The Case of the Tricky Trap

by John R. Erickson

  The rest of his sentence disappeared into a fog of peculiar sounds. I wanted to blister him with angry words, but decided instead to, uh, try a softer approach.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about that myself, and I think we can agree that this isn’t going to look good. There’s a high risk that Slim will view it as . . . well, as a sign of incompetence, and I don’t need to remind you that it could smear the reputations of all of us in the Security Division.”

  “I know. Muff snort hee hee ppfffttt!”

  “And that is no laughing matter.” He muffed and honked and laughed some more. “But I can see that your heart has been corrupted, so let’s go straight to the bottom line. Get me out of here!”

  At last he managed to get control of himself. He throttled his laughter but he was still wearing a crazy grin that made me uneasy. “Well, I’d like to help, but I’m not good at opening doors.”

  “What’s the big deal? It’s got two latches, one at each side of the door, and all you have to do . . . look, Drover, this could ruin my career! Get over here and figure it out, and that is a direct order.”

  He wandered over to the trap and studied the latching mechanisms. He was still grinning. “Is that what the buzzards were singing about, you being caught in the trap?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it was, and would you mind concentrating on your business?”

  “I’ll bet it was a funny song.”

  “It was NOT a funny song. It was crude, rude, uncouth, noisy, and very disrespectful. Hurry up and get me out of here.”

  “What was the name of the song?”

  I couldn’t control the snarling muscles on my lips, and I showed him some serious fangs. “Do I care about the name of the song? No. I care about getting out of this incredible mess and saving my career. Hurry up!”

  “Well, I’d kind of like to know the name of the song.”

  “Okay, that did it! You asked for this, buddy!” In a fit of righteous anger, I lunged at the runt and . . . BONK . . . more or less forgot about the wire, the very stout barrier of wire that . . . I rubbed my injured nose. “Let’s see, you were asking about the title of a song?”

  “Yeah, I’m kind of curious. I’ve never heard a buzzard sing.”

  “You’ve missed nothing, believe me, and I must warn you that you’ll be shocked and outraged when you hear the name of the song.”

  “Oh gosh.”

  “He called it . . . something. ‘Don’t Ever Step in a Trap.’ There. Are you shocked?”

  His grin widened. “Not exactly. I think it’s pretty cute.”

  “Drover, it’s not cute and I’m deeply disappointed by your response, but we can talk about that later. Open the door.”

  “How did it go?”

  “How did what go?”

  “The song. Would you mind singing a little bit of it?”

  I stared into the vacuum of his eyes. I couldn’t believe this. “You think I’m going to . . . ” I cut my eyes from side to side. I wasn’t in a great bargaining position. “Drover, I’m glad that you’re curious about these things, I mean, curiosity is a wonderful quality. If I sing you the chorus, will you promise to put this whole shabby incident behind us and concentrate on opening the door?”

  “Oh sure, you bet.”

  “And I have your word on that?”

  He raised his left paw in the air.

  “Scout’s Honor.”

  “You’re not a Scout.”

  “Dog’s Honor.”

  “Well, you’re a dog, so that checks out.” I heaved a sigh. “Here’s the chorus.” And with that, I sang him the tiresome thing:

  Don’t ever step in a trap, son,

  Unless you’re a dope or a sap, son.

  ’Cause trapping’s more fun when you ain’t the one

  Who’s inside when the trigger goes SNAP.

  I studied his face, hoping to see . . . well, certain lines and wrinkles that might show anger and disgust and moral outrage. That’s not what I saw. His silly grin grew even wider and he said . . . this is a direct quote . . . he said, “Oh, that’s funny! Hee hee! That’s hilarious! That’s the funniest song I ever heard! What a great song!”

  And then, before my very eyes . . . you won’t believe this . . . the little dunce began staggering around, laughing his head off!

  “Drover, this is disgraceful! Stop laughing and open this door! Soldier, I am giving you a direct order. Get me out of here immediately or I’ll . . . Drover, you gave your Dog’s Honor! Drover, come back here! Drover!”

  I was stunned by this incredible turn of events. I mean, not in my wildest dreams would I have supposed that the little slacker would stoop so low as to break his Solemn Oath of Dogness and leave me there, sitting in the ruins of my life. But that’s exactly what he did.

  His laughter faded into the distance and the silence rolled around me like . . . something. Like a wet cold blanket, like a funeral shroud. Gulp. Well, I’d really stepped in it this time and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I didn’t bother rehearsing a story for Slim. There would be no story.

  For the next three hours, I sat in the trap, broiling over the fires of guilt and remorse. Those were the longest hours of my life. I couldn’t even amuse myself by eating canned corn, since Wallace had hogged it all. I tried to pass the time with happy thoughts, but I could think of only one happy thought: if I ever got out of this mess alive, Drover would pay dearly for his treachery!

  At last, streaks of light appeared through the cracks in the door. A shiver of dread passed through my body as I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, its tires crunching the ground. I heard a door slam, then footsteps approaching. I swallowed hard and sat up straight. The door of the shed swung open, blinding me for a moment in the glare of sunbeams. Then I saw . . . Slim.

  He stared at me. I said nothing, made no attempt to explain the unexplainable, and didn’t even bother to tap my tail. His eyes rolled up inside his head and he slumped against the side of the shed.

  I would have felt better if he’d screamed at me. Jumped up and down, stomped on his hat, pulled out some hair, foamed at the mouth, spit on the ground, bellowed, roared, yelled, fumed, called me ugly names. But no, all I received was his cold rebuking silence, and fellers, it cut me to the cricket.

  He shook his head, blinked his eyes, and looked around. At last, he spoke. “How can I trap a coon when my dog keeps springing the trap?”

  That was the burning question, all right, and I had no simple answers. Well, I had one simple answer: maybe I could stop walking into his idiot trap. But life is rarely so simple, and it certainly wasn’t in this case. Slim knew nothing about the deeper aspects of the case, and he never would. How could I explain that I had been duped and tricked by a buzzard? There was no way of explaining it. The story was just too bizarre for wags, moans, and facial expressions.

  I would go to my grave knowing the truth. Slim would go to his grave thinking that he had shared his life with a dumb dog. It couldn’t be helped.

  He came slouching toward the cage. I felt the cold glare of his eyes and couldn’t look at him. I hung my head. He stood over me for a long time, saying nothing, then he spoke. “Well, did you enjoy the corn?”

  No, I did NOT enjoy the corn. I didn’t even get a bite of it. He didn’t understand.

  He opened the trapdoor and pointed a finger toward the rising sun. I took this to mean that I should leave the trap, leave the shed, and perhaps keep walking until I plunged off the face of the earth.

  And that’s what I did. With my tail trailing behind me like a piece of dead garden hose, I trudged outside, leaving behind a man who had once been my friend and a career that had once showed great promise.

  I didn’t go with Slim to feed cattle. Not only did he not want my company, but I didn’t exactly crave his either. I wanted to be alone. I
needed time to look over the pieces of my shattered life, to remember the good times and to cry over the tragedies.

  And besides, I had already decided to keep walking. My career was finished and there was nothing to keep me on the ranch I had once served and loved. It broke my heart to think about it, but, yes, I would just keep walking until I turned into a skeleton and all my bones fell off and the buzzards came to pick them clean.

  That was appropriate, don’t you think? I would end my days as a snack for Wallace, and maybe he would sing another boring song over my bones.

  I walked and walked and walked, until . . . well, I found myself standing in front of the machine shed. By then, I had grown a little weary and it occurred to me that it was a long way to the ends of the earth, and . . . well, I was hungry. Don’t forget that I had spent the entire night . . . two entire nights cooped up in a coon cage.

  I went to the overturned Ford hubcap that served as our dog bowl and began crunching tasteless kernels of Co-op dog food. Did I say tasteless? They weren’t tasteless. They had the taste of stale grease and sawdust, but I didn’t care, because that’s just what I deserved—stale grease and sawdust.

  Crunch, crunch.

  When Wallace came to pick my bones, they would taste like sawdust and grease, so that gave me one more cheerful thought. (My other cheerful thought was getting even with Drover.)

  I was in the midst of brooding over my ruined life when I heard a vehicle approaching. I didn’t bother to look around. I no longer cared. The vehicle stopped. A door opened and closed. Someone walked up behind me. Again, I didn’t bother to look. I couldn’t think of anyone I wanted to see . . . or anyone who might want to see me in this time of shame and disgrace.

  “Hankie, do you feel pretty low?”

  It was Slim’s voice.

  Chapter Nine: Buzzard Voodoo

  I stopped chewing and looked up at him. Yes, I felt about as low as a dog could get without jumping into a well.

  He knelt down beside me and I heard his knees pop. “Would a piece of my homemade beef jerky make you feel better?”

  No. Yes. Maybe a little.

  He brought a strip of jerky out of his pocket and held it under my nose. I sniffed it several times to make sure it wasn’t his Gunpowder Recipe, the kind with enough hot pepper to melt your teeth. It wasn’t, so I accepted his offering.

  “You know, pooch, me and you are a lot alike.”

  Oh? I was sorry to hear that.

  “We try to do good but we keep messing up. But you know what? Having you around kind of gives me hope.”

  What did that mean?

  “See, if you weren’t here at the ranch, I might get to thinking that I’m the only one that makes bonehead mistakes.”

  Oh. Swell.

  “So cheer up. I know you didn’t mean to get caught in my trap two nights in a row. You’re just a little light between the ears, is all.”

  Was this supposed to be making me feel better?

  “But here’s the deal, Hank.” He aimed a finger at my nose. “Twice in a row is enough, and maybe you could find something else to do tonight, reckon? See, what I really want to catch is a coon.”

  Didn’t I know that? Of course I knew it.

  “Now, if you’ll promise to be a good little doggie and stay out of my trap, we’ll make up and be friends again.”

  Well . . .

  “I know you’ve already busted that promise once, but this time maybe you can resist whatever temptation it is that makes you want to walk into a trap.”

  Temptation had nothing to do with it. I’d been trying to catch a buzzard and . . . I couldn’t explain it.

  He rubbed me behind the ears. “Let’s go feed cows, and heck, maybe I’ll even sing you a song.”

  Oh, please! What was the deal? All of a sudden, everybody on the ranch wanted to sing me a song!

  He stood up and his knees popped again. “Let’s go. It’s a new day, and me and you are going to do our best not to mess it up.”

  Well . . . okay. If it would make him feel better, I would abandon my plans for walking to the ends of the earth and turning into a pile of bones. That had sounded like a lot of trouble anyway.

  I followed him to the pickup. He opened the door and pointed inside. “I’ll let you ride up front with the executives, if you promise not to throw up.”

  Could we skip the ancient history? For his information, I hadn’t even seen a sprig of green grass, much less eaten one. And besides, I had learned my lesson.

  I leaped up onto the pickup seat, went straight to the Shotgun Position, and off we went on a new feeding adventure. It wasn’t all that exciting, but we got ’em fed. And Slim forgot about singing me a song, which came as a huge relief. I mean, we dogs try to be patient with our people, but honestly!

  Oh, and Slim said no more about the Trap Debacle. For that, I was grateful. I thought he handled the situation pretty well, saying just enough to get his point across without being overbearing. We’d talked it over, dog to dog and man to man, and we’d reached a good understanding.

  He wanted me to stay out of his raccoon trap and I had every intention of doing exactly that. I would never set foot inside the trap again. I would never get within ten feet of his stupid trap. Wild horses and camels couldn’t drag me close to his stupid trap. And there the matter ended.

  Forever. As darkness fell, I finished my evening walk-around of ranch headquarters and headed back to the office. You can guess who was already there, curled up on his gunnysack bed. Drover. I gave him a frigid glare and didn’t speak. He sat up.

  “Hi Hank. I guess you’re mad at me.”

  “No. ‘Mad’ is a three-letter word and it doesn’t begin to cover what I feel.”

  “So . . . pretty mad, huh?”

  “What do you think? You little traitor! You left me in the trap and that’s where Slim found me this morning. How do you suppose that made me feel?”

  “Did you get fired?”

  “No, I didn’t get fired, Drover, I quit. I quit in disgrace, but Slim begged me to come back.”

  He leaped to his feet and started wig-wagging his stub tail. “Oh goodie, I’m so glad!”

  “Well, you won’t be glad for long. On your feet, soldier.”

  “I already am.”

  “Don’t argue with me. March to the nearest corner and put your nose in it.”

  “Oh drat.”

  “March!”

  Drover whined and moaned, but I didn’t care. He straggled over to the nearest angle-iron leg of the gas-tank platform and put his nose against it. He let out a moan. “I hate sticking my nose in the corner!”

  “Good. Great. Tell me how much you hate it.”

  “Well . . . I hate it more than dirt.”

  “Keep going.”

  “I hate it more than water.”

  “I love it. Keep talking.”

  “I hate it more than sneezing.”

  I feasted my eyes on his misery. “So the point is that you wish you were somewhere else, right?”

  “Yeah, almost anywhere.”

  “Now you know how I felt inside that trap. Are you sorry you walked away and left me there to rot?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t rot.”

  “Drover, are you sorry or not?”

  “Yeah, but . . . I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop laughing.”

  I looked away and heaved a sigh. “See, that’s the part that hurts me the most. I was alone, helpless, and miserable, and you thought it was funny! What kind of dog are you?”

  He was almost in tears. “It was the song that did it. I think it was some kind of . . . voodoo song.”

  I studied the mutt for a moment. “Voodoo song? What do you mean?”

  “Well, it made me act crazy. I wanted to help, but that song just . . . oh, I feel awful!”
<
br />   I began pacing, as I often do when a light begins to shine at the end of the turnip. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that the words of the song penetrated your mental mind and took control of your body?”

  “Yeah, that’s just what happened. It was really spooky.”

  “Hmmm. This is interesting, Drover, and I must admit that it’s an angle I hadn’t considered. That song was written and performed by a buzzard, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know. That’s what I just said, and don’t interrupt me.” I continued pacing. “Buzzards look kind of spooky, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, they’re so ugly, they give me the creeps.”

  “And there’s a connection between creepy and voodoo, right? Of course, why didn’t I think of this sooner!” I whirled around and faced him. “I’ve got it worked out, son. Don’t you get it? That song put some kind of spell on you.”

  “Gosh, I never thought of that. You mean . . . ”

  “Yes! Wallace knew exactly what he was doing. He vexed you with voodoo!”

  “You mean hexed?”

  “You never would have laughed at my misfortune if you hadn’t been under some kind of wicked spell.”

  “Oh goodie. Can I take my nose out of the corner?”

  “Not yet.” I resumed pacing. “Oh, they’re clever, these villains. But who would have suspected a buzzard? Not you, obviously, but what really scares me is that I fell for it too, like a lamb to the slobber.”

  “Slaughter.”

  “What?”

  “Like a lamb to the slaughter. You said slobber.”

  I curled my lip at him. “Do you want to correct my spelling or hear the rest of my report?”

  “My neck’s getting tired.”

  “I don’t care. Pay attention.” I paced away from him again, my mind racing. “Wallace had the whole thing planned from the start and you walked right into his trap.”

  “No, I think it was you.”

  “I walked into the actual trap, but you walked into the unactual trap. In other words, Drover, we were both trapped by the same villain. We were helpless victims of a conspiracy.”