He grabbed my tail and hoisted me up. “I hate to ask you to do this, but I’m asking. Get him stopped and I’ll be right behind you. Now go!”
I swallowed a lump in my throat and looked toward the creek. Well, if Bruiser was afraid of cats, maybe . . .
When the mother deer saw that big lunk of a dog heading her way, she flashed her white tail and sprinted off to the east. That was the good part. The bad part was that the fawn tried to follow but tripped over some weeds. He was pretty young, see, and had spindly legs, and he fell down.
Bruiser was headed straight for him. Oh, did I mention that Bruiser ran like a fat duck? No kidding, he did. He couldn’t run worth a dern.
He plowed through the shallow water, leaped up on the east bank of the creek, and lunged right at the fawn and pinned it with his massive paws.
Gulp. Well, it was clear what I had to do. I didn’t want to, but when you’re Head of Ranch Security, you answer the calls and hope for the . . . gulp . . . best.
I hit Sirens and Lights and went straight into a Code Three. The second one of the day, in case you’re counting. Using my incredible speed, I was able to close the distance between myself and the rottweiler. I roared up to the crime scene and went right to work.
“Halt in the name of the law! Come out with your hands up. You’re under arrest!”
Standing over the fawn, Bruiser heard my command and turned his ugly eyes on me. “What did you say?”
I tried to hide the quivering of my voice. “I said, why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
He lumbered over to me. That wasn’t such great news, but it allowed the fawn to jump up and run away. Bruiser glared at me. “My own size? How about you?”
“Me? Well, I . . . you’re quite a bit bigger than me, actually, and I’m sure you’ll agree . . .”
“Shut up, moron. You messed up my fun, and now I’m fixing to . . .”
“Bruiser! Bruiser! Down, boy.”
Whew! The men arrived just in time. Joe clipped a chain around Bruiser’s neck and pulled him off before he was able to get me skinned and gutted.
Joe was panting for breath. “Sorry about that, Slim. I never thought about him chasing deer. Boy, he’s stout, ain’t he?”
“Uh-huh, and I’m thinking he just had one of his King Kong moments.” Slim came over to me, knelt down, and took my head in his hands. “How you doing, pardner?”
Still in one piece—barely.
“Nice work, pooch. You probably saved my fawn, so I guess that makes you a hero—as incredible as that may seem.”
No kidding? Me, a hero? Gee, from where I was watching, it hadn’t seemed all that great. I mean, let’s face it: the dog had been one step away from trashing me. But if Slim insisted that I was a hero . . . well, maybe I was.
I held my head at a proud angle and listened to the cheers of the crowd. A marching band was playing—drums and fifes and blaring trumpets. Lady dogs from all over Texas pushed their way to the front and tossed flowers in my direction.
And there, in front of the whole multitude, Sally May fought her way through the crowd, and when her gaze fell upon my battered body, a cry of anguish leapt from her anguished throat, and in an anguished voice, she cried, “Oh, Hank, my beloved Hank, what hath they done to you?” And then she ungulfed me in the embrace of her loving arms and—you won’t believe this part—she kissed me on the cheek.
Pretty swell, huh?
With the cheers of the crowd still ringing in my ears, I gave myself a good shake and saw . . . Drover.
“Oh my gosh, Hank, what happened?”
“I gave the bully a sound thrashing. What did you expect?”
His eyes grew as wide as plates. “No fooling? Gosh, I never thought . . .”
“I only wish the men had given me another minute. One more minute and I would have whipped the stuffings out of the big lug.”
The men had started back toward the pickups, leading the beaten, humiliated rottenweiler. Drover and I fell in behind them.
“You mean, you really whipped him? You’re not just making it up?”
“How many times should I say it, Drover? Yes, yes, and yes. I’m shocked that you show so little confidence in my combat techniques.”
“Yeah, but he’s so big . . .”
I gave a careless chuckle. “Son, never forget that it isn’t the size of the dog in the fight that matters. It’s the size of the fog in the dog. He’s big, Drover, but also slow and dumb, very dumb. Oh, and we happen to know that he’s scared of cats.”
The pitiful, beaten, humiliated Bruiser heard this. His head shot up and he glared back at me. “What did you just say?”
Drover let out a gasp. “Hank, shhh, he’s listening.”
“Relax, son, I’ll handle this.” I raised my voice so that the little wimp of a rottweiler could hear. “I said you’re slow and dumb. I said you’re nothing but a scaredy cat who’s scared of cats. I said you walk like a fat duck. What do you think of that?”
He lunged against the chain and exposed a mouthful of . . . my goodness, for a spineless little weenie, he had some huge teeth. “Why, I oughta break your neck!”
I gave him a pleasant smile. “Yes, but you had your chance and you didn’t get it done. Do you know why? Because . . .”
Drover was about to have a stroke. “Hank, shhhhh!”
“Because you fight like a fat duck. Oh, you’re pretty tough when it comes to beating up baby deer, but put you in the ring with the Head of Ranch Security and you stink.”
He lunged at me again, and this time I could feel his hot breath on my face. I ignored him and went right on. “In fact, you stink twice—once for fighting like a fat duck and once for your breath, which smells like garbage.”
Drover was moaning and rolling his eyes. “Hank, don’t do this!”
Bruiser’s eyes were flaming now. “Listen, stupid, if I ever get off this chain, I’m gonna finish what I started.”
“Oh yeah? Well, bring a sack lunch, fatso, ’cause it’s liable to take you a couple of days. See you around, and don’t ever set foot on my ranch again.”
Joe and Mister Big Talker got into the cab of the pickup and drove off. As they pulled away from the house, Bruiser was glaring at me with eyes filled with meanness and hatred.
I turned to Drover. “Well, one riot, one cowdog. Too bad you were hiding under the pickup. You missed all the fun.”
He was shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “I don’t think you should have said all those things.”
“Why? Hey, it served him right, and besides, we’ll never see him again.”
Those turned out to be famous last words.
Chapter Three: Slim Clips His Toenails
Slim watched them until the pickup left our property and turned right on the county road. Then he looked down at me.
“Boys, that right there is a bad dog. Joe’s going to have problems with him. Nice work, Hank.” He bent down and scratched me behind the ears. I puffed myself up to my full height and shot a grin at Mister Squeakbox. “You ain’t much of a fighter, but your heart’s in the right place. I’ll remember that the next time you mess up.”
Huh?
There! You see what these guys do? They give you a little compliment, a little pat on the head, and then they take it all back with some tacky remark. I’ll remember that the next time you mess up. What an insult. What an outrage!
For his information, I rarely ever “mess up,” and I had no plans for “messing up” any time in the near future.
I couldn’t believe he’d said that. Oh well.
Where were we? Oh yes, at the end of a long hot day in August. Bushed. Beat. Exhausted. Worn down to a nub of our former selves but triumphant, since I had won a huge moral victory over an overbearing rottweiler. And we had ended our long, hot so forth down at Slim’s bachelor shac
k, on the banks of Wolf Creek.
We dogs kind of enjoyed staying down at Slim’s place. For one thing, he, being a bachelor, had no problem with dogs staying inside his house. Not that we were dirty, understand. We weren’t—or I wasn’t. I can’t speak for Drover or speculate on his personal habits relating to cleanliness, but I can certainly speak for myself.
I’m pretty derned fussy about my appearance. I bathe every single day in the overflow of the septic tank. It not only leaves me clean and spotless, but it also gives me that deep, manly aroma that the lady dogs really love.
Where were we? Oh yes. Slim always let us stay inside the house, and once there, we often found ourselves in position to . . . how can I say this? Once we established a presence inside the house, we were then in a perfect and natural position to . . . well, share in his meals. Snack. Eat. He sometimes gave us food, is the point, and food is a very important part of a dog’s . . . whatever.
Spiritual development, I suppose. Feeling of well-bean. See, even on a bad day, a few morsels of food can bring a flood of new meaning into our lives.
We ask so little of this life, we dogs, and a few scraps of food can turn a slow day into an exciting experience. For all his flots and falls . . . for all his flaws and flots . . . for all his faults and flaws, let us say, old Slim often scored home runs in the Sharing of Food Department.
Anyways, Drover and I made our way up to the house. Slim had gotten there first and was inside doing . . . something. Taking off his boots, perhaps. Yes, that’s exactly what he was doing. I knew, because I heard him straining with the boot jack, and then I heard his boots hit the floor.
Bam. Bam. Two boots. That’s what he wore, two boots, because . . . well, he had two feet, I suppose, and if a guy has two feet, he wears . . . skip it.
We made our way up to the front porch and went to the screen door. A lot of your common run of ranch mutts—and we’re talking about mutts with no class or couth or manners—would start scratching on the screen door. Not me. I knew better than to do such a thing. Not only was it discouthful and rude, but that door-scratching had a tendency to . . . well, destroy screens.
I knew Slim’s position on Damaged Screen Doors. He didn’t approve. They made him mad and caused him to roar and yell. Hencely, instead of scratching on the door, I sat down on the porch and positioned myself so that he could see me.
Drover was there, too, and together we sat down and waited for Slim to let us in. Minutes passed. We could hear him in there. He was doing . . . something.
Click. Click. Click.
My ears leaped up and I twisted my head to the side as I tried to analyze the sound. “What’s he doing in there?”
“Well, I don’t know, but it sounds kind of like . . . you don’t reckon he’s clipping his toenails, do you?”
I gave the runt a glare. “Clipping his toenails? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would he clip his toenails at a time like this?”
“Well, I don’t know. What time is it?”
“It’s time for us to be off duty and inside the house, where we belong. Besides, Slim would never go to the trouble of clipping his toenails. He just tears them off.”
“Oh, okay.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Drover, unless I’m badly mistaken, he’s in there clipping his toenails.”
“I’ll be derned. I never would have thought of that.”
“Nor would I, but the evidence is building up. That clicking sound, you see, is coming from the toenail clipper as it clips each of the various toenails.”
“I’ll swan.”
“And obviously he doesn’t realize that we’re out here, waiting to be let in.” I paused a moment to ponder the situation. “Okay, Drover, let’s go into Loyal Dogs Waiting Patiently. Do you remember the routine?”
“Well, let me think. We sit and . . . stare at the door?”
“Almost. We sit and stare at the door and sweep our tails across the porch.”
“Yeah, but my tail’s just a stub and it can’t sweep.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. Okay, I’ll switch my tail over to Slow Sweeps, and you wiggle yours. How about that?”
“That’ll work. I can do pretty good wiggles.”
And that’s just what we did, went into Loyal Dogs Waiting Patiently and did a heck of a job with it. But it didn’t work.
Click. Click. Click.
“Hmmm. He seems to be ignoring us.”
“Yeah, and I’m getting discouraged.”
“Don’t give up, son, we’ve got a few more bags in our trick. Maybe we should sing the ‘Let Us in the House’ song. That’ll get him.”
And with that, we belted out the song, just like this.
Let Us in the House Song
There’s a time for everything.
There’s a time for working.
There’s a time for suffering.
And there’s a time we should call it quits.
We dogs have worked in heat and dust,
And that’s without complaining,
But what’s the deal? This door is shut,
And there’s some risk that we’ll starve to death.
Must you clip your toenails?
And must you do it now?
We’re sitting on the front porch
Waiting to be let inside.
We don’t really want to
Cause you any trouble.
Can’t you merely take the hint?
’Cause if you don’t we will scratch the screen.
Summer heat is hard on us
And these drought conditions.
We’ve just put in a long, hard day
Protecting you from all kinds of stuff.
We don’t want to threaten,
Bark or beg or moan,
But this is getting serious.
Your nails can wait for another time.
Must you clip your toenails?
And must you do it now?
We’re sitting on the front porch
Waiting to be let inside.
We don’t really want to
Cause you any trouble.
Can’t you merely take the hint?
’Cause if you don’t we will scratch the screen.
Pretty awesome song, huh? You bet. And I was pretty sure it would do the trick. I cocked my ear and listened.
Click. Click. Click.
“Drover, something’s wrong. Surely, if he’d heard our song, he would rush to the door and let us in.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like us anymore. Maybe he hates us. Remember all those dog hairs on the pickup seat?”
“Those were hog hairs. You told me so yourself.”
“I think they were dog hairs, and I think they might have come from . . . us.”
“Hmmm. You could be right.”
I cut my eyes from side to side and plunged into deep thoughts of deepest concentration. “Okay, what’s done is done. There’s no use spilling any more milk. If Slim insists on clipping his toenails, we have no choice but to scratch on the screen door.”
Drover’s eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t think we’d better do that. He might get mad.”
“Well, it’s his own fault. He’s brought this upon himself. We tried the course of manners and reason and it flopped.”
“I guess we could just stay out on the porch.”
I stared at him. “I can’t believe you said that. Stay out on the porch? When there’s a whole house waiting for a couple of tired, loyal dogs to come in? What good is a house without dogs, Drover?”
“Well . . . ”
“A house without dogs is like a song without a melody, a tree without leaves, a sandwich without mustard, a ranch without baling wire. A house without dogs is a hollow place, just four roofs and a wall.”
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“And toenail clippers.”
“Exactly. A house without dogs is like toenail clippers without a toe. Do you see what this means? It means that we must go to the drastic measure of scratching on the screen.”
He gulped. “Which one of us?”
“Me, of course, unless . . . I guess we could let you, uh, go solo on this deal. Yes, it might be good experience for you.”
“Yeah, but this old leg’s acting up on me again.”
“Which leg?”
“The one I use for scratching.”
“Use your other leg.”
“It’s starting to hurt too, terrible pain. I just don’t think I could stand it.”
I gave my head a shake. “Drover, you are such a weenie. What’s the big deal? We’re doing this for Slim’s own good, don’t forget that.”
Drover stood up and began limping in a circle.
“Okay, skip it, I’ll do the scratching. But this will have to go into my report.”
“Oh no, not that!”
“Yes, and all your begging and whining won’t change a thing. It will go into my report and you will get five Chicken Marks. How does that make you feel?”
“Oh my leg!”
I ignored his noise and marched up to the screen door. I took three deep breaths, limbered up my scratching paw, and prepared to launch myself into Drastic Measures. Maybe that was a mistake.
Chapter Four: The Big Mouse Safari
Right away, I went into my Warm-up and Stretch Exercise Program. I limbered up the big Scratchus Muscle in my right shoulder and extended my claws several times. Then and only then did I place my right front paw on the screen door.
I pulled the paw and claws in a downward direction, creating a scratching sound.
The clicking of the toenail clippers stopped. We heard Slim’s feet hit the floor. He was coming to the door. I tossed a glance at Drover and gave him a wink.
“You see? There’s nothing to it. You could have done it, if you hadn’t been such a . . .”
The Case of the Raging Rottweiler Page 2
