“Nothing could be further from the truth. For your information, Sally May and I have enjoyed a wonderful relationship.”
“Then,” he fluttered his eyelids and grinned, “why did she order you out of the yard? Hmmm? See, I’m in the yard and, look, you’re not/Stick your head in a coffee pot/Bring it out, red hot. And that says it all, Hankie. I spend my days in the iris patch, and you have to live out there in the heat and the dust. Poor doggie!”
I struggled to control my savage instincts. “You’re trying to get me stirred up, aren’t you?”
“Um-hm. Is it working?”
“Not even close. You must be slipping.”
“Oh really? Well, what if I . . . hissed at you?”
“I don’t know, Pete. Try it and we’ll see what happens.”
He arched his back, widened his yellowish eyes, and hissed at me. I watched him with a smile and—get this—gave no reaction at all. “Gosh, Pete, it didn’t work. Try it again.” He humped himself up and hissed even louder this time. I laughed in his face. “Sorry, Pete, the old magic just isn’t there. Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe . . . maybe your tricks aren’t working any more, huh? What do you think?”
I could see that he was getting mad. “Hissing has always worked, Hankie. Something’s going on here. What is it?”
I sat down and looked at his sour face. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, Pete, but what the heck? See, you’ve used that hissing trick too many times. I’ve figured it out, I know what you’re trying to do. That chapter in our lives is over.”
“I’m not convinced, Hankie.”
“No? Then try it again.” The cat glared at me and didn’t hiss. I chuckled. “See, your problem is that you’re too lazy to learn new tricks. We dogs learn from experience. When we see your same tired old tricks over and over, we figure them out. I mean, how dumb do you think I am?”
He stared at me with his big cattish eyes. “That’s an interesting question, Hankie. I might want to think about it.”
“Fine. You think about it all you want, but I can tell you the answer. I’m not dumb at all, and you’re over the hill. The old stuff doesn’t work any more. The world has passed you by.”
“Oh really?”
“That’s right. You belong in a museum, Pete, a museum for fat lazy cats who spend their lives loafing in the shade.”
A secret grin spread across his mouth. “Bet you’d like to be in the shade, wouldn’t you, Hankie?”
“Me? Ha ha. No, Pete, I . . . what makes you say that?”
“Because that’s what you were trying to do when you sneaked into the yard. You wanted my iris patch, didn’t you, hmmmmmm?”
I narrowed my eyes at the little sneak. “Don’t be spreading lies about me, weasel. For your information, I care nothing about iris patches or shade. I love this heat. It makes me tougher and smarter. That’s all I ever wanted to be, Pete, tough and smart.”
“Oh really?” He rolled his eyes up at the sky. “What if I offered you a deal on my iris patch?”
“First, I’d laugh in your face. Then I’d walk away. Ha ha, good-bye.” I whirled around and marched away. The dumb cat. Did he think I’d actually . . . I returned to the fence. “What did you mean, make a deal on the iris patch?”
He rolled over on his back and began playing with his tail. “Well, Hankie, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m getting fat and lazy and spending too much time loafing in the shade. The old tricks just don’t work any more.”
“Right, exactly my point, although . . . to be honest, Pete, I hardly know what to say. I mean, all these years we’ve been . . . you’re admitting that I’m right? You, a cat?”
“Um hm. It hurts, but facts are facts and truth is truth.”
“Right. I’ve said that many times. But you said something about . . . a deal.”
He nodded and whispered, “I’ll rent you my iris patch for the rest of the day.”
My ears leaped straight up. “You’ll rent . . . what’s the catch, Pete? Forgive me, but I don’t exactly trust you.”
“There’s no catch. You can use my iris patch for one day, and I get first dibs on scraps for three days.”
“That’s your deal? Ha ha!” I whirled around and marched...back to the fence. “That’s a crooked deal, Pete. One day in the shade for three days’ scraps? It ought to be reversed, three days in the shade for one day’s scraps.”
He gave me an insolent smirk and licked his paw. “That’s my best offer, Hankie. Take it or leave it.”
Suddenly I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck and heard a growl rumbling in the deep vicissitudes of my throat. In this awful heat, did I have enough energy to thrash a cheating little pipsqueak of a cat? Yes, by George! I rolled the muscles in my enormous shoulders and began rumbling toward the . . .
“Hank! Leave the cat alone!”
Huh? Leave the cat . . . where had that voice come from? I hit the brakes and turned my head toward the house. Oops. Sally May had just come out the door, and right behind her came Little Alfred.
I must admit that the sight of Sally May sent a shiver down my backbone, but right away, I could see that something unusual was going on. The clues were very plain to see. You want to see the List of Clues? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go public with this information. Here we go.
Secret Clue List #806-555-7611
Clue Number One: Sally May came out of the house, carrying a plastic pitcher and some paper cups.
Clue Number Two: Little Alfred seemed to be holding . . . was that a sign? Yes, it appeared to be a piece of cardboard with some kind of message written on one side: “Fresh Cold Lemonade $1.00.”
Clue Number Three: Sally May said, “Well, this ought to keep you busy for a while. Stay out of the road, watch the traffic, and come back in one hour.”
Clue Number Six: Little Alfred said, “Okay, Mom. Me and my doggies’ll sell a whole bunch of lemonade.”
Clue Number Seven: A deep scowl passed across Sally May’s face, and she said, “Must you take the dogs? Oh, I guess it’ll be all right, but watch them like a hawk and don’t let them drink your lemonade. I squeezed those lemons by hand.”
Clue Number Eight: Drover drifted down from the machine shed and joined me at the yard fence. Actually, that wasn’t a clue and it didn’t have much to do with anything, but it did happen, so I thought I would mention it.
End of Secret Clue List
Please Destroy At Once!
Do you see the meaning of this? Holy smokes, unless my ears were playing tricks on me, Little Alfred was fixing to go into the lemonade business . . . and he wanted to take me on as a partner!
I whirled around to the cat and gave him a worldly sneer. “Hey Pete, you know that deal we were discussing? I’m no longer interested in your iris patch. I have bigger flies to fish. So long, kitty.”
And with that, I whirled away from the little cheat and marched straight to the yard gate. There, I met my business partner as he stepped out of the yard, carrying the pitcher in both hands and holding the sign under his arm.
The boy came out the gate, walking slowly so as not to spill his . . . whatever it was in the pitcher. He called out, “Come on, doggies, wet’s go. We’re gonna set up a lemonade stand and make some money!”
I shot a glance at my assistant. “Did you hear that? The lad is going to start a lemonade business and needs our help.”
“I’ll be derned.”
“And it would be good, Drover, if you could show some excitement and enthusiasm.”
“Yeah, but I’m fresh out of both.”
“Then fake it. On your feet, son, we’ve got a job to do.” He didn’t move. “Drover, I know it’s hot, but challenges like this give us a chance to show what we’re made of.”
“Yeah, but I already know: melted butter. I just don’t think this leg would make it.”
“Which leg?”
“Left rear.” He stood up and limped around in a circle. “See?”
“It looks fine to me. Let’s go.”
“Oh, my leg! Oh, the pain! Oh, the heat!”
“Never mind, skip it, Drover. I’ll go by myself.”
I left him to his moaning and whining, and trotted in a northward direction until I caught up with Little Alfred. I went into the Raised Lips procedure and gave him a smile.
He returned the smile. “Hi, Hankie. Are you ready to sell some lemonade?”
Oh sure. I was ready to answer the call of duty, and if that meant helping my little pal sell lemonade on a hot day, so be it.
Besides, heh heh, I was kind of thirsty.
Chapter Five: Alfred and I Go into the Lemonade Business
As we hiked away from the house, Little Alfred and I launched ourselves into “The Lemonade Song.” Have we ever done it before? Maybe not. Here’s how it went.
The Lemonade Song
Yo-ho! Yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, yo-ho!
We’re off to sell some lemonade, we know it’s going to be fun.
We’re off to launch a business deal, in spite of the broiling sun.
When the customers come, we’ll peddle our stuff
While Drover and Kitty Cat sit on their duffs.
The world can’t wait to buy ’em a cup.
This lemonade business is going to be fun.
We made our way north to the county road. There, Little Alfred hung his cardboard sign on the mailbox. Then he set the pitcher down on the edge of the road, and we waited for our customers to arrive.
We waited. And waited. Alfred scanned the horizon for a cloud of dust that would signal the approach of our first customer. No one was rushing up to buy our product, it appeared, so we sang another verse.
This summer sun is awfully hot, the sweat is starting to pour.
The county road is empty, and no one has come to our store.
Well, if nobody comes, then what shall we do?
We’ll sit here and boil like venison stew.
Or maybe we’ll have a drink or two.
This lemonade business is going to be fun.
The boy wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead, sat down in the shade of the mailbox, and poured a cup of lemonade.
“Welp, I guess I’ll try some myself.” He leaned his head back and took a long swig. I watched. His eyes brightened and a smile bloomed on his mouth. “Boy, that’s some good stuff. My mom sure makes tasty lemonade.” He put the cup to his mouth and drained it.
I suddenly realized that my bodily parts had begun . . . my ears jumped into the Alert Position, my tail brushed across the ground, my tongue shot out of my mouth, and my front paws moved up and down.
It was almost as though I was . . . well, thirsty and craving a drink of something wet and cool.
Alfred noticed. “You want a dwink, Hankie?”
Oh no, I wouldn’t want to be a burden and we probably needed to save the lemonade for the, uh, customers . . . but on the other hand . . . gee, come to think of it, I’d never tasted lemonade before. Was it, uh, pretty tasty?
I licked my lips, swept my tail across the ground, and waited to see what would happen.
He refilled the cup and held it under my nose. “Here, Hankie. You need a dwink, ’cause it’s awful hot.”
Right, exactly, and what a friend! Didn’t I tell you we were pals to the bone? Yes sir, the boy had a special understanding of what it was like, being a dog on a blazing hot summer day.
I initiated the Delicate Drink procedure and began lapping from the cup. It was a pretty small cup and fitting my tongue into that tiny opening proved to be no ball of wax, but I got ’er done. Lap, lap. Wow! The kid was right. His mother sure knew how to make . . .
Oops.
Maybe I got carried away and went a little too deep with my tongue. Or maybe I tried to fit my entire nose into the tiny paper cup. Anyway, it caused an accident. The cup slipped out of his hand and fell to the ground.
He scowled at the puddle of fresh lemonade spreading across the dusty ground. “Dwat. The cup’s too little.”
Right. The cup was entirely too small for the job, and it was nobody’s fault that our attempts to restore my bodily fluids had ended in failure. On the other hand . . . uh . . . what about the pitcher? I mean, the pitcher was pretty big, right? It had a nice big opening at the top, if someone were to, uh, remove the lid, right?
I pointed my nose toward the pitcher and went to Slow Thumps on the tail section. Would the boy get the message? I held my breath and waited.
His eyes went from me to the pitcher and back to me, then back to the pitcher. He scowled and chewed his lip. Then he said, “I wonder if . . .”
Yes? Yes?
“Hankie, would you mind dwinking out of the pitcher?”
Me? Mind drinking . . . oh no, that would be fine. Why, any dog who’d turn down a drink from a pitcher would be too fussy for his own good, and this was not going to be a problem for us. In other words, could we, uh, pry the lid off that thing?
He pried off the lid and gave me a big smile. “Okay, Hankie, sit.”
Sit? Hey, it was time to drink, and could we speed this up a bit? I mean, the taste of lemonade was still lingering in my mouth and . . . okay, he was working on manners and obedience, so I plunked myself down.
“Good doggie. On the count of three, I’ll snap my fingers and you can dwink.”
Got it, fine, you bet, count of three.
“One! Two!”
Tense and bursting with excitement, I waited for the third count. It didn’t come. Instead, the boy turned his head to the east, toward the sound of an approaching vehicle. His finger froze in the air. “Oh goodie, somebody’s coming.”
Oh goodie, I was dying of thirst and . . . okay, maybe I should have waited for the command, but what’s a poor dog to do? I mean, the boy had already given me permission to drink out of the pitcher, only he’d gotten distracted in the middle of his countdown. All at once, it seemed perfectly reasonable that I should . . .
I, uh, stuck my nose and face into the pitcher and began lapping like there was no tomorrow. LAP, LAP, LAP. I mean, I had a suspicion that this offer would soon expire, so to speak, since we had a potential customer . . . LAP, LAP, LAP . . . bearing down on us from the . . .
“Hankie, no! Don’t dwink my lemonade, not now!”
LAP, LAP, LAP.
Okay, we had a little struggle. Alfred and I, that is. After giving me permission to drink out of the pitcher, he had suddenly . . . what can I say? He’d changed his mind, I suppose, but try to understand my side of the story.
It was hotter than blazes out there, right? And we’d both been out in the sun for hours and hours. Okay, for fifteen minutes. Alfred had taken his drink and he’d opened up the pitcher so that I could get mine, but then complications developed and he got sidetracked from the, uh, important issues of the moment.
I lapped and slurped, while he tugged and pulled. “Hankie, get out of my lemonade! You’re gonna ruin my business.” At last he managed to pull my face out of the pitcher and got the lid snapped back on. He wagged his finger at me and said, “No, no, no. That was naughty!”
Right. Okay, maybe it was naughty, and one side of my inner self recognized that being naughty wasn’t nice. But the other side of my inner self was prepared to live with the guilt, because . . . hee hee . . . my outer self had managed to smuggle half of that delicious lemonade out of the pitcher, and to be real honest about it . . .
Wait a second. Maybe the kids shouldn’t be hearing this. Let’s back off and take another run at it.
Okay, here’s my new position on Lemonade Smuggling, and I want all the kids to pay close attention. Lemonade Smuggling is wrong, naughty, uncouth, and unsanitary. Dogs should never drink lemonade out of pitche
rs, and kids should never allow their dogs to do it. Never, not under any circumstances, and especially when customers are coming into the store.
There. That’s better, don’t you think?
Anyway, the vehicle turned out to be a white Chevy pickup. As it approached, we finished the Lemonade Song.
We’ll soon be getting a customer. We’ll give him a wonderful pitch.
He’ll order a glass and pay us a buck, and then we are going to be rich.
I think I’ll buy me a baseball bat.
I’ll buy me a mousetrap to use on the cat.
We’re happy as hogs and now we know that
This lemonade business is sure lots of fun.
Little Alfred stood up, waved toward the pickup, and pointed to his sign. The pickup drove past, then stopped. The driver put it in reverse and backed up.
Alfred and I traded long glances, and he whispered, “Uh-oh. Should we tell him?”
I looked deeply into my soul for the answer. It was one of the most difficult moral decisions of my whole career. Suddenly the answer came to me, like a whispered voice from the deep. With innocent looks and slow wags on the tail section, I replied: “I didn’t see a thing, how about you?”
Alfred gave me a little grin. “I think we won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret, Hankie.”
Right. Good decision. Great idea. We didn’t know anything about anything, and besides, nothing had happened anyway.
A man stepped out of the pickup and came toward our lemonade stand.
Chapter Six: Our Very First Customer
I knew right away that this guy didn’t live in our neighborhood, because he was dressed in safari clothes. What are safari clothes? Khaki pants and shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. They weren’t cowboy clothes, and this guy looked different.
Oh, and did I mention that he had a several days’ growth of beard on his cheeks and chin? He did, and if he hadn’t had such a pleasant face, I might have growled at him.
The stranger walked up to Little Alfred and gave him a smile. “Hi there, son. You’re selling lemonade?”
The Case of the Most Ancient Bone Page 3
