The Case of the Kidnapped Collie

by John R. Erickson

  I ran all that through Data Control. “How about a five letter word that begins with P and ends in D? Pound, as in ‘If you don’t get your carcass over here this very minute, I’ll pound you into the ground like a tent stake.’”

  “No, no. You’re getting it all wrong, Hankie, and I guess I’ll have to tell you. The magic word is . . .” His eyes popped open like two big moons. “. . .‘please.’”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Please? You think I’m going to say . . . ha, ha, no I don’t think so, Kitty. I came here to do a little business with you, but I can’t do business with a cat who’s totally unreasonable. Sorry, Pete, I’ll just take my deal down the street.”

  “Bye, Hankie.”

  I turned and marched away. “See you around, Kitty. Too bad for you. You’ll be sorry, of course, but . . .” I turned and marched back to the fence. “Pete, will you please come over here so that we can talk?”

  “Hmmmm. What was the magic word again?”

  “Please. There, I’ve said it twice.”

  He lifted a paw and slapped at an iris leaf. “You know, Hankie, if you’d said it right away, I think ‘please’ would have been good enough. But you didn’t, so maybe you should say . . . ‘pretty please with sugar on top.’”

  I glared at him. “What? Pretty please with . . . no, I will never say that to a cat, never! Sorry, Pete, you’re just . . .” I turned and marched away. “You’re being totally unreasonable about this and . . .” I stopped and marched back to the fence. “All right, Pete, one of us has to walk the extra mile, so . . . pretty please with sugar on top.”

  I almost choked on those words.

  He grinned, pushed himself up, stretched each of his four legs, and took his sweet time about ambling over to where I was standing—and waiting. First thing, he started rubbing on the fence between us.

  “All right, Hankie. What can I do for you?”

  Again, I glanced around to be sure that nobody was watching this. “Pete, I hate doing business with creeps like you.”

  “I know you do, Hankie. It probably just kills your cowdog pride. But living in Plato’s shadow hurts even worse, doesn’t it, Hankie? I mean, he’s doing so well with the quail, and everyone is so impressed.”

  I beamed him a glare of laser beams. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Well, you don’t. There are many things you don’t know, but yes, you seem to have scored a bull’s eye on this deal, so let’s go straight to the point.”

  “The point.” He rolled over on his back and rubbed around in the dirt. “What could the point be, Hankie?”

  “You know what I want. Quit stalling.”

  “Let’s see if I can guess, Hankie. Could it be that you want my advice on how to impress Miss Beulah?”

  I glanced around. Nobody was listening. “That’s correct.”

  “Hmmm. Some heroic act that might pull her attention away from her bird dog friend?”

  “Yes, and get on with it. This hurts me more than you can imagine.”

  “Ohhhhhhh, poor doggie.”

  He rolled over on his belly, pushed up on all fours, and shook the dust and grass off his coat. Then he turned to me with those weird cattish eyes.

  “Hankie, did you happen to notice that Sally May put out a bucket of corn this morning?”

  “No, I missed that, Pete, and to be frank about it, corn doesn’t interest me much.”

  “I understand, Hankie. You’re a very busy dog.”

  “Right, and corn doesn’t fit into my . . . why did she put out a bucket of corn? I mean, that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know, Hankie, that’s exactly what I thought. Do you suppose she set it out to dry?”

  “Maybe. Could be. Yes, I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any. She was drying her corn, and so what?”

  “Well, she set out a bucket of corn in the pasture, maybe fifty yards in front of the yard gate.”

  “Fifty yards. Got it. Go on.”

  “It was in the sun, so I assumed she was drying the corn.”

  “Sun. Drying. Got it. Keep truckin’.”

  “But then . . . well, it must have been while you were asleep . . .”

  “Objection. I wasn’t totally asleep. Keep your opinions out of this, Kitty, and stick to the facts. Go on.”

  “Well, while you were lying down and resting your eyes . . .”

  “Yes, yes? We’re getting close to something, Pete, I can feel it.”

  “While you were resting, a bunch of wild turkeys came up from the creek bottom and . . .”

  “Turkeys, wild turkeys. Okay.”

  “. . . came out of the creek bottom and, well, I’d hate to jump to hasty conclusions, Hankie, but it certainly appeared to me that they were stealing Sally May’s corn.”

  That word sent a shock throughout my entire body. I stared at the cat for a long time, wondering if he knew what an important piece of information he had just given me.

  No, of course he didn’t. He was just a dumb cat—overweight, overbearing, and over the hill.

  But I knew, and suddenly a clever plan began taking shape in the vast caverns of my mind.

  Oh yes, and at that very moment Drover showed up.

  Chapter Nine: A Plan Takes Shape in My Mind

  He sat down beside us and gave me his usual silly grin. “Hi Hank. I guess I fell asleep. Did I miss anything?”

  “You missed everything, Drover. I’ve just blown this case wide open.”

  “I’ll be derned. Which case?”

  “The Case of the Turkey Bandits, and if you want to learn more about it, just sit and watch.”

  “Yeah, ’cause a potted watch never boils.”

  I stared at the runt. “What?”

  “I said . . . I’m not sure what I said.”

  “Something about ‘boils.’”

  “Oh yeah. I had a boil once, right on my hiney.”

  “I’m sure that was very painful, Drover, but this is not the time or the place to discuss it.”

  “I couldn’t sit down for a whole week.”

  “I’m in the midst of a very important interrogation, so please hush.”

  At last he hushed and I whirled back to the cat. I couldn’t keep an evil smile from forming on my lips. My patience had been rewarded. At last I had this cat exactly where he wanted me.

  He was watching. “You’re smiling, Hankie. Did I say something funny?”

  “It’s an inside joke, Pete. I don’t think you’d understand and I don’t have time to explain it. Sorry. You can run along now. I’ve completed my interrogation.”

  “Oh? But Hankie, I thought you wanted my advice.”

  I burst out laughing. “Advice? Me, take advice from a cat? Ha! You must have me confused with some other dog.”

  “But Hankie, you said . . .”

  “Hey Pete, we’ve been watching those thieving turkeys for days and weeks, just waiting for the right moment to spring my trap.”

  “My goodness, Hankie, I’m impressed.”

  “You should be, Kitty, but wait until you hear the entire plan. It will blow your doors off.”

  “Mercy, and I don’t even have any doors.”

  “Exactly.” I began pacing. “Okay, Pete, listen closely. Don’t you get it? Those turkeys were STEALING Sally May’s corn, and they were doing it in daily broadlight!”

  Pete let out a gasp. “My goodness, Hankie, I never would have thought of that.”

  “Ha! Of course not, but that’s why I’m here, Pete, and that’s why you chose to bring this information to the Head of Ranch Security. You came to the right place, pal, and even though you won’t get any credit for it, you and I will know that you played a small but insignificant part in saving Sally May’s corn from the thieving turkeys.”

  “Oh thank you, Hankie.” He studied
the claws in his left paw. “Will you have to . . . well, chase the turkeys away? Run them off and bark at them?”

  I gave him a wink and a smile. “Hey Kitty, you’re starting to catch on. Keep it up and I may find a little job for you.”

  “Oh my, wouldn’t that be fun!” He grinned at me and batted his eyelids several times. “But don’t you think you should wait until the Famous Bird Dog comes? Turkeys are birds, you know, and you’re not a bird dog.”

  “Hey Pete, that brings us to Part Two of my two-part plan.” I stopped pacing and stuck my nose right in his face. “Beulah seems to be impressed by bird dogs, right? Turkeys are birds, right? I save Sally May’s precious corn from the thieving turkeys, win her total devotion, and . . . Miss Beulah watches the whole adventure from her box seat in the pickup. Is that an awesome plan or what?”

  Get this. Pete was so overwhelmed and blown away by my awesome plan that he fell over on his side. “Oh Hankie, you may be a genius.”

  “I’m glad you finally realize that, Pete, and I’m sorry it took you so long. It’s called Getting Two Bird Dogs With One Stone. You stay here and watch, because somebody on this ranch is fixing to learn a painful lesson.”

  “I’ll bet on that.”

  I was all set to go streaking off on my mission, my very important mission of breaking up the gang of Turkey Bandits, when all at once Drover spoke.

  “Hank, wait, there’s something I’ve got to tell you! It’s a trap.”

  I throttled back on my rocket engines and stared at the little mutt. “What’s a trap?”

  “The turkeys and the corn. It’s a trap.”

  Pete and I exchanged secret smiles. “Drover, it’s too bad that you chose to sleep through the briefing and the planning session for this mission.”

  “Yeah but . . .”

  “Don’t interrupt. The mission has already begun. In fact, we’re in the Countdown Phase at this very moment. You have about fifteen seconds to state your case, if you have one.”

  “Oh my gosh, I hope I can . . . let me think here. Corn. Sally May put out some corn.”

  “We’re aware of that, Drover, and don’t bother to tell us that the turkeys are stealing it, because we know that too.”

  “But Hank, it’s a trap. See, Sally May was trying to . . . EEEE-YOW!”

  That was odd. All at once, Pete stuck his paw through the hogwire fence and delivered a handful of claws to Drover’s tail section. The little mutt jumped straight up into the air and took refuge behind me.

  “Hank, did you see that? He slapped me!”

  Pete blinked his eyes and grinned. “Well, just darn the luck. My claws went off, like a loaded mousetrap. Maybe that was the trap he was talking about, Hankie.”

  “Hmmm, yes. It does fit, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes it does, and his fifteen seconds are up, Hankie, and you’d better go save Sally May’s corn.”

  “Good thinking, Kitty.”

  Drover was hopping around like a . . . I don’t know what. A grasshopper, I suppose, a grass-hopper that kept repeating the same meaningless phrase: “Yeah-but, yeah-but, yeah-but!”

  “Drover, try to control yourself. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Yeah but . . .”

  “I’m about to leave on a very important mission.”

  “Yeah but . . .”

  “And will you stop saying that? You’re driving me nuts.”

  “Yeah but . . .”

  “Okay, pal, that did it! Go to your room immediately and stay there for fifteen minutes.”

  “Yeah but . . .”

  “Thirty minutes. An hour? Two weeks? What does it take?”

  “A trap!”

  “Okay, fine. Go sit in a trap for thirty minutes. I’ll look you up when I’ve finished with these thieving turkeys.” I pushed him aside and throttled up my engines. “See you later, Pete, and thanks for the tip.”

  And with that, I hit Full Throttle on all engines and went roaring off to intercept the enemy.

  Sally May would be SO PROUD! Whether Pete knew it or not, he had given me a great opportunity to pile up some Goodie Points with the lady of the house. You might recall that our relationship had experienced its share of . . . well, ups and downs, shall we say.

  Tiny misunderstandings that had grown into something fairly serious. Sometimes, when she looked at me and one side of her upper lip rose into a snarl, I even got the feeling . . . well, that she just didn’t like me.

  And I, being a very sensitive dog beneath all the muscle and bone and hair and so forth, had almost worried myself sick about it, had hardly been able to sleep for weeks and . . .

  Okay, I’d caught myself a little nap that very afternoon, but only because sheer exhaustion had finally dragged me down.

  But the point is that I was now on a mission to save her precious corn from marauding bands of wild turkeys. You see, that bucket contained the family’s entire supply of food for the winter.

  Yes. She was drying it, preserving it for the long cold winter months—months of wind and snow and snowy wind, months when her precious children would wake up in the morning, cold and hungry and crying for bowls of dried corn.

  Gee, I sure hoped that Baby Molly grew some more teeth. She only had three or four teeth, and she would need a pretty good set to chew up that dried corn.

  Even horses have trouble chewing dried corn.

  Well, by the time I roared past the trees in the shelter belt, bending them almost to the ground in the wake of my powerful engines, I had worked myself up into towering rage.

  Anyone who would steal food from innocent children would have to deal with Hank the Cowdog.

  Zooming south from the shelter belt, I began picking them up on VIZRAD (Visual Radar). Holy smokes, I’d never seen so many wild turkeys in one bunch. There must have been fifty of them!

  Whole families. All sizes and shapes. Hens, toms, and whatever you call the young’uns. Squabs? Chicks? Poults? Turklings?

  It didn’t matter what they called themselves. To me they were all thieves and robbers, and their actions were proving it. They were pushing and shoving and fighting for the right to steal Sally May’s entire winter ration of food.

  They would pay for their greed and gluttony, and fellers, I was going to enjoy collecting the rent.

  Chapter Ten: I Arrest the Thieving Turkeys

  Thirty yards out, I locked in on the five biggest gluttonyest birds. They had pushed the rest out of the way and were gobbling corn. At twenty yards, I began arming Tooth Cannons and Barko­lasers.

  By this time, several of the turkey elders heard me coming. They lifted their heads and began clucking. The others stopped their pecking and so forth and pointed in my direction. They knew some­thing was fixing to happen, but they didn’t know exactly what.

  They were growing restless, moving around in that long awkward trot of theirs—turkey trot, I suppose you’d call it. They have long skinny legs, don’t you know, and the legs are hinged backward at the knee. They look pretty silly when they bounce along, like camels or something, and the faster they walk the sillier they look.

  Ten yards out, I reached for the Firing Button and . . . was that a voice coming from the direction of the house? A human voice? Yes, there it was again.

  “Hank, don’t you dare . . . !”

  It seemed to be the voice of Sally May who seemed to be standing out on the front porch. Amidst the roar of the wind and my rocket engines, I couldn’t hear everything she was saying but I pretty muchly knew. She was cheering me on to battle but also worrying that I might get hurt.

  Good old Sally May, always concerned about the safety of her dogs and children. That’s a mother for you. Instead of fretting over the loss of her precious supply of winter corn, she was worried sick about . . . well, ME, you might say.

  Pretty touching, huh?

 
It almost brought tears to my eyes.

  Just knowing that she REALLY CARED made it all worthwhile—the sacrifice, the danger, the tremendous effort, and, yes, the fun. I’ll admit that I was having fun.

  Five yards away from Point Zero, I was ready to scatter some birds. I opened up with Full Barko­­lasers and went smashing and crashing right into the middle of the villains.

  My goodness, you never saw such flapping or heard such clucking and squawking! I mean, I had scattered more than my share of chickens but this was my first attempt at plowing through a herd of turkeys.

  Fellers, if a dog enjoys running through chickens, he will absolutely LOVE bulldozing turkeys. I mean, the noise and the action that turkeys produce are guaranteed to give a ranch dog the biggest thrill of his life.

  It’s like chickens multiplied by ten.

  It was wonderful! There for a few seconds, I experienced the total thrill of . . . hmm, power, I suppose—the pure raw power of an angry ranch dog administering Ranch Justice.

  I loved it, the squawking and flapping. Ho, ho! Feathers flew and so did birds, feathers and birds flying off in all directions like an explosion of, well, feathers and birds.

  Hey, I felt so wild and excited about this deal that I zoomed in and grabbed the biggest tom turkey in the bunch, put the old Cowdog Fanglock on his . . .

  BIFF! BONK! POW!

  . . . wing, and the thing you never hear about wild turkeys is that you should never try to grab one. Remember those long skinny legs? They look pretty funny until they’re in your face and breadbox, and that’s when you realize that wild turkeys are a whole lot tougher and meaner than your average chicken.

  No comparison.

  Turkeys stay wild and alive by kicking, gouging, clawing, pecking, and wing-thrashing anything foolish enough to take hold of them. In the first five seconds, I had the turkey. Over the next two minutes, which seemed like two hours, he had ME, and fellers, I thought I never would get away from that stupid . . .

  I, uh, gave him a stern dose of Ranch Justice and hurried back to the house.