the bear.

  I found scent and plenty of tracks, but they were just what you would expect: wild turkey, cottontail rabbit, deer, and raccoon. I kept working my way east down the creek, and all of a sudden…there it was, a set of tracks so big, they had to have been made by a bear.

  A tingle of fear scampered down my backbone, and at that same moment, I thought I heard voices. I cocked my left ear and listened. Sure enough…

  “P-p-a?”

  “What.”

  “Are you a-a-asleep, asleep?”

  “What do you think?”

  “W-well, I w-w-wasn’t s-sure and thought I’d ch-check.”

  “I was taking a nap till you woke me up to ask if I was asleep.”

  “Oh. S-s-sorry.”

  “No you ain’t. If you was truly sorry, you wouldn’t have woke me up in the first place.”

  “I g-g-guess you’re r-r-right. G-go on and h-have a g-g-good n-nap.”

  “Junior, you’ve already ruined my nap by waking me up, so why’d you wake me
up?”

  “W-w-w-well, I j-j-just have a f-feeling the w-w-weather’s gonna change. It’s t-too w-w-warm for this t-t-time of year.”

  “Son, the weather’s always a-changing. It’s warm, it’s cold. Today it’s warm, so don’t complain. It could be worse.”

  “Yeah, that’s w-w-what b-bothers me. The other b-buzzards f-f-flew s-south and w-w-we’re still h-h-here, still here.”

  Have you figured out who belonged to those voices? Here’s a hint: two big black birds, one named “Junior” and the other going under the name of “Pa.”

  I had just stumbled into a conversation between Wallace and Junior, the buzzards.

  I crept forward until I found myself standing at the base of a big cottonwood tree. There, I lifted both Earatory Scanners and continued monitoring their conversation.

  “Junior, the other buzzards went south and we missed the train. There ain’t one thing I can do about it.”

  “Y-yeah, b-b-but I t-told you they were l-l-leaving.”

  “That’s right, and what did I tell you?”

  “W-w-well…”

  “I told you I had a belly ache. When was the last time you tried flying six hundred miles on a sour stomach?”

  “Y-y-yeah, c-c-cause you ate that whole s-s-skunk, whole skunk.”

  “Did not!”

  “D-d-did t-t-too, did too.”

  “Junior, you tell the biggest whoppers! I gave you a whole leg to eat.”

  “Y-y-you gave m-me a f-f-foot.”

  “Well…he had big feet. There was a lot of good meat on that foot.”

  “Y-y-yeah, but y-you ate m-m-more than y-your share. Y-you’ve got n-n-no more t-t-table m-manners than a g-g-goat.”

  “Well? What do you expect? We’re buzzards, son. We ain’t hummingbirds or cedar wrens. When the dinner bell rings, a buzzard needs to make his move.”

  “I’m h-h-hungry, and w-we ought to b-b-be d-down south with the r-r-rest of the b-buzzards.”

  “Well, we ain’t down south. Am I going to have to listen to you whine all winter long?”

  “P-p-pa?”

  “What!”

  “There’s a d-d-dog at the b-b-base of our t-t-tree, our tree.”

  Wallace hadn’t noticed me, but now he craned his long skinny neck and looked down. “That ain’t a dog, it’s a…I don’t know what it is, but it sure has an ugly nose.”

  “It’s our d-d-doggie f-f-friend.”

  Wallace squinted his eyes. “Why, it is a dog, sure ‘nuff.” He licked his beak and flashed a wicked buzzardly grin. “Reckon he’d eat? I’ve about gone through that skunk and my belly bones are starting to rattle.”

  “W-w-well, he ain’t d-d-dead, ain’t dead, P-p-pa.”

  “Junior, I think he’s dead. He don’t look smart enough to be alive.”

  “I’ll a-a-ask him.” Junior turned a pleasant smile on me. “H-hi, d-d-doggie. M-me and my p-p-pa were w-w-wondering…are y-you d-d-dead y-y-yet?”

  Oh brother. What do you say to a couple of buzzards who wonder if you’re dead yet? Well, you can get mad or you can have a little fun. I decided on the fun. “Why yes, I am. What can I do for you?”

  They traded long glances, and Wallace spoke in a whisper. “Be careful, son, there’s something about this that don’t add up.”

  “Y-y-you mean…”

  “I think he’s lying. Let me handle this.” Wallace looked down at me and held up one foot. “Dog, how many claws am I a-holding up?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Wallace turned back to Junior. “That’s the wrong answer.”

  “Y-yeah, and he-he ain’t d-d-dead.”

  “Let me try another one. Dog, how long is a piece of string?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  That sent them back into another huddle. Wallace drew circles in the air beside his head. “Something’s wrong with that dog, and I’m a-thinking he’s still alive.”

  We’d gotten off to a slow start, but it appeared that we were making some progress. It was time for me to launch into a serious interrogation of the buzzards.

  Chapter Nine: Buzzard Music

  Junior said, “S-s-s-ee? I t-t-told you h-he w-w-wasn’t d-d-dead.”

  “You did not tell me no such thing. All you said was…” Wallace whipped his head around to me. “Dog, you don’t need to go around acting like a smarty-pants.”

  I couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Wallace, when you ask ridiculous questions, you get ridiculous answers.”

  “Puppy dog, there’s nothing ridiculous about supper. That’s what buzzards do. We’re in the supper business.”

  “Yeah? How’s business?”

  “Business is awful, down thirty-one percent.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “No you ain’t. If you really gave a rip, you wouldn’t be wearing that grin all over your face.”

  I laughed. “You tagged me there. I really don’t give a rip, so let’s talk about something else. I’m doing a patrol of ranch property and I need to know if you’ve seen anything suspicious.”

  A sly grin spread across Wallace’s beak. “Well, now, as a matter of fact, yes, only I ain’t going to tell you about it.” He winked at Junior. “Teach him to be a smarty-pants, heh.”

  “Oh g-g-go ahead and t-t-tell him, P-p-pa. He’s the g-g-guard dog and h-h-he needs to know.”

  “Why? He wouldn’t believe me if I told him.”

  “W-w-well, t-tell him anyway, anyway.”

  Wallace pulled on his chin and cut his eyes from side to side. “All right, but we’ll make him guess. There’s no way he’ll get it right.” He gave Junior a wink and turned back to me. “Okay, puppy, this morning at daylight, me and Junior seen something very, very suspicious, and there’s no way you’ll ever guess the right answer.”

  “What if I do?”

  “Well, you won’t. I guarantee you’ll never think of this, not in a thousand years.”

  “But if I do? Here’s an idea. If, by some miracle, I get the right answer, you have to say ‘Thank You’ fifty times.”

  See, I knew old Wallace hated manners and being polite. Junior had been working on him for years, trying to improve his social skills, but the old coot had resisted every attempt to teach him manners.

  Junior loved my idea and broke into a big grin. “Oh, th-that’s w-w-wicked!”

  “Junior, hush, I’m a-trying to think.” Wallace paced back and forth on the limb, scowling and pulling on his chin. “All right, doggie, we’ll do the deal, but here’s the other side. If you lose, which you will, you have to say ‘Buzzards is beautiful’ sixty times.”

  “You’re on, we’ve got a bet.”

  Wallace grinned at Junior. “Son, I’ve got this one in the sack.”

  Heh. I had a feeling that I knew the answer, and that old Wallace was fixing to get the shock of his life.

  He was looking very smug about this, and said, “All right, dog, go ahead and make your guess, and be prepared to lose.”

  I paused for a moment to add a little drama to the presentation, then looked up the tree and said, “You saw a half-grown black bear. He crossed the creek and walked right past your tree.”

  Wallace looked as though he’d backed into an electric fence. His eyes bugged out and I thought he might fall out of the tree. It was hilarious, one of the funniest moments of my whole career. We’re talking about shocked beyond description.

  He puffed himself up to his full height, whipped around to Junior, and yelled, “This is the rottenest dirty deal I ever saw! Who told him that?”

  “N-not me, P-pa, honest.”

  “You had to tell him! There’s no way…” He jerked his head around and scorched me with a pair of flaming eyes. “You cheated, dog! I don’t know how you done it, but you’re a low-down cheater and a rotten egg eater!”


  I cackled out loud. “I didn’t cheat, Wallace, and Junior didn’t tell me. Let’s just say I got lucky.”

  “Lucky my foot! You’re as crooked as a snake.”

  “Too bad. You lost, so pay off.”

  “I ain’t going to pay off! It was rigged.”

  Junior nodded. “H-he’s r-right, P-pa, y-y-you lost. P-p-play fair.”

  “Play fair! What kind of buzzard are you?”

  Junior laid a wing across his shoulder. “P-pa, it w-w-won’t h-hurt for l-long.”

  Wallace shoved him away. “Don’t touch me! You have no idea how bad it’s going to hurt. I’d rather sit on a cactus bush than say thank you!” Boy, you talk about steamed. That was one mad buzzard. “All right, puppy, I’ll pay off. What would you think if I made it into a song?”

  “I’d hate it. I’ve heard you sing before, and to be real honest, it shattered my nerves.”

  A big smirk bloomed on his beak. “Too bad. Hang onto your drawers, ‘cause you’re fixing to get shattered.”

  And with that, he launched himself into his Thank You Song.

  Thank You

  You cheated me with sneaky tricks, and now I have to pay.

  You’re making me repeat two words I rarely ever say.

  We made a bet. You won, I lost, so listen for a while.

  And here’s your fifty thank-yous, delivered buzzard-style.

  Thank you, thank you, I wish that I could spank you.

  Thank you!

  Thank you!

  Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  You want some more? Well, listen here:

  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you, pooch, and stick ‘em in your ear.

  In case you thought your little trick would make me more polite,

  This solemn presentation should set the record right.

  If you’re too dumb to get the point, again I’ll have to say:

  I’ll be a buzzard, unrepentant, ‘til my dying day.

  Thank you, thank you, I wish that I could spank you.