Drover's Secret Life

by John R. Erickson

  Drover’s Secret Life

  John R. Erickson

  Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes

  Maverick Books, Inc.

  Publication Information

  MAVERICK BOOKS

  Published by Maverick Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070

  Phone: 806.435.7611

  www.hankthecowdog.com

  First published in the United States of America by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2009.

  Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2012

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2009

  All rights reserved

  Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-153-7

  Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Dedication

  To Janee McCartor, who takes care of Hank and Drover at Maverick Books.

  Contents

  Introduction by the Head of Ranch Security

  Chapter One This Is the First Chapter

  Chapter Two A Sad and Lonely Childhood

  Chapter Three Alone in a Cold World

  Chapter Four The Next Chapter

  Chapter Five I Never Got to Be Joe

  Chapter Six An Ugly Scene with Mom

  Chapter Crutch This Is Pretty Neat

  Chapter Train Tracks The Exciting Part

  Chapter Nine The Bat

  Chapter Ten Handsome Prince School

  Chapter Eleven Looking for a Job

  Chapter Twelve Mom Loses Her Yard

  Chapter Thirteen Going to College

  Chapter Fourteen The Park

  Chapter Fifteen I Never Knew Bats Could Sing

  Chapter Sixteen A Hero Finds a Home

  Introduction

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Have you ever wondered what Drover does when he runs to the machine shed and hides? I’ve wondered about that, many times. I mean, the little mutt spends a lot of time in there. What does he do?

  I asked him about it one time, and he said, “I count goats.”

  “Goats? Why do you count goats? We don’t even have goats on this ranch.”

  “Well, if I counted sheep, I might fall asleep. When you sleep, everything’s dark and I’m scared of the dark.”

  Does that make sense to you? It made no sense to me, but over the years I’ve learned . . . how can I say this? I’ve learned not to expect much from Drover’s answers. All we can say is that he spends a lot of time in the machine shed and sometimes he counts goats that don’t exist.

  But guess what. That isn’t all he does in there. I recently discovered that the little goof has been writing his life’s story. You think I’m kidding? I’m not kidding. He scratched it out in the dust on the machine-shed floor. I found it just the other day, half an acre of chicken scratch in the dirt.

  Naturally, my first thought was that it should be erased at once. I mean, it was written by the same guy who hides under his gunnysack bed and snaps at snowflakes. Is the world ready to face an entire book about his life? No, and without a moment’s hesitation, I . . .

  You know, I couldn’t bring myself to erase it. In fact, I started reading and . . . well, it was weird but also pretty funny. I laughed until my ribs hurt. It was so very . . . Drover.

  I’m not saying that the world is ready for it or that you should read it, but if you want to give it a peek, here it is. If it causes you to count goats or snap at snowflakes, don’t blame me.

  —Hank

  Chapter One: This Is the First Chapter

  Well, let’s see here. How should I start this? I’ve never done this before and I’m kind of nervous. What if I mess up? Everybody might laugh and I’d hate that.

  Most dogs go through their whole life without writing a book, and so have I up to now, but all at once I feel an urge to write an exciting story about the life of Drover C. Dog.

  That’s me. If I’m going to be an author, I need a name that sounds like something an author might use. Plain old “Drover” doesn’t sound very exciting, does it? I don’t think so. “Drover C. Dog” sounds more dramatic. It’s the kind of name that needs trumpets or something.

  I made it up myself. I used “Dog” as my last name because . . . well, I’m a dog and it fits. The middle initial “C” just came out of thin air.

  That’s a funny way of putting it, “thin air.” Is there some other kind of air? I don’t know, it all seems pretty thin to me, otherwise we’d choke when we tried to breathe.

  You can choke on water, I know that. I saw a bat almost drown one time. It was a hot day and he needed a drink, but he fell in a goldfish pond because he was half-blind and he couldn’t swim. I had to drag him out. His name was Boris O’Bat and he’ll come up later in the story, if I get that far. I’m not sure I will. If I don’t . . . well, I saved a bat once and it was kind of exciting.

  I picked C as my middle initial. It seemed as good as any and, besides, I’ve always wanted to see the ocean . . . see the sea, you might say, and all at once everything fit together: C, see, and sea.

  It’s neat when things fit together like that, so my writer-name is going to be Drover C. Dog. One of these days maybe we’ll see it in lights.

  There’s that word again, see. It just keeps popping up. Maybe my new name will bring me good luck. I hope so. Bad luck is not so good and I don’t need any of that.

  Anyway, I’m kind of nervous. I want this to be a good story, not something boring. That’ll be a challenge. Hank tells me that I’m pretty boring and I have a feeling that he’s right.

  But just because you’re a boring little mutt doesn’t mean you have to write a boring story. I’ll try to make it exciting, but not right now. Just this little bit of writing has worn me out and I need a nap. See you in an hour.

  The Next Day

  That turned into a pretty long nap, about fifteen hours of wonderful doggie sleep. I dreamed about . . . I don’t remember, but it was a great dream. Now I’m fresh and wide awake and I have to start the story of my secret life.

  Here we go.

  Okay, I was born and that’s how it all began. Then I grew up and here I am and not much happened in between.

  Hank was right. My life has been so boring, even I can’t stand to hear about it. I’m a failure as a writer. I knew I would be. I’m so embarrassed! Good-bye.

  The Next Day

  Well, I’m back. I’m not going to quit. Just be­-cause you have nothing to say doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write about it. And besides, I have something to say. I thought of it last night in my sleep.

  Here we go again.

  Like I said, I was born and that’s how it all began. Mom said I was there but I don’t remember. All I know is what she told me. One day she was sitting in the yard when all at once she got an urge to go camping. She thought that was odd because she’d never cared for camping. She scouted around the yard until she found an empty box and some rags for bedding.

  She said camping was fun but it gave her indigestion. She thought it was indigestion, but when my brother Willie was born, she
knew something was up.

  I was number nine, the last pup to hit the ground. Mom said that when she saw me, she screamed, “This isn’t funny! All I did was go camping and now I’m sharing a box with nine wet rats!”

  It took her a while to figure out that those “wet rats” were her own children and she’d just taken a full-time job as a mother. She thought we were the ugliest things she’d ever seen, but after she cried for a while, she licked us dry and served lunch.

  Like I said, there were nine of us and she only had eight plates at her table. Willie and I had to share a plate. He always went first and ate like a pig. I got what was left.

  Well, those are my earliest memories . . . or they would be if I could remember that far back but I can’t.

  Chapter Two: A Sad and Lonely Childhood

  Here’s a secret, if you promise not to tell: My childhood wasn’t so bad. In fact I had a good life. But who wants to read about some dog who’s had a happy childhood? Nobody.

  That’s why I called this chapter “A Sad and Lonely Childhood.” When you write about being happy, everybody falls asleep.

  But back to my brother, Willie. There were nine of us pups but only eight plates at Mom’s table, so Willie and I had to share, and he ate like a pig. He grew up to be big and strong, and I grew up to be a runt with a stub tail.

  We lived in a fenced yard in the town of Twitch­ell, Texas. That’s kind of a funny name, Twitch­ell. I was always the smallest dog in a crowd and scared of everything. You name it, I was scared of it: storms, loud noises, water, the dark. My brothers barked at cars. Not me. I hid in the bushes. Some of the dogs in the neighborhood chewed up newspapers, but I didn’t. I was always scared I’d choke on the rubber band.

  Some of my friends barked at the mailman when he walked his route every day, and they said it was gobs of fun. I never tried it. He carried a big leather bag on his shoulder, and I was scared that if I barked at him, he’d stuff me in that bag and carry me off to someplace awful.

  I didn’t know where he came from or where he went after he left the mail, and I didn’t want to find out. I always thought there was something a little fishy about those postal employees, so I stayed away from them.

  I wasn’t proud of being a little chicken. Dogs should be brave and do courageous things. That’s what everybody says. I dreamed of being brave and fighting monsters, but the older I grew, the chickener I got.

  You know, maybe my childhood wasn’t as happy as I thought, ’cause I spent a lot of time being scared and worrying about my tail. One day Mom and I had a talk.

  She said, “Well, son, your brothers and sisters have all grown up and moved away.”

  “Yeah, it gets lonesome sometimes.”

  “Not lonesome. Peaceful.”

  “I kind of miss ’em, but there’s more to eat now that they’re gone.”

  “Which brings up a touchy subject.”

  “I don’t miss Willie, the greedy pig.”

  “Hello?” She waved a paw in front of my eyes. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

  “Oh, hi Mom. Did you say something?”

  “Yes. I had just brought up a touchy subject. You.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t know I was a touchy subject.”

  “Drover, there comes a time in a dog’s life when he needs to move along.”

  “Yeah, but that’s after he grows up.”

  “That’s the point. In people-years, you’re twenty-five years old. And you’re still hanging around the yard. It’s starting to embarrass me. Does it embarrass you?”

  “Let me think. Nope.”

  “Well, it should. I see dogs in the neighborhood whispering.”

  “Yeah, I’ve wondered why they whisper all the time.”

  “They’re gossiping about YOU. They’re wondering if you’re ever going to grow up. And you know what?” She looked into my eyes. “So am I.”

  “Well, I’ve tried, Mom, and it just hasn’t worked. So I guess I’ll stick around for a while, if that’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay. Your brothers and sisters have their own homes now, and jobs. And you . . . what are you going to do, be a bum?”

  “Would you mind?”

  “You’d be a bum? You’d actually do that to your poor mother?”

  “Well, I’ve thought about it.”

  “You will not be a bum!” All at once a look of deep concern came into her face. She leaned toward me and whispered, “Drover, what’s wrong with you? You can tell me, I’m your mother.”

  All my life I’d tried to hide the shame, but now she was asking for the truth. “It’s my tail, Mom.”

  “What’s wrong with your tail? I like your tail.”

  “I hate my tail. It’s just a stub.”

  “Don’t call it a stub. You make it sound like a handicap.”

  “It is a handicap.”

  “Drover, it’s called a ‘docked tail’ and it’s like a haircut for dogs. It improves your appearance and gives you a tidy look.”

  “It used to be twice as long and now it’s twice as short.”

  “It looks twice as good.”

  “I hate it twice as much.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Never mind your tail. What else is wrong with you?”

  “I’m a runt.”

  “You’re not a runt. You’re small.”

  “A dog knows, Mom. I’m a runt.”

  “Okay, you’re a runt, so what?”

  “I’m a runt with a sawed-off tail.”

  “Honey, the world needs runts. For every runt, there’s a job looking for a runt.”

  “Like what?

  “You know the list: bird dog, guard dog, stock dog, leader dog, tracking dog, house dog, yard dog, porch dog. So, what’ll it be?”

  “I have to decide right now?”

  “I’ll give you two minutes, and being a bum isn’t an option. Choose something respectable.”

  I thought about it, then revealed my secret dream. “Mom, ever since I was a little guy, I’ve wanted to be a handsome prince.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and for a whole minute she couldn’t speak. “A handsome prince? That’s a job? Do you need training?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there’s a Handsome Prince School somewhere.”

  She turned away and shook her head. “Oi yoi yoi! But you’ll move out of the yard, right?”

  “Well, you know, I was thinking . . .”

  “You’ll move out of the yard. If they’re not hiring princes, try pointing birds, anything. And son, always remember . . .”

  “Okay.”

  “I haven’t said it yet.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Always remember, my son, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight that matters.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard it a thousand times. It’s the size of the bog in the fog.”

  She stared at me for a long moment. “For you, that’s close enough.”

  “Thanks, Mom. You always know what to say.”

  “Really? Ha ha ha!” For some reason she walked away, laughing like crazy. Me? I left home and went out into the world to find myself.

  And that’s the story of my sad and lonely childhood. Like I said, it wasn’t all that sad and lonely, but I did spend some time worrying about my tail.

  Chapter Three: Alone in a Cold World

  You know, it’s kind of funny. Living here on the ranch, I’ve noticed that it turns cold in the wintertime, and it happens every year. You can almost predict it. I think it has something to do with Halloween.

  Before Halloween, the days are warm and sunny. But then the birds leave and I’ve never understood why they do that. All summer they seem happy, chirping and singing and hopping around on their skinny legs and flying through the air.

  They seem to enjoy flying through the
air, don’t they? I would too, if I could fly, but I can’t. I tried it once. My friend Pete (he’s a cat) told me that if I jumped out of the back of the pickup and wiggled my ears, I could soar like a weevil.

  I gave it a try, but mostly I soared straight down and crashed my nose into the ground and it hurt pretty bad. Pete said I didn’t do it right, that’s why I crashed, and he told me to wiggle the left ear more than the right one.

  He boosted up my confidence so much, I felt like Super Dog and tried it again, took a another dive off the back of Slim’s pickup. That one hurt too, but Pete was right there at my side when I picked myself up. He’d watched the whole thing, so he told me what I did wrong.

  You’ll never guess what it was. It was such a tiny little mistake that I never would have noticed, if Pete hadn’t told me. I forgot to press my lips together. Can you believe that? I felt so silly.

  Since this is my secret story, I can admit something. That wasn’t the first time in my life that I’d felt dumb. It wasn’t the second time either. It’s happened a lot. It’s never good to go around feeling foolish about yourself. It affects your whole attitude and that’s the great thing about having a friend like Pete.

  Maybe I shouldn’t call him my friend. He’s a cat, you know, and I could get in big trouble for saying that I’m friends with a cat. Hank would throw a fit, but it’s the truth. Pete is my friend and when I crashed that second time . . . third time . . .

  I crashed a whole bunch of times that day. Twenty or twenty-five times. I just couldn’t get the hang of flying. Each time, I made some little mistake and I felt sure that Pete would get tired of watching one failure after another and get discouraged and quit helping me, but he didn’t.

  I got pretty discouraged myself, and even started crying. “Pete, I just can’t do it anymore, I can’t go on with this. I feel like such a failure!”

  I’ll never forget his words, they were so touching. He said, “Drover, the only difference between a failure and a hero is . . . one leg’s the same.”