I cranked up the shade on my other eye and saw the same dog I’d seen with the first eye. I’d never seen this guy before.
“Hank, you’d better wake up. Little Alfred’s calling you.”
I staggered to my feet and rushed into the control room and found chaos—lights flashing, smoke pouring out of the control panel, gongs gonging. I began flipping switches and spoke to the stranger.
“All is lost! We must lower the lifeboats. Don’t just stand there, we’re going down! Wait. Who are you anyway?”
“I’m Drover, the same Drover who woke you up the last time.”
“Good. We’ll be sharing a lifeboat, so let me warn you. Eating old gray rats in my boat will not be tolerated.” He started laughing. “You think this is funny? We’ve lost the ship and all you can think about is eating rats! What’s wrong with you?”
“Hank, it’s not a ship and we’re not going down.”
“You talk as though we’ve met before.”
“Ten thousand times. You were asleep…again.”
“How dare you say that? I ought to have you…” I blinked my eyes and glanced around. “Wait. It’s all coming back. Don’t you get it? I must have dozed off.”
“Duh.”
“And you’re Drover. All right, we’re cooking now. Bring me up to speed. What’s going on around here?”
“Little Alfred’s calling you.”
“He’s the boy, right? Go on.”
“He’s calling you from his bedroom window.”
“You don’t suppose he’s eating old gray rats, do you?” Drover rolled his eyes and began pounding on his head with a paw. “Stop that. You look ridiculous.”
“Hank, let’s go see what he wants.”
“I’ll give the orders around here.” I took a gulp of fresh air and tried to clear my head. “Okay, let’s go see what he wants. To the house!”
We left the office with a blast of fire and jet fumes, and went streaking toward the house. By then, it was clear that I had dozed off, and that explained some of the confusion, but I never did figure out why Drover had been eating rats.
What can you say? He’s a weird little mutt.
We arrived at the yard fence thirty seconds after lift-off, cut the engines, and coasted to a smooth landing. I glanced around and saw nothing and nobody. But then I heard a voice coming from the house. It said, “Pssst! Hankie, over here.”
I didn’t dare dive over the fence and enter the yard, but trotted around the outside of the fence and stopped on the south side. There, I had a clear view of the house, including Little Alfred’s bedroom window. He had raised the window and was waving at me through the screen.
“Hi, Hankie. You want to sneak into my room?”
Sneak into his room? Ha ha. We didn’t need to discuss that form of suicide. No.
His face sank into a scowl. “Welp, I guess I could sneak outside and we could go eggsploring.”
Hmm. I had a feeling his mother might not approve of that.
“My mom’s taking a nap.”
Yeah, but what about Mommy Radar? It could pick up a mouse walking around in ballet slippers, two miles away.
“I don’t think she’d mind, Hankie.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
Drover had arrived by that time. I turned to him. “Did you hear what he said?”
“Who?”
“Little Alfred, who else? He’s thinking of sneaking outside.”
Drover’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “During naptime?”
“Roger that. He’s got this idea in his head about becoming a famous explorer.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I agree. We’ll tell him that his dogs have considered the matter and we think…” But it was too late to spill the milk. Little Alfred tip-toed out the door, wearing a devilish little grin.
Drover began backing away. “You know, I need to go check out some things in the machine shed. See you later.”
I blocked his path and gave him a withering glare. “You will NOT go hide in the machine shed. You’ve spent your whole life being a little weenie and it’s time for you to grow up.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Drover, we’re responsible for the children. It’s one of the most important parts of our job.”
“Yeah, but…even when they’re naughty?”
“Especially when they’re naughty. Naughty little boys need the good influence of their dogs. Who else cares about them as much as we do?”
“Gosh, I never thought about it that way. We really do care, don’t we?”
“With all our hearts.”
His eyes seemed to be filling with tears. “It’s so sweet…a boy and his dogs. It almost makes me want to cry.”
You probably think that Drover and I had ourselves a nice little cry, thinking about the bond of love between dogs and little boys. Ha. Not so fast. Here’s a tiny detail you might have missed, because, well, you weren’t there. But I was there and I picked it up right away.
See, there was something fishy about Drover’s emotional so-forth. While he seemed to be fighting back tears, he was also backing away from me. Do you see a familiar pattern here? It was leading toward his usual response to Life Itself. If I hadn’t blocked his path again, he would have high-balled it straight to his Secret Sanctuary.
As I’ve said before, it’s not that I don’t trust Drover. It’s that he can’t be trusted.
I blocked his path, stuck my nose in his face, and gave him some fangs. “You little weasel, don’t even think about running away.”
He keeled over and began kicking all four legs at once. “He’s a little brat and he’s going to get us in trouble!”
“He might be a little brat, but he’s OUR little brat.”
“Sally May will screech at us!”
“Then so be it. It’s just part of the job.”
“I hate exploring, it hurts my feet!”
“Nobody cares. You will go on this mission and you will do your job.”
He struggled to his feet and you can’t imagine how pitiful he looked, limping and dragging himself along. If I had never seen this kind of performance before, it might have touched my heart, but I had seen it so many times, it didn’t come close to touching my heart. It didn’t even touch my toes.
Besides, by that time, Little Alfred was standing beside us. His eyes were sparkling. “Come on, doggies, wet’s go eggsplore!”
And so the adventure began.
Chapter Nine: Our Vocabulary Lesson For Today
Before we plunge into the spooky part of this story, maybe we should pause a moment and have Our Vocabulary Lesson For Today. See, most stories are made up of words. In fact, all stories are made up of words. Without words, stories would consist of dozens of empty pages, which would make them hard to read and very boring. Without words, we would all be speechless.
Hencely, it’s important that we stay on top of this business of translating Kid Language into forms of speech that the rest of us can understand. In our previous lesson, we discussed “twucks” and the true meaning of “eggsplore.” After a few false starts, we figured out that “eggsploring” has nothing to do with eggs, no matter how they’re cooked or whether they’re served with bacon, slurp, sausage, or hash browns.
Now we’re ready to translate another of Little Alfred’s vocabulary words: “wet’s.” In Kid Language, “wet’s” means “let’s.” It could also be translated as “let us” or “lettuce,” but not as “cabbage.” Dogs have no interest in cabbage.
Come to think of it, we have no interest in lettuce either. We love MEAT, so let’s just skip the vegetables.
Okay, when the lad said, “Wet’s go eggsploring,” the correct translation comes out as, “Let us go exploring.”
And here are your vocabulary words
for today. “Twuck” means “truck,” “Wet” means “let,” “burfessional” means “professional,” and “eggsplore” means “explore.” Write those definitions twenty times before bedtime and don’t forget to brush your teeth.
Is this neat or what? You bet. I get a thrill out of messing around with words. And I’ll tell you something else. I can give you a secret formula that will allow you to spell a word that is almost impossible to remember how to spell the spelling of which.
Check this out:
George
Ate
Three
Blind
Mice
At
Grandma’s
House
Yesterday.
Are you still with me? Here’s the secret part. You take the first letter of each word, put ‘em all together, and you get the correct spelling. Okay, let’s write the word on the blackboard. This is so cool! You’ll love it.
GATBMAGHY.
Wait. That doesn’t look right. I mean, GATBMAGHY is not a word, at least not in this solar system. Hmm. Perhaps we…phooey. Let’s skip the vocabulary lesson and mush on with the story.
If you recall, Little Alfred had just sneaked out of his room, out of the house, and out of the yard, and was fixing to launch himself into a new career as a Famous Explorer. And Drover and I were aware that this was a violation of his mother’s Plan For Little Boys.
Alfred was supposed to take a nap during Naptime.
Alfred was not supposed to sneak out of the house and run wild.
We dogs were fully aware of the risks involved in joining his expedition (we might get blamed), but as the Elite Troops of the Security Division, we had sworn a solemn oath to protect the little children from harm and danger.
And, fellers, when a dog takes an oath, he’s oathed for life.
Bottom Line: We weren’t about to let that kid run loose on the ranch without the supervision of two loyal dogs—or, to put it more accurately, without the supervision of one loyal dog and one little ninny who wanted to hide in the machine shed, only I had put a whoa to that.
GATBMAGHY. It worked just fine for Mister Smartypants. I don’t get it.
Anyway, Little Alfred had escaped from his room and there we were, standing outside the yard. He looked us over and said, “Are y’all ready to go eggsploring?”
Locked and loaded.
“We won’t go far and we’ll get back before my mom wakes up.”
Good.
“Should we take Pete?”
What? Take the cat on an important expedition? Absolutely not! Kitty was too lazy, too fat, too selfish, and too much of a conniving little hickocrip to go exploring with us. The last thing we needed on our adventure was a cat.
Alfred must have come to the same conclusion. “Nah. He’s too much trouble.”
Exactly right. Good boy!
“Come on, doggies! Follow me.”
Onward! We followed him around to the yard gate on the west side of the house. There, he pointed to his red Western Flyer wagon. “Okay, y’all, we’re going Out West in my covered wagon.”
For some reason, Drover happened to be listening and his ears perked up. “Hey, did you hear that? We get to ride in the wagon. Oh goodie.”
“Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve never ridden in a wagon before.”
“Neither have I. This could turn out to be…”
Huh? Wait a second. All three of us couldn’t ride in the wagon. Someone had to pull it, right? Hmmm. My mind began expanding in all directions, and a clever plan began to form.
I leaned toward Drover and whispered, “Remember that little promotion we’ve been talking about? I just had a great idea. How would you like to volunteer to pull the wagon?”
“Oh, I’d rather ride.”
“Drover, anyone can ride in a wagon. It takes a special kind of dog to pull one.”
“Yeah, but you’re bigger than me.”
“That’s my whole point. The bigger we are, the more we need to share the opportunities.”
“Yeah, but I’m just a runt.”
“Drover, that’s exactly what I’m saying. The runter you are, the harder you must work to overcome your runtness.”
“Gosh, you really think I could do it?”
“No question about it. It would build your confidence and give you some valuable experience.”
He thought about that, and, you know, for the first time in months, I detected a spark of ambition in his eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I can do it.”
“Son, you can do it. You just have to believe in yourself.”
He lifted his head to a proud angle. “I think I can do it.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“But I’d better warm up this old leg.”
“Good thinking, and I’ll give you some coaching tips.”
This was working out better than I had dared to hope. Drover would gain valuable experience, working as a draft horse, and I would gain even more valuable experience, watching him do it—whilst riding in the wagon. Hee hee.
What a deal, huh?
Chapter Ten: Westward Ho the Wagons!
You know who gets to ride around in wagons, don’t you? Caesars, pharaohs, kings, emperors, honored guests, and Heads of Ranch Security. Those of us who live at the top of the mountaintop have our little privileges, don’t you see, and when someone throws a parade, you won’t find us pulling wagons.
I had been chosen to ride in an open carriage, while Drover had volunteered to be Nag of the Day. Everything had fallen into place, almost as though someone had…well, planned it that way.
In fact, someone had. ME. In case you didn’t notice, I had employed several clever tricks to boost his confidence and coax him into becoming a helpful little doggie, instead of his usual slacker-self.
It’s called Lordship. Wait. It’s called Leadership. We inspire the men to push their limits and accomplish impossible foots. You don’t rise to the rank of Head of Ranch Security without developing those crucial Leadership Skills.
All that remained was for me to give the mutt a little dab of coaching and, you know, help him get his muscles tuned up for the big job ahead.
“All right, son, step out. Pick ‘em up and lay ‘em down. Lift those legs as high as you can and let’s get those Upper Boogaloo muscles stretched out. This is going to be a very important assignment.”
Remember that little spark of ambition I had noticed in his eyes? Well, I was pleased to see that it had grown into something bigger, more of a glow than a spark. The little guy was responding to my coaching and was rising to face one of the biggest challenges of his whole career. And I must admit that it made me proud.
He moved his legs up and down and rolled his shoulders. “Boy, it’s all coming together. I can feel it. This is going to be my big day!”
“Looking good, son. Practice your starts.”
“I’m on it.” He crouched down in a sprinter’s stance and yelled, “Here I go!”
Wow. He sprang out of the blocks like an arrow shot out of a canon and…huh? There was a clattering sound, a thump, a cloud of dust, and…I couldn’t believe this. He went down like a load of hay, and came up…limping.
“Oh rats, there it went! This old leg just quit me! Oh, my leg!”
For a moment, I was too shocked to speak, then I managed to yell, “Drover, stop acting like a little…”
Too late. Alfred had been watching the whole thing and now he was shaking his head. “I don’t think Drover would make a very good horse. He’s too much of a shrimp.”
Exactly right. He was a shrimp, but even worse, he was a shrimp with a devious mind.
Guess who got tagged for the Horse Detail. Me. While Drover limped and groaned, Alfred rigged me with a piece of cotton rope and harnesse
d me to the wagon. My face burned with anger and disappointment. My coaching career had gone down in flames, along with my hopes of riding in a parade in an open carriage.
It almost broke my heart. Leadership is wasted when you’re surrounded by ninnies.
The boy got me harnessed to the wagon, stepped back and gave me a looking over. “Hankie, you’re gonna make a good horse, ‘cause you’re so big and strong.”
Big and strong? That was true, of course. Yes. I had a pretty amazing set of shoulders and have we ever discussed my legs? Wow. You talk about a pair of awesome legs! Powerful, and we’re talking about muscles that are like steel springs.
As I’ve always said, it isn’t every dog that gets chosen to pull a covered wagon Out West. It’s a very special honor and it doesn’t go to just any old mutt that needs a job.
So, yes, it was a proud moment for me, for the ranch, for the entire Security Division. Out of all the dogs in the world, I had been chosen to pull my little pal’s wagon on an exciting adventure, exploring the Wild West.
Alfred climbed into the wagon and it didn’t bother me that he invited the King of Slackers to ride with him. Okay, it bothered me, but not for long, and here’s why. Do you know who rides around in wagons? The shrimps and the half-steppers. I say, “Let ‘em have it.” It takes a real dog to pull a wagon.
I also took some comfort in knowing that this would all come out at Drover’s next court martial.
Well, we were all set for our trek Out West. When Alfred gave me the command to move out (“Gitty Up”), I leaned into the harness like a giant locomotive and began lugging the wagon. No ordinary dog could have pulled such a load. Me? I hardly even noticed. Piece of cake.
You know, the funny thing about our trip Out West was that…well, we headed south, not west. That seems odd, doesn’t it? Alfred chose the route because the terrain south of the house was flat and smooth, better suited for wagon traffic.
In the Real World, if you’re heading Out West, you probably ought to go west, but when kids and dogs are running the show, it really doesn’t matter. By George, Out West can be anywhere we want it to be, and on that particular day, it lay south of the house.
Wagons West Page 5
