The Case of the Kidnapped Collie

by John R. Erickson

  Hencely, as the sharp little impulses of pain began pouring into Data Control, my eyelids began to quiver and a ferocious growl began to rumble in the deep recessitudes of my throat.

  My head came up. My ears shot up to Full Alert Position. Okay, one of them did while the other went sideways into the Huh? Position.

  My eyes sprang open and I saw . . . not much, actually, just a large blur. It’s the sort of image we get when our scanning devices are focused at conflicting angles. In the Security Business, we sometimes refer to this as Temporary Eye-Crosserosis.

  It usually occurs when a dog comes roaring out of a deep sleep, opens his eyes, and tries to figure out whether it’s raining or Tuesday.

  I know this is pretty heavy technical stuff, but it will give you a little glimpse at how life is lived on the other side of the Veil of Secrecy. Over there, where we live, life is always real but never real simple.

  Where was I? Oh yes, the tree. I had just banged my head against . . . forget the tree. I had come roaring out of a deep dark sleep and just for a brief instant my eyes were crossed and my brain was in Scrambled Mode, but that lasted only the briefest of instants.

  And suddenly I exclaimed, “Purple hominy regardless of feathered turnip greens and darkest porkchop!”

  Then an image came into focus: the face of a cat, the face of a grinning cat who was smirking. The pieces of the puzzle began falling into place and suddenly I exclaimed, “Is this the eighth floor?”

  The image of the alleged cat shook his head, and then he said in a whiny voice, “Hi, Hankie. Were you sleeping on the job?”

  At that very moment, Data Control kicked in at full blast and I received a very important trans­mission: It was neither raining nor Tuesday. It was Pete the Barncat.

  I glared at the little snipe with eyes of purest steel.

  “Okay, Kitty, let’s get right to the point. We’ve just learned that there’s a porkchop on the eighth floor, and don’t bother denying it. We’ve followed the trail of turnip greens and it leads . . .”

  I cut my eyes from side to side. All at once what I was saying didn’t make a great deal of sense. I shot a glance back to the cat. Had he noticed? I had to find out how much he knew.

  “Pete, do you know anything about this porkchop deal?”

  He grinned and shook his head. “No, I don’t, Hankie, but I would just love to hear about it. Tell me about the porkchop on the eighth floor.”

  I marched a few steps away and took a deep breath of . . . well, air, of course. What else would . . . anyway, it seemed to clear my head.

  “I’m sorry, Pete, but I’m not at liberty to discuss a case in progress. Our files are not open to the public, and they’re especially not open to public cats.”

  “Mmmmmm! It must have been very secret.”

  “Exactly. It was so secret, in fact, that if I revealed even one particle of information, I would have to arrest you for being in possession of Dangerous Particles of Information.”

  “Oooooooo! My goodness, Hankie, how do you carry all that dangerous information around in your head?”

  I could see that he was impressed. He should have been. Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as I had thought. I marched back over to where he was sitting.

  “That’s a good question, Kitty. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say any more about our techniques for gathering and storing intelligence data. Sorry.”

  “Oh darn.” He stared at me with those weird yellowish eyes with the little slit down the middle. “I was so eager to learn more about the porkchop on the eighth floor.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, Hankie, that’s what you said when you,” he grinned, “woke up from your nap during working hours.”

  Perhaps you’re thinking that all of this sounds slightly ridiculous, but it’s leading up to something very important. You see, in the course of the conversation, Pete revealed . . . well, you’ll find out soon enough.

  It had to do with a robbery that was taking place on my ranch in broad daylight, and that’s all I can tell you.

  Chapter Three: My Clever Interrogation of the Cat

  I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck. “Number One, I wasn’t asleep. Number Two, I never said anything about a so-called porkchop on the so-called ninth floor.”

  “Eighth floor, Hankie.”

  “Don’t try to put words into my mouth, cat. I know what I said.”

  “I thought you didn’t say it.”

  “I didn’t say it, and that’s my whole point. I didn’t say it because it was totally ridiculous. There is no porkchop and there is no eighth floor, but I know what you’re doing.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes.” I stuck my nose in his face. “You’re trying to send up a smoke screen of meaningless words to conceal the fact that you stuck your claws into my tail. Don’t try to deny it.”

  “All right, Hankie, I won’t.”

  “Huh? Well, I . . . I’m shocked, Pete. I don’t know what to say. I was sure you’d deny it and then try to draw me into an argument.”

  He blinked his eyes and grinned. Why was he always grinning? It made me uneasy.

  “Oh no, Hankie. I used to do things like that but then I learned my lesson.”

  “Oh? What lesson are we talking about?”

  He licked his left paw before speaking. I studied and memorized his every move, just in case this was another of his famous frauds.

  “I learned that it’s almost impossible to fool the Head of Ranch Security.”

  “Well! Imagine that. I can hardly believe my ears. In fact, I don’t believe my ears. Say it again.”

  “All right, Hankie, whatever you wish. I’ve learned that I can’t fool you and that’s why I admit that I stuck my little claws into the end of your tail.”

  I paced off to the east. My mind was trying to absorb this astonishing piece of news and it needed a moment to catch up.

  “You’ve come a long way, Pete, and to be real honest about it, we never thought you’d change. Our profiles and projections showed you in the Normal Range of cats: sneaky, hateful, untrustworthy, treacherous, and, well, not real smart, if I may be so blunt.”

  “Oh, go right ahead, Hankie. I realize that I’m only a cat.”

  “That’s true, Pete, and you can’t help it that cats are . . . how can I say this?”

  “Dumb?”

  “Good word, Pete, great word. I wouldn’t have thought of putting it that way but, yes, ‘dumb’ sort of captures the overall . . .”

  “Condition, Hankie?”

  “Yes, right, exactly. The overall condition of catness.” I marched over and gave the little guy a pat on the back. “Hey Pete, I feel we’ve reached a breakthrough situation. I mean, all these years we’ve been enemies and now, all at once, you admit that you’re stupid and . . . hey, we’ve got nothing left to fight about!”

  He purred and continued to grin, only now it didn’t bother me because I realized that he was being sincere.

  “At last we’re at peace, Hankie.”

  “Right, and it wasn’t so bad was it? Did you ever dream that making peace would be so easy?”

  “Never did, Hankie. Oh, is Beulah coming?”

  I glared at him. “What did you just say?”

  “I wondered if Beulah would be coming with Plato.”

  I cut my eyes from side to side. “I hadn’t thought of that, Pete, so how did you happen to think of it?”

  “Oh, I heard the cowboys say that Plato was coming. Every time Plato comes around, Beulah is with him. I just wondered.”

  I marched a few steps away. My mind was racing. “Go on, Pete. I have a feeling that this is leading somewhere.”

  “Well . . . if she comes to watch her bird dog boy­friend perform, I thought it might be nice if you . . .”

 
He was staring at me with those weird full­moon eyes. And grinning. And flicking the end of his tail back and forth.

  “If I what? What kind of sneaky tricks are running through that sneaky little mind of yours?”

  “Oh, you might not be interested, Hankie.”

  I stomped over to him and stuck my nose in his face. “I’m not interested, Kitty, but part of my job on this ranch is to stay one step ahead of the cats. Out with it.”

  He drew circles in the dust with his paw. “Well, if I were you, I’d want to impress Miss Beulah.”

  “Ha! Me impress Miss Beulah? Hey Pete, for your information, she’s crazy about me and . . . impress her in what way? I mean, just for laughs I want to hear the rest of this.”

  He blinked his eyelids and grinned. “Well, Hankie, you can show her and everyone else that you can hunt birds as well as Plato. I know a way.”

  I almost took the bait. I almost asked him to tell me more, but caught myself just in time. Chuckling, I turned and walked a few steps away.

  “Ha, ha, ha. Pete, you’re the champ when it comes to scheming, but there are a couple of holes in your ointment. Number one, Beulah probably won’t come. Number two, if she does come, I plan to be very busy with my routine work. Number three, Plato is just a minor irritation to me. Number four, I don’t need to impress him or Beulah or anyone else. That would be childish and silly.

  “Number five, I have no interest in birds. Zero. Zilch. Birds are totally boring. And number six, this conversation is over. Now run along and catch a mouse.”

  He started to leave in that sliding gliding walk of his. “Whatever you think, Hankie, but if you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

  “Fine. Great. I won’t change my mind. Thanks for trying to be helpful, but I don’t need any help. Good-bye.”

  He left. Peace at last. What a crazy idea, me trying to impress Beulah with . . . actually, it wasn’t such a . . . but on the other hand, I didn’t need to impress her—her or anyone else.

  Hey, I was comfortable just being who I was: Head of Ranch Security, owner of a huge ranch and many cattle; a heroic guard dog, a fairly handsome feller; winner of countless awards and also unusually handsome and charming.

  Wasn’t that enough? Was there more? I didn’t think so. If Beulah couldn’t admire who I was, the real Hank the Cowdog; if she needed circus acts and magic tricks, then . . .

  I found my eyes following the cat. He was slinking along with his tail stuck straight up in the air, rubbing on every tree and past he posted. Post he passed. And every now and then, I noticed that he was tossing lazy glances back at me.

  Hmmmm. Was it possible that he knew something that . . . no. Simple logic told me that anything known to a cat would be known first to a dog. Therefore . . .

  Therefore the little sneak certainly looked as though he knew something important, and the best cure for that false impression was for me to stop looking at him.

  Some cats need more ignoring than others. Pete requires a lot. And so it was that I embarked on a new policy of Total Ignoration of the Cat, which turned out to be pretty easy because at that very moment my ears picked up the tiny micro­waves of an Incoming Vehicle.

  The big question that loomed before me then was, AUTHORIZED VEHICLE OR TRESPASSER?

  I did a Direct Downlink Feed to Data Control and got a flashing message on the huge screen of my mind: TRESPASSER!

  Well, you know me. There are several things I don’t allow on my ranch and one of them is tres­passers and unauthorized intrusions.

  Okay, that’s two things but they mean about the same thing and neither one was allowed. That pickup had no business on our outfit and it was fixing to get the whole nine yards of barking and threatening gestures.

  “Drover, we have a very important mission ahead of us and we’re fixing to go to Red Alert. Are you ready for some combat?”

  He leaped to his feet and began staggering around in circles. His eyes were crooked, his ears were crooked. It appeared to me that his mind might also be crooked.

  “Is it my turn to bat?”

  “I didn’t say anything about batting, Drover, and Life is not a mere game.”

  “Oh my gosh, then who’s on first?”

  “You’re still asleep, son. Look at me and tell me how many fingers I’m holding up.”

  He turned his eyes in my direction. They were still crooked. “Thirty-seven?”

  “Wrong. Dogs don’t have fingers. Therefore, the correct answer is zero.”

  “Zero! No wonder I’m so cold. Water freezes at thirty-two.”

  “Yes, but you said thirty-seven, so you’re wrong again.”

  He blinked his eyes and looked around. “Where am I? What are we talking about?”

  “We’re in our bedroom under the gas tanks. You’ve been sleeping your life away and I just asked if you were ready for some combat.”

  “Not really.”

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘Combat. Oh boy.’”

  “That’s the spirit. We’ll go to Full Flames on all engines and regroup in front of the house, and don’t get lost.”

  “Well, I hope this old leg . . .”

  I didn’t wait around to hear about his “old leg.” I had heard it all before, not once or twice but ten thousand times, enough that I was beginning to suspect that he was a hypocardiac.

  Anyways, I didn’t have time to hang around and listen to him whine about his leg. I went to Full Flames and roared around the south side of the house, and sure enough, looming up before my very eyes was an unauthorized vehicle.

  Chapter Four: The Unwelcome Guest Arrives

  It was a reddish-colored Chevy pickup. Reddish but not exactly red. Macaroon. Macaroni. Maroni.

  What do you call that color that is almost red but not quite? Or to put it another way, who cares? It was a reddish Chevy pickup and it had no business on my ranch and . . .

  Maroon. There we go. It was a maroon-colored Chevy pickup, and it had no business driving on my ranch.

  Right away, I went to Bark the Alarm and Alert the House. I knew Sally May would be . . . a bird dog in the back? Holy smokes, it appeared that I had just intercepted a shipment of illegal bird dogs, right there on my ranch! This case promised to be more . . .

  Huh? The alleged bird dog spoke. Waved a paw. Smiled a big sloppy smile.

  “Hank, by golly, it’s great to see you again! Just great. How’s the ranch? I hear we’re going to hunt some birds, huh? Great. Hope you can come along.”

  I, uh, cancelled the Red Alert. It appeared that we had jumped to hasty conclusions about the . . . uh . . . the shipment of illegal . . .

  It was Billy’s pickup, and there for a moment I had . . . he had traded pickups since I’d seen him and . . . no big deal, is the point. Billy was always welcome on our ranch, even though he was hauling a bird dog who had been invited by other parties and I had no control over that.

  I cancelled Alert the House and gave Drover the order to shift into Escort Formation. We did the shift in the twinkling of an eyeball. Drover took right flank and I took left, and we gave Billy a safe escort all the way down to the corrals.

  The moment he came to a stop, I rushed to the pickup and applied the Ranch Trademark to all four tires, and we’re talking about lightning speed. I blasted ’em, fellers, just knocked the centers right out of those four tires.

  Have you ever wondered why we do that, why it’s such an important job for the Head of Ranch Security?

  I’m not sure I should reveal it. It’s pretty secret. Very secret, in fact, so secret that even some dogs don’t know the reason behind it.

  Do I dare go public with this information? Better not. Hey, if it fell into the wrong hands . . . oh well, maybe it won’t hurt. But just to be on the safe side, don’t blab it around.

  Okay, here it is, the whole truth behind th
e Marking Tires Procedure. That procedure places a special secret CHEMICAL LOCK on all four tires which totally immobilizes the vehicle.

  No kidding. It can’t be driven away until we supply the proper codes which unlock the chemical so-forth.

  And if we don’t happen to supply the secret codes, the vehicle becomes totally worthless. I mean, they have to send out a wrecker from town and tow the thing off the ranch. It’s that powerful.

  Pretty impressive, huh? You bet it is and now you know the whole story, but don’t blab it around because . . . well, just think about it. If word of this ever got out to the general public, nobody from town would ever come out to visit Loper and Sally May.

  They’d get lonely and lose all their friends. I mean, people would be afraid to risk it. Those cars and pickups are expensive.

  Actually, we very seldom go to the extreme of Total Lockdown. Most of our cases turn out to be routine. We apply the Chemical Lock, check out the drivers, supply the codes, and turn ’em loose.

  The last thing we need on the ranch is a bunch of abandoned cars and pickups. The place would start looking like a junkyard.

  No, we usually turn ’em loose—but when we turn ’em loose, they’re marked with Invisible Electro­loids, which means that we can run a tracer on them any time we choose.

  You never realized all this was going on, did you? You probably thought we dogs were just . . . I don’t know, going through some foolish ritual, I suppose. Ha! Foolish to those who don’t understand, maybe, but to those of us in Security Work, it’s all part of a very clever master plan.

  I’m sorry but that’s all I can reveal at this moment, and I hope I haven’t revealed too much. There’s some danger in . . . I’ve already said that.

  Now, where were we? Let’s see . . .

  Ah yes, we had just given the pickup Safe Escort down to the corrals and had marked all four tires, virtually immobilizing the macaroon-colored pickup. Once I had applied the Chemical Lockdown Agent, that pickup didn’t move an inch.