The Case of the Kidnapped Collie

by John R. Erickson

  At that point, I eased over to the vicinity of the pickup door and began a Snifferation of Billy’s pant legs. This is another standard procedure we follow every time new people come onto the ranch. Even though I knew Billy, I had to check him out.

  Sniff, sniff.

  Hmmm, very interesting, very interesting indeed. The tiny pieces of the puzzle began . . .

  Actually, I couldn’t make much sense out of it. His pant legs smelled exactly like blue jean material, which sort of fit the overall pattern since he was wearing . . . well, blue jeans, you might say.

  Not much there, but I pressed on with the Sniff­eration, just in case he . . . BONK! . . . just in case he suddenly kicked me on the nose with his boot heel and said, “Get away, bozo.” Which is what he did, and yes, it did hurt, but at least I had gotten . . .

  At least I had gotten my nose damaged and I suddenly lost my desire to sniff out his stupid . . .

  Drover had just arrived on the scene—late, as always, huffing and puffing, as always, and limping.

  “Drover, I’ve got a little job for you. Sniff out Billy’s pant legs and give me a full report.”

  “Well . . .”

  “That’s a direct order. We don’t have a moment to spare.”

  “There’s one in the back of his pickup.”

  Our eyes met. “What?”

  “I said, there’s a spare in the back of his pickup.”

  “That’s a bird dog.”

  “No, it’s a spare tire. I saw it myself.”

  I went nose to nose with the runt and showed him some fangs. “Oh yeah? Well, I’m tired of arguing with you, so spare me the details.”

  “Gosh, that was good: tired and spare, like a spare tire.”

  I found myself sharing a little chuckle with him. “It was pretty good, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it was great. Did you think it up yourself?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. It was no big deal. It just popped out of my mouth, as a matter of fact.”

  “Boy, I wish I could do things like that. I never can remember a joke, and then when I do, I forget.”

  “Actually, Drover, it was more of a pun than a joke, a clever play on words.”

  “I ate a crayon once. Made me sick.”

  “Yes, but I said ‘play on,’ not crayon.”

  “Oh. Well, I never ate a playon.”

  “No, I suppose . . . uh . . . not.” I blinked my eyes and gave my head a shake. “Drover, were we talking about something?”

  “No, I don’t think so. We were just standing here, telling jokes.”

  “I see. Yes, of course.”

  I moved away from him. All at once I felt that my thought processes had turned to mush. This had occurred to me before, and it always seemed to hap­pen when I was standing close to Drover. There was something about the little mutt . . . oh well.

  I turned my attention to other matters.

  Plato had jumped out of the pickup and was running around with his nose to the ground. I saw no great harm in being cordial to him. I mean, he HAD been invited to our ranch and, what the heck, he wasn’t such a bad guy.

  See, I could get along with Plato, when it was just him and me. Our problems in getting along had always been related to Beulah. Beulah wasn’t around so we had nothing to fight about.

  We had nothing about which to fight. About. Which.

  You should never use a preposition to end a sentence with, but who cares about prepositions? Not me. I’m a very busy dog, and besides, a Head of Ranch Security can end a sentence any way he wants.

  The point is, I could tolerate Plato by himself, and being cordial to him once in a while wouldn’t kill me. In fact, there’s a wise old saying about . . . something . . . being kind to others who are inferior and I can’t remember it, but it’s a great wise old saying.

  Anyways, Plato had his nose to the ground and was streaking around in front of the corrals. Have you ever watched a bird dog going through this kind of routine?

  I don’t mean to scoff or make fun, but he looked totally ridiculous and absurd. I mean, here was a dog who was running around like a . . . I don’t know, a Stealth Bomber, I suppose, with his neck thrust out and his nose to the ground and his tail thrown out behind like a fishing rod.

  And he was SO SERIOUS about acting SO SILLY that I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him. See, what made it so ridiculous was that he was looking for quail, and I happened to know that there wasn’t a quail within two miles of our present location.

  Our quail stayed in the sand draws and up in the canyons. I knew that for a fact because . . . well, without revealing too much about my busi­ness affairs, I can tell you that our Security Divi­sion monitored the location and movements of every covey of quail on the ranch.

  We knew them, knew their positions, their habitabits, their trails, their feeding grounds, their nesting grounds, the whole nine yards.

  And there was poor old Plato, being a totally sincere vacuum sweeper and searching for birds that weren’t there. Or even close.

  No, it wouldn’t hurt me to be kind to such a dumbbell.

  Chapter Five: The Angelic Kangaroo

  He came bounding up to where I was standing.

  “Great day, huh Hank? I just live for the first day of bird season and by golly here it is.”

  “Yes, it’s here. Bird season.”

  “As you probably know, Hank, I spend all year working out and getting ready for this.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh yes, I work out every day, every single day. I jog, I swim, retrieve sticks, point tennis shoes. I even do breathing exercises, Hank, to keep my nose in shape. The nose is SO important, Hank, so important.”

  “Yeah, if a guy didn’t have one, he’d look a little strange.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “Okay, you’re joking, right? Ha, ha. That was good. By the first day of bird season, I’m so excited that . . . well, just look at me, Hank. I’m shivering. Is that being excited or what?”

  Sure enough, he was shivering all over. “That’s being excited.”

  “But I feel I’m in shape, Hank, maybe the best shape of my life. You may remember that last season I pulled a muscle in my shoulder.”

  “I guess I missed that.”

  “Did you? I got a bad muscle pull on opening day, and Hank, I’ll be honest with you. I thought my career was over. It was that bad.”

  “Hmmm. I’ll be derned.”

  “Right. But I worked through it, Hank. I went into a different program and made it back for the third week of the season.”

  “Wow.”

  “Thanks, Hank. It was tense and I had some trouble with depression, but,” he gave me a wink, “everything works out, doesn’t it?”

  “How’s Beulah?”

  “Excuse me? Oh, Beulah. Beulah is . . .” He smiled, closed his eyes, opened them again, and looked up at the sky. “Beulah is . . . how can I find words to, to express the Beulah-ness of Beulah?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I often say, Hank, that Beulah is a painting in fur, a work of sculpture that lives and breathes before our very eyes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better finish my warm-ups. Will you be hunting with us?”

  “Oh sure, you bet. I know a couple of things about birds myself.”

  “Do you? Great. I didn’t know you were into birds. You’ve been practicing, I guess, working out, getting all prepared for the big day, huh?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Great! We’ll see you at the hunt. Take care.”

  And off he went to do his warm-ups and so forth. Imagine him asking if I would “be hunting” with them! Who or whom did he think he was? Of course I would be hunting. It was MY ranch, after all.

  Loper walked up just then. I gave him a big cowdog smile and
barked, just to let him know that I was ready for the hunt.

  “Now listen, pooch, we’re going to be hunting behind a good dog today, and we don’t need your kind of help.”

  HUH?

  “And if you try to follow us, I’ll have to tie you up. Now, you stay here and keep out of trouble, hear? Stay.”

  I didn’t even try Heavy Begs. I knew it wouldn’t work. What a lousy deal, confined to quarters on the first day of bird season and on my own ranch!

  Loper joined the others and they hiked down into the brush and tall grass along Wolf Creek. They were not carrying shotguns, so it appeared that this was to be a practice day for the dog—who, of course, was out front and the center of attention, charging around in that Bird Dog Stealth pose of his.

  If you ask me, he looked silly.

  What’s more, I didn’t even care.

  I hadn’t planned on going anyway.

  Too busy.

  Show me a dog with a steady job and I’ll show you a dog that doesn’t have time to chase birds.

  Phooey.

  All at once I noticed that Drover was acting strangely. He was near the back of Billy’s pickup. It appeared that he had fallen over backward and was kicking his legs in the air. Clearly, something was wrong with the little mutt and he needed my help.

  I rushed to his side. “Drover, I saw the whole thing. You’ve been stricken with something terrible but don’t panic. Lie still and give me your symptoms.”

  “Oh my gosh, thank goodness you made it! All at once I just lost control of my life.”

  “Exactly. I have a couple of theories on that, but first let’s check out your vital signs. Heart?”

  “Pounding like a drum.”

  “Hmm. What kind of drum?”

  “Well, what are the choices? And hurry ’cause I think it’s getting worse.”

  “Choices? Let’s see: kettle drum, snare drum, bass drum, oil drum; bongos, congos, or kangaroos. Pick one, and hurry. I think you’re getting worse.”

  “Yeah, I know. Kangaroos, ’cause my old heart’s about to jump out of my chest.”

  I began pacing. “All right, Drover, your heart is jumping around like a kangaroo that is beating a drum. What color is the kangaroo?”

  “Pink, with orange stripes.”

  “Hmmm. This is worse than I thought. How’s your blood pressure?”

  “I think it’s a quart low.”

  “How about your vision?”

  “Well, let’s see. I thought I saw an angel in the back of Billy’s pickup.”

  “Mercy. Was he playing a drum?”

  “No, she was just sitting there.”

  “Hmmm. Give me a complete description. Facts, Drover, facts and details. No detail is too small to be large.”

  “Well, let’s see here. She had . . .”

  “Hold it right there. You said ‘she.’ Does that mean that she was a girl or a woman?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Okay, go on. Finish your description of the angel.”

  “Well, she had pretty brown eyes and . . .”

  “Whoa. Were the eyes pretty AND brown, or pretty brown? It could be important.”

  “Well, let’s see. Both were both.”

  “You mean she had two eyes?”

  “Oh yeah, and both of her two eyes were both pretty and brown and pretty brown. And she had long flaxen hair, and I just fell in love with her nose.”

  I stared at the runt. “You’re sicker than I thought, Drover. What kind of creep would fall in love with a nose?”

  “Well, it was on her face and I loved her face too.”

  “Oh. Well, I think I’ve got this thing figgered out, Drover. The pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place at last.”

  “Oh good. What’s happened to me?”

  Once again, I began pacing back and forth in front of him. My mind seems to . . . I guess I’ve mentioned that before, but it’s true.

  “All right, Drover, listen carefully so that I don’t have to repeat myself.”

  “What?”

  “I said, listen repeatedly so that I don’t have to care for myself.”

  “Gosh, are you sick too?”

  “Hush, Drover. Number One, the angel you saw—or thought you saw—was actually a mental image of a kangaroo. Number Two, that would account for the odd kicking behavior of your heart.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “But I’m not through. Number Three, your mind produced this strange mental image because you are mentally pathetic.”

  “Gosh, you mean I can see things that other dogs can’t see?”

  “Exactly. In cases of mental pathetica, the vision of a kangaroo-angel is fairly common, but the important thing is that she was just a filament of your imagination.”

  “Oh good, I’m so happy. But there she is again.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling. “Don’t worry, son. On the count of three, I will clap my paws together and turn my eyes toward the Angelic Kangaroo and she will be gone. One. Two. And you will feel much better. Three!”

  I clapped my paws together and turned my gaze toward the . . .

  HUH?

  . . . toward the angel, and holy smokes, there she was before my very eyes, the most gorgeous angel I had ever seen!

  And she wasn’t a kangaroo.

  Chapter Six: Forget the Kangaroo, It Was Beulah

  Not only did she not look like a kangaroo, fellers, but she reminded me a whole lot of Miss Beulah the Collie.

  All at once my heart was beating like a drum and jumping around inside my chest like a jack­rabbit. Or, okay, a kangaroo. My blood pressure suddenly felt a quart low. I fell over backward and began kicking my legs in the air.

  Drover seemed to have suffered a relapse and was doing the same. No doubt an impartial observer would have found the scene a bit . . . uh . . . strange, two grown dogs doing such things, but an impartial observer would never have understood the incredible power of that woman’s smile.

  See, she had smiled at me! Holy smokes, how many nights had I dreamed of that very smile, and now here it was in front of me and it hit me like the Ray Gun of Love!

  And then her soft collie voice came floating through the air and settled into the vast caverns of my eardrums: “Hello, boys. What on earth are you doing?”

  See? She was wildly in love with me. Those were the words of a woman in love, the honeydipped words of a collie princess who had forgotten about bird dogs and all the mistakes of the past!

  At last I regained my footage and managed to speak to her in my smoothest, most charming voice.

  “Hello, Beulah.”

  “Hello, Hank.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, a long time.”

  “Until moments ago, I was a hermit living in the desert, eating cactus and grasshoppers. Now, you’ve brought rain and flowers, green grass and mud puddles.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Your face is just as lovely as ever, Miss Beulah. To quote the poet, ‘Your face would sink a thousand ships.’”

  She stared at me for a moment, then started laughing.

  “That’s very kind of you, but I think the poet meant to say launch a thousand ships, not sink them.”

  “Whatever. Has anyone ever told you what an awesome nose you have?”

  She laughed again. “I don’t think anyone has ever put it that way.”

  “Awesome nose, Beulah. If I had a nose like yours, I’d never get any work done. I’d just sit around looking at it, and then I’d be crosseyed.”

  “Well, I can’t take any credit for my nose. I hope there are other qualities you like about me.” Her expression darkened. “Is something wrong with Drover?”

  He was still rolling around in the dirt.

  “Who? O
h, him? No, he acts like this all the time. I think he’s got worms. But back to your nose . . .”

  At that very moment, the runt sat up and proceeded to butt into my business. “Beulah, I wrote a poem, just for you: ‘Roses are red, chrysanthemums are violet/My heart’s like an airplane, but the pilot bailed out.’”

  Silence filled the air. Beulah blinked her eyes. I rolled mine. I was embarrassed. At last Beulah thought of something to say.

  “Well, it’s nice that you wrote a poem for me, Drover. Maybe you could work on it and make it even better.”

  I pushed myself in front of Drover. “Hey Beulah, speaking of poetry, it happens that I’ve composed a few verses myself. Get this: ‘Roses are red, that’s perfectly clear/Forget little Drover, he’s a pain in the rear.’”

  “Hank, that’s not very nice.”

  “Okay, maybe you’re right. Here’s another one: ‘Roses are red, your nose is just awesome/My heart’s in a tree like an upside-down possum.’”

  She stared at me. “I think I missed something.”

  “Well, possums wrap their tails around a tree limb and hang upside-down, don’t you see, and . . . hey, it rhymed. Let’s don’t be too picky. I composed it on the spot. Give me a couple of days and . . .”

  Her gaze had moved away from me and turned toward the creek. “Have they started yet? I wanted to watch Plato. He’s worked so hard to get ready for bird season.”

  “Birds! Now there’s a subject for a poem. Listen to this one, Beulah: ‘Cardinals are red and bluebirds are blue/A dog who’d chase birds isn’t worthy of you.’”

  She didn’t hear it, which was too bad. I thought it was even better than the one about possums. She moved to the front of the pickup bed to get a better view of the bird-chaser . . . uh, Plato, that is.

  Down on the ground, I followed her around to the side of the pickup. “Hey Beulah, have I ever showed you my tricks? Watch this one.”

  I stood on my back legs and walked forward three steps. She gave me a glance and a quick smile. “That’s nice, Hank.” Then she turned her eyes back to the creek.

  “Nice but not nice enough, huh? Okay, check this one out.” This time, I walked on my back legs AND moved my front paws. “What do you think now? Have you ever seen a better trick?”