The Case of the Tricky Trap

by John R. Erickson

  And surprised. Nobody expects to catch a buzzard in a coon trap.

  I slipped out of the shadows and made my way toward the door. I hadn’t planned on striking up a conversation with Junior, but he spoke first.

  “Oh, h-h-hi, d-d-doggie. My p-p-pa j-just went inside.”

  “I know, I saw the whole thing. Junior, I’ve always thought you were a pretty decent guy, but I’m afraid your old man is fixing to get busted.”

  “Oh d-d-darn. For w-w-what?”

  “Stealing corn, wrecking sheds, you name it. We’re going to throw the book at him.”

  I could see Junior, perched on the first big limb of a hackberry tree. He hung his head and gave it a sad shake. “P-p-p-poor old P-p-pa! Y-y-you w-w-won’t h-hurt him, w-w-will you?”

  “That’s up to him. There’s nothing personal in this, Junior. I’m just doing my job. Sorry.”

  I hurried on to the shed door, not wishing to see or hear any more of Junior’s grief. I mean, it would be wrong to suppose that dogs in the Security Business don’t have feelings. We do, and sometimes that makes it hard for us to do our jobs. Junior was a sweet guy, but his old man had turned to a life of crime, and now Junior was going to have to watch Wallace pay his debt to society.

  I pushed these thoughts out of my mind and wiggled my way through the door. Inside, I gave my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and suddenly it dawned on me that I hadn’t heard the slam of the trapdoor. In other words, the pattern of clues was beginning to suggest that Wallace hadn’t been caught.

  I narrowed my eyes into Infrared Slits and did a slow scan of the shed. Sacks of feed, bales of hay . . . and the live-trap with the door still open. Oh brother, what a dunce! You know what he was doing? He was standing outside the trap, staring at the can of corn with big greedy eyes . . . and pecking at the criss cross of wire on the side of the trap!

  I took a big breath of air, squared my enormous shoulders, and swaggered toward him. “Hank the Cowdog, Special Crimes. What’s going on around here?”

  Wallace whirled around at the sound of my voice. His ugly buzzard eyes grew wide and his beak fell open. “Well, what do you think’s going on here, dog? I’m trying to eat my dinner!”

  “Oh? And what seems to be the problem?”

  “Well, the problem is that I can see it but I can’t reach it—as anyone with two eyes can see. Now, you just run along and leave me alone, hear?” He gave the wire five hard pecks and threw his wings into the air. “This is the most . . . I am fixing to lose my temper with this thing!” Again, he banged his beak against the wire, really whammed it, then rubbed his mouth. “Now, that hurt, that really hurt.”

  I tried my best not to laugh—I mean, this was a scream. The buzzard was too dumb to walk into the trap! I strolled over to him and looked into the cage.

  “You know, pal, I just got here and maybe this sounds obvious, but there’s some pretty stout wire between you and that can of corn.”

  He glared at me. “Dog, do I look dumb? Don’t be nice, just tell the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I ain’t. It’s very plain to me that there’s some wire between me and that can of corn in yonder, and that’s the whole problem. See, buzzards don’t have any teeth. Did you know that?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “Well, think about it. If I had me a good set of chainsaw teeth, I’d tear this thing to smithereens!”

  “But you don’t, right?”

  He opened his mouth and pointed inside. “Look for yourself, pooch. Do you see any chain saws in there?”

  “Nope.”

  He slammed his jaws shut. “Well, there you are. Don’t go telling a buzzard how to run his business, unless you want to bite a hole in that wire yourself.”

  I had to chuckle. I mean, sometimes Security Work can be dull and depressing, but this was really funny. “Wallace, let’s look at the problem from another angle. Suppose . . . just suppose there was a way of getting to that corn, without pecking a hole in the wire.”

  He stared at me. “Well, suppose that bird dogs could fly. Suppose that pigs rode side-saddles. Suppose my name was Lulu. Suppose don’t mean a thing, puppy dog.”

  I laid a paw on his shoulder. “Wallace, look over there to the left and tell me what you see.”

  He squinted his eyes. “I see . . . some kind of door-outfit.”

  “A door! Is it open or closed?”

  “It’s . . . ” He whipped his head around and beamed me a glare. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Wallace, the door’s wide open. All you have to do is walk in there and get your corn.”

  His eyes flicked back and forth, from me to the door and back to me. “That door ain’t open.”

  “It is open.”

  “It ain’t, ’cause if it was open, I would have seen it when I first walked in here.”

  “Wallace, the door is open, trust me.”

  He narrowed his eyes into cunning slits. “Okay, Mister Smartypants, if you think that door’s open, which it ain’t, then prove it.”

  I laughed in his face. “Okay, buddy, I’ll prove it. Watch this and study your lessons.” I strolled around to the front of the trap and stepped inside. “Now tell me, Wallace, was the door open or shut?”

  He crossed his wings over his chest and turned his back on me. “I ain’t talking.”

  “Am I inside the cage or outside?”

  “Okay, maybe you’re . . . dog, I don’t know how you done that, but somehow you cheated. And just ’cause you’re inside don’t mean you can get to the corn, no it don’t.”

  Again, I chuckled. “Wallace, you’re something else. Watch and pay attention. I’ll go through this once and then you can try it.” I moved two steps to the west and placed a paw on the can of . . .

  SLAM!

  Huh?

  I stared at Wallace and he stared at me. My mind was swirling, like leaves in a blizzard.

  Wallace was the first to speak. “What was that?” He waddled over to the door and gave it a close inspection. “Well, glory be, the door slammed shut.” Then his eyes popped open and an ugly grin spread across his beak. “Say, dog, this ain’t a trap, is it?” I beamed him a glare of steel. He laughed. “Why, it is a trap, sure as shooting, and you was trying to . . . hee hee!”

  At that very moment, Junior wiggled his head through the crack in the door. “P-p-pa, wh-what was that l-l-loud n-n-n-n-n . . . sound?”

  Wallace clapped his wings together and cackled with glee. “You know, Junior, it’s funny how things turn out. I think we’ve just trapped ourselves a dog!”

  Oh, brother.

  Chapter Seven: Wallace Sings a Dumb Little Song

  I wish we could skip this part. You can’t imagine how embarrassing it is. I mean, when the Head of Ranch Security finds himself . . . sigh. Well, let’s mush on and get it over with.

  Somehow I had managed to . . . I can’t say it!

  But I have to. By now you’ve figured it out yourself, so there’s no use in trying to hide it.

  Okay, the Road of Life has many twists and turns. Sometimes when we start out on a long journey, we don’t always know, uh, where or how it will end. We all have plans, right? But sometimes those plans don’t turn out right and then we experience the bitterness of . . . well, failure. We all feel the lash of failure once in a while—I mean it’s normal and natural, and our ability to cope with failure is . . .

  This is ridiculous. Hang on, here it comes, with no whipped cream. I stepped into the trap and set off the trigger. There! Now you know the awful truth.

  It would have been bad enough if this had been my first Trap Experience. It wasn’t. It was my second. It would have been bad enough if I’d been alone, but it was my incredible misfortune to be standing in front of an audience of buzzards.

  Junior waddled into the
shed, blinked his eyes, and flashed a silly grin. “Oh m-my g-g-goodness, a d-d-doggie in a t-t-trap, a trap!”

  Wallace cackled with joy. “That’s right, the dummy was a-trying to trap me and trapped hisself! Hee hee. Say, dog, could you pass me the corn? Hee hee!”

  Between clenched teeth, I said, “Wallace, do me a favor. Get out of here and leave me alone. I need some quiet time.”

  “Heh, I bet you do. But you know what, pooch? All at once I’m feeling an urge to burst into song.”

  My heart sank. “Good grief!”

  “You want to hear a song?”

  “No.”

  “I ain’t saying I’m a great singer, but do you want to hear my song?”

  “No!”

  He craned his neck in my direction and curled his beak. “Well, too bad, ’cause I’m fixing to sing one.” He whirled around to Junior. “Son, give me a G.” Junior hummed a note. Wallace shook his head. “That ain’t a G, it’s a G-whiz.” Junior hummed another note and Wallace launched into one of the worst songs ever to disgrace this earth.

  Don’t Ever Step in a Trap

  When I was a young guy and stood about knee-high

  My daddy would tell me those tales

  Of famous old buzzards who braved many hazards

  When Texas was still up for sale.

  They moved to the prairie when it wasn’t very

  Convenient for humans or pets.

  And after each story, Pa told me some morey,

  And here were the words that he said:

  “Don’t ever step in a trap, son,

  Unless you’re a dope or a sap, son.

  Trapping’s more fun when you ain’t the one

  Who’s inside when the trigger goes SNAP!”

  Old Daddy was shrewd, he knew what he knew,

  Like most of them pioneering types.

  They lived off the land, a man was a man.

  They had to be tough to survive.

  But manly and tough just wasn’t enough,

  They had to be cunning as well,

  Catastrophes loomed and dummies were doomed,

  And here’s what my daddy would tell:

  “Don’t ever step in a trap, son,

  Unless you’re a dope or a sap, son.

  Trapping’s more fun when you ain’t the one

  Who’s inside when the trigger goes SNAP!”

  Now Daddy is gone. I’m trying to pass on

  The wisdom I learned at his knee.

  It’s Junior who’s young, and some would say dumb,

  He’s got a few bats in his tree.

  So listen up, son, this life ain’t all fun.

  There’s dangers and hazards and fate.

  When you come to a trap, take a break, take a nap.

  Let a chump go inside for the bait.

  Don’t ever step in a trap, son,

  Unless you’re a dope or a sap, son.

  Trapping’s more fun when you ain’t the one

  Who’s inside when the trigger goes SNAP!

  As you might expect, I had to listen to every word of Wallace’s pathetic little piece of musical trash. I would have been happy to walk out after the first line, but that wasn’t an option. So I sat there like a block of stone and beamed him a murderous glare.

  When he’d finished his assault on good taste and music, Wallace took a bow and Junior clapped his wings together. “Oh, that w-w-was g-g-good, P-p-pa!”

  “Thank you, thank you. Son, you might have been crazy when you got here, but you’re a-talking sense now.” He turned to me. “How ’bout you, pooch? You ever heard finer music than that?”

  “Three stray cats with a bellyache couldn’t have sounded worse.”

  “Well now, I ain’t ever claimed to be the best singer in the world, but you’ve got to admit that it had a strong message.”

  Junior nodded. “Y-yeah, I l-l-learned a l-lot, P-pa.”

  Wallace grinned at me. “See? This younger generation ain’t gone completely off the deep end. The song had a powerful message, puppy: traps are for dumbbells.” He cackled. “And look where you’re at! Hee hee.”

  His laughter echoed in my ears. “Are you through?”

  “Well, maybe I am and maybe I ain’t. If you gave me a few minutes, I might cobble up another tune. Would you like that?”

  “No.”

  Wallace turned to Junior.

  “He’s kind of a sore loser, ain’t he? And you know, I don’t think he learned one thing from my song.” Back to me. “Well, I can see that my talents ain’t appreciated around here.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “So I reckon me and Junior’ll just . . . ” His eyes flashed and went to the can of corn. “Say there, neighbor, I don’t suppose you’d mind passing that corn, would you? I mean, dogs don’t eat corn and I hate to see good food go to waste.”

  An idea popped into my head. “Okay, sure. Come closer and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Heh heh. Have you figured out my wicked plan? Heh heh. Wallace was such a greedy-gut, he couldn’t turn down a free meal.

  He hopped over to the cage, licking his chops and rubbing his wings together. “Just hand it through a little at a time, pup.”

  I drew back a paw and gave the can a good slap. A moment later, Wallace was blinking his eyes, dripping juice off the end of his beak, and wearing most of the corn on his face. “Now, you didn’t need to do that! Junior, did you see what he done?”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “That’s what I think of you and your music, Wallace—corn for a corny song.”

  I thought that was a pretty good trick, but you know what? After he got over the shock, the old coot went right to work, pecking every corn kernel he could find. “It needs a little salt, but this ain’t half-bad. Junior, you might want to get in on some of this.”

  Junior just grinned. “Oh, th-that’s okay, P-p-pa. I’ll just w-w-watch.” He looked at me and shrugged. “H-h-he’s kind of g-g-greedy, greedy.”

  “Yes, I noticed.”

  It took Wallace about a minute and a half to clean up the corn. He flashed a smile, rubbed his belly, and burped. “Mighty fine, mighty fine. Corn’s just corn, but it beats a poke in the eye.” His gaze slid around to me. “And it beats sitting in a trap too. Hee hee! Boy, I know you’re proud of yourself.”

  Junior shook his head. “P-p-pa, d-d-don’t r-rub it in.”

  “Why not? Thunder, he tried to trap me in that thing!”

  I said, “Yeah, but you were so dumb, you couldn’t even find the door.”

  Wallace thought about that for a moment. “Well, it all worked out, didn’t it? You’re in the trap and I’m fixing to get airborne and hunt grub. Junior, let’s move along. I’ve got a feeling there’s a nice squashed rabbit a-waiting for me on the side of some lonely road.”

  Junior waved good-bye and slipped through the door. Wallace gave me one last wink and a sneer, and ducked outside. I heaved a sigh of relief. At last, peace and quiet!

  I glanced around the shed, and suddenly the full weight of my dilemma came crashing down on my head. Holy smokes, how had I gotten myself into this mess? I mean, the whole idea of going inside the trap was to demonstrate . . . oh brother!

  Slim would never understand this. When he showed up to check the trap, he would . . . gulp. I couldn’t even imagine what he would say. I had to get out! I reached for the microphone of my mind and sent out an urgent APB.

  “Hank to Drover, over. Attention please! This is Unit One. We need backup in the feed shed immediately! Repeat: We’re calling for backup! This is not a drill, Drover, it’s a Code Three Emergency! Do you copy?”

  I strained my ears and listened. Nothing. No, wait! I seemed to be picking up a faint swishing noise, perhaps the sound of a small stub-tailed dog moving in my directi
on. I waited and hoped and listened to the pounding of my heart.

  The sounds grew louder. Yes, it was Drover! He was coming to save me!

  Chapter Eight: Ruined!

  A moment later Drover wiggled through the crack in the door and popped inside. “Hank? Are you in here?”

  “Drover, dearest pal, most trusted friend, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you!”

  “Were you singing? I thought I heard someone singing.”

  “It was a couple of buzzards, but never mind. Gee, it’s great to see you again. Come on in here. You look terrific.”

  “Thanks, me too.” He gave me a peculiar look and cocked his head to the side. “Are you . . . did you get caught in the trap . . . again?”

  “Drover, I know it looks that way, but . . . okay, yes, through a very strange chain of events, I did in fact . . . that is, the trap caught me, yes. Would you like to hear the whole story?”

  He yawned and sat down. “Oh, I guess so. Sure.”

  I told him the whole sad story. “So there you are. As you can see, I was just trying to do my job and no dog could have done more.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but I guess you could have done less.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well . . . maybe you shouldn’t have gone inside the trap.”

  I glared at him through the wire. “Why are you repeating the obvious? Don’t I know that? And Drover, it disturbs me that you seem to be grinning.”

  “Who, me?” He turned away so that I couldn’t see his face, but I heard him snicker. “I guess the buzzards thought it was pretty funny.”

  “Oh sure, but what can you expect from a buzzard? They have no scruples, no sense of higher purpose. We dogs, on the other hand . . . Drover, you’re not only grinning, but you’re laughing.”

  “Not me. Hee huff muff ppfffft.”

  “Then why are you making those ridiculous sounds? Drover, I’m disappointed in you. This is an extremely serious situation and only a twisted mind would find humor in it.”

  “I know, but . . . honk snort . . . I can’t help wondering what Slim’s going to say when he . . . fffftttt.”