The Mopwater Files

by John R. Erickson

  The Grasshopper Ordeal had left me exhausted. That was bad news, for it pretty muchly destroyed Drover’s nitwit theory that grasshoppers were full of minerals and vitamins.

  I sank down to the ground. I had squandered the last of my energy reserves on this deal, and now I was wiped out.

  I turned my watering eyes toward my master’s wife, wagged my tail, and gave her a weak smile. I hoped she would be . . . burp . . . proud.

  She appeared to be . . . well . . . laughing, so to speak, which struck me as slightly inappropriate, seeing as how I had come within one grasshopper leg of choking to death.

  I mean, maybe that was no big deal to her but . . . by George, she was getting quite a chuckle out of my moment on death’s doormat.

  But why all the laughter? I had never supposed that Sally May was the kind of woman who laughed at the misfortunes of others, and yet . . .

  She was sitting on the ground, with her arms draped around her knees. At last she gained control of her laughter. “Hank, do you know what you just drank?”

  Well . . . uh . . . water?

  “That isn’t water. It’s ROOT STIMULATOR.”

  Huh?

  Root stimulator?

  She was biting back a smile. “It’s plant food and I don’t think it’ll hurt you, but maybe you’d better stay out of it.” She laughed and shook her head and returned to her planting chores.

  For crying out loud, had I escaped one form of poisoning only to fall victim to another? Actually, the stuff had tasted pretty good.

  At that very moment, Little Alfred stuck his head out the door. “Hey Mom, Molly’s awake fwom her nap and she’s twying to get out of her cwib.”

  “Oh dear.” Sally May jumped to her feet and brushed off her hands and pants. “Well, that’s the end of the planting for today.” She cut her eyes in my direction. “Don’t drink that stuff, Hank. It’s good for flowers but it might not be good for dumb dogs.”

  Yes ma’am.

  I watched as she loped to the house. And, yes, I tried to forgive her for that last cutting remark—something about “dumb dogs.” That was my re­ward, it seemed, for ridding her yard of . . . burp . . . that grasshopper taste was still in my mouth.

  I would never eat another stupid grasshopper.

  Never.

  The back door slammed. She was gone, but the green garbage taste remained in my mouth. My eyes drifted to the, uh, red bucket, so to speak.

  You know, I’d never tasted anything quite like that stuff. It had a kind of fizz that tickled a guy’s tongue and mouth, and just a hint of a sour taste, and as I sat there . . .

  For no particular reason, my mouth began to water and my tongue shot out several times and . . . hmmm . . . by George, much to my own surprise, I found myself . . .

  Chapter Five: My Tremendous Scientific Discovery

  Lap, lap, lap.

  I couldn’t see that it would harm anyone or anything if I sampled it one more time. I mean, she’d said it wasn’t poison, right? And that little fizzy sour taste sure had covered up the . . .

  Lap, lap.

  Yes, it definitely helped get the gooey grass­hopper taste out of my . . . but you know what? All at once I became aware of something else, something truly remarkable.

  I felt a rush of energy!

  It was small at first, as the tingle in my mouth moved out to other portions of my exhausted body. It tickled my nose, then my ears, then it moved down my spine and out to the end of my tail.

  By George! All at once I felt five years . . . lap, lap . . . twenty-five years younger! Boy, what a kick in the pants that stuff had! Woooooooo-eeee!

  Lap, lap.

  And by then, all the pieces of the puzzle had begun to fall into place. I had stumbled into an incredible scientific discovery, perhaps the most important discovery of the century.

  ANYTHING THAT COULD STIMULATE A ROOT COULD REVIVE AND RESTORE A WORN-OUT RANCH DOG!

  I was getting stronger by the minute. Was it just my imagination? No, surely not, for I could feel waves of thermonuclear energy moving through my body. I could hardly sit still. In fact, I began hopping around in a circle.

  It happened that Drover came up at that very moment. He twisted his head to the side and gave me a puzzled look.

  “Gosh, what’s gotten into you? I thought you were worn to a frizzle.”

  “Ha, ha! That’s the way it used to be, Drover, but no more. I’ve become a dymino of energy.”

  “I’ll be derned. Must have been that grasshopper, huh?”

  “Not at all, my friend, for you see . . . ” Hmmm. All at once it occurred to me that . . . uh . . . there might be reasons, security reasons, for concealing the true nature of my test results.

  I mean, we weren’t 100% sure of our conclusions, right? And although Drover was a nice little mutt and a true friend, that didn’t mean that I had to tell him everything.

  Don’t forget the old saying: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

  And the other old saying: Russian fools jump in where angels fear the tread.

  What did that mean? I wasn’t sure exactly, but it was a wise old saying. Drover wasn’t a Russian dog but he was definitely a fool.

  The point is that Drover didn’t need to know.

  “Yes, you’re exactly right, Drover. It was the grass­hopper.”

  “I’ll be derned. The one I ate must have been a dud.”

  “The one you ate wasn’t big enough or green enough. It’s the big green ones that contain the higher octane levels. By the way, Drover, would you care to wrestle?”

  “Wrestle? I don’t think so. It’s too hot, and besides, this old leg . . .”

  WHONK!

  I jumped him, threw him over my shoulder, and pinned him to the ground. I just couldn’t resist a chance to wrestle. I mean, I was burning up with vitality.

  Drover whined for me to let him up, so I did and began looking around for another, shall we say, sparring partner. My eyes fell upon Pete, who had ventured outside Sally May’s yard and was slinking across the gravel drive.

  Heh, heh.

  I threw all engines into Fast Forward, spun my paws on the gravel, and went roaring after Pre­cious Kitty. He knew something was up. Perhaps he saw the fire in my eyes. He stopped in his tracks, humped his back, and began to hiss.

  Heh, heh. Bad move.

  Just before I got there, he figured out the obvious, that his hissing couldn’t stop a freight train. He sold out and ran to the nearest tree.

  On another occasion, he would have been safe in a tree—and as a matter of fact, on reaching the first limb, he turned a haughty little smirk at me and stuck out his tongue.

  Ha, ha! Little did he know. I didn’t stop at the base of the tree, fellers. I climbed that rascal, which caused panic and pandabearium amongst the kitties, so to speak. He screeched and hissed and climbed higher.

  I followed. This was fun. I had never climbed a tree before. Whooo-pee! What a lark. Pete scratched and clawed his way out to the tiny branches at the end of a limb, and I . . . hmm, sort of ran out of structural support for my enormous body, you might say, and fell out of the tree.

  Good thing old Slim was down there, greasing the trailer bearings, otherwise I might have hit the ground with a thud, but he was there and I landed on his head.

  Boy, was he shocked. What a riot. Hat, glasses, bearings, and grease flew in all directions. That woke him up, I’ll bet.

  Whilst he stared at me with wide eyes, I gave him a huge lick on the face and went bounding away to find another source of entertainment.

  “Good honk,” I heard him say, “I just got hit by a falling dog!”

  Right-toe! And I was just getting warmed up.

  It was my good fortune just then to see seven pecking chickens up ahead of me. How perfect! You know how much I love to bulldoze chickens.
It’s one of the greatest thrills this life has to offer, even better than treeing cats, because the chickens flutter and flap and make a lot more noise than a cat.

  ZOOM! SQUAWK, BAWK, BAWK, KA-BAWK!

  Wow. It was great. Wonderful. Terrific. Feathers and chickens flew in all directions. It was one of the most meaningful experiences of my entire career.

  The only trouble was that it ended in a matter of seconds, and once you’ve scattered all the chickens, fellers, it’s hard to go back to life’s dull routines.

  I trotted past Slim and gave him a big grin. He was trying to wipe the axle grease off his glasses and he didn’t look too happy about it.

  “You dufus dog, what were you doing up in that tree?”

  He would never understand. Nobody would under­stand. I had just discovered a secret energy source and had transformed myself into Turbo Pooch—half dog and half bulldozer.

  As I approached Drover, he began backing away. “Hank, something’s come over you. I think that grasshopper must have been eating dynamite and gasoline. I’ve never seen you act this way before. I’m kind of worried about you.”

  “Ha. Don’t worry about me, kid. Worry about the rest of the world. Come on, let’s wrestle some more. Let’s go a few rounds of boxing. Let’s run a five-mile race. Let’s tear down a few trees.”

  He kept backing away. “You know, Hank, I’d love to do all that, but it’s awful hot and this old leg’s sure been giving me fits.”

  “Yeah? Well, let’s just yank it off.” His eyes crossed. I laughed. “Just kidding, Drover. Don’t be so serious. Relax and enjoy life.”

  “How can I relax when you’re acting so weird?”

  “I don’t know, pard. As a matter of fact, I’m having a little trouble relaxing myself. I mean, one hour ago I could hardly stay awake. Now, I can’t find enough things to do to burn up all this energy.”

  “That was quite a grasshopper.”

  “A what? Oh yes, of course. The, uh, grasshopper. Yes indeed, that was quite a . . .” My ears shot up. They had just picked up the sounds of an Incoming Vehicle. “Come on, son, we’ve got an interception job to do. Hot dog!”

  “Yeah, that’s me. I’m a hot dog and I don’t want to run, ’cause that’ll just make me a hot dogger. I’ll meet you around front.”

  I hit Full Throttle, spun all four paws on the gravel, and went ripping around the south side of the house. I intercepted the I.V. up by the shelter belt and provided escort all the way to the front of the machine shed.

  Actually, I did more than that. I got bored with mere escort duty and began biting the front tires. Yes, I knew it was dangerous, but I didn’t care. I seemed to have developed a taste for danger.

  And that’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, all this wild energy had come from a bucket of PLANT FOOD. By George, if that stuff had affected Sally May’s shrubberies and flowers the way it affected me, they’d have been running all over the ranch.

  Wouldn’t that have been something to see, Sally May chasing her petunias and dragonsnappers and hollyhockers through the home pasture?

  Well, I was having such a big time snapping at the tires that I didn’t notice to who or whom the pickup belonged. Or to put it another way, I didn’t notice that the driver was Billy, our neighbor to the east.

  Do you remember Billy? Maybe not. The most important detail I can tell you about Billy is that he had several dogs, and one of them happened to be the most gorgeous collie gal in the whole world.

  And you’ll never guess who was sitting in the back of the pickup.

  Chapter Six: I Prepare to Thrash the Neighborhood Bully

  By the time Billy stepped out of the pickup, I had already done Date and Mark on all four tires. I could tell that he was impressed.

  He walked over to Slim, who was still sitting in the shade with a handful of grease and trailer bearings. “What have y’all been feeding that dog? In this heat, I can hardly get mine to scratch a flea. Old Hank’s running around like a pup in January.”

  Slim shrugged. “Beats me. A little while ago, the crazy outfit chased the cat up this tree—and fell on top of me. I liked to have had a stroke. What’s up?”

  “Oh, I need to borrow some 6011 welding rod. You got any?”

  “Well,” he grunted and pushed himself up, “let’s go see. Boy, it’s hot. Makes a guy wish he could rent a big watermelon and move into it for the rest of the summer.”

  They shuffled into the machine shed. It was then that I turned my attention to the back of the pickup and saw . . . mercy! There she was, the girl of my dreams, just as I had seen her so many times in my slumbering sleepiness.

  The dewberry eyes. The long collie nose. The flaxen hair. The perfect collie ears . . . holy smokes, my heart stopped beating and I forgot to breathe.

  It was the lovely Miss Beulah.

  After almost dying of joy and excitement, I snatched myself back from the brink of the edge and regained my composure. I wiggled my eyebrow three times and gave her my most swavv . . . swaav . . . swwaav . . . most charming smile.

  “Well, my goodness! Hath the sun risen before us in the middle of the day or is this Miss Beulah the Collie?”

  I shall never forget her words. She said, “Hello, Hank.”

  Beautiful. Pure poetry. I could sense that she was still madly in love with me and that our romance would begin just where it had left off, just as though we had spent every minute . . .

  Bird dog? There seemed to be a bird dog sitting on the opposite side of the pickup. He was giving me a lopsided grin.

  “Hi Hank. By golly, it’s great to see you again. How about this weather? You ever seen such heat? I haven’t worked out all week.”

  That was Plato, of course, Plato the stick-tailed spotted bird dog. He spent his time pointing tennis shoes and retrieving sticks and thinking about birds. And what really ripped me was that Beulah seemed to like him.

  I gave him a nod. “Yes, the heat has been ter­rible.” I knocked off three back flips in a row, did a forward flip with a half-twist, and landed on my feet. “I’ve had to cut back on my work sched­ule too.”

  You should have seen his eyes! They almost bugged out of his head. “Good gravy, Hank, that’s very impressive, very impressive. Beulah, did you see that?”

  She did. I knew she did because I could see and almost feel her adoring gaze on me. So, just for the heck of it, I knocked off three forwardses, two back­wardses, landed on my front legs, did five push­ups, and ended with five carbuncles. Cartwheels.

  Plato almost fell out of the pickup. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Wow. By golly. Hank, I’m really impressed. No kidding. I mean, in this heat the rest of us just drag around and try to survive, but you . . . did you see that, Honey Bun?”

  “Quit calling her Honey Bun.”

  I froze and cocked my ear. Was I hearing voices? Unless I was badly mistaken, I had just heard someone say, “Quit calling her Honey Bun.”

  I shot a glance at Plato. His expression had changed. His eyes showed . . . fear. I shifted my gaze toward Beulah. She was looking away, as though . . . hmmm. Very strange.

  Plato cut his eyes from side to side and motioned for me to come over. When I did, he glanced over his shoulder and dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “Hank, there’s something I must tell you. Remember Rufus, Billy’s Doberman pinscher? He’s sitting up there on the spare tire.”

  “Oh. So that was his voice I heard?”

  “Right. Yes. Exactly. He forced me and Beulah to sit in opposite corners. He doesn’t want us to be friendly, if you know what I mean, because he thinks Beulah likes him.”

  “Hmmm. Does she?” I turned to Beulah.

  “I can’t stand him,” she whispered. “He’s an ugly toad, and he’s a bully and a brute, and he’s so mean to poor Plato . . . oh, I hate him!”

  “I’ll be derned. Well, mayb
e I need to have a talk with old Rufie.”

  Plato’s eyes grew wide, and he shook his head. “No, don’t get involved, Hank. I know you mean well, but this is just something we have to live with. We can stand it another day, can’t we, Honey . . . ’er, can’t we, Beulah?”

  “Stay on your side, birdbrain, and quit talking to my sweetie pie.” It was The Voice again.

  “Okay, Rufus, sorry. It won’t happen again.” Plato turned back to me. “You see what I mean? He’s the meanest, most overbearing dog I’ve ever known. And I’ll be honest, Hank. He scares me.”

  “I wonder what he’d do if I yelled . . . honey bun.”

  Plato flinched at the words. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Hank, really. No kidding. To you it might be a joke, but Rufus has no sense of humor at all. And let me remind you, Hank, this guy has hurt a lot of dogs. He’s vicious.”

  “I’ll swan.” I threw back my head and called, “Honey bun, here, honey bun. Oh honey bun. Here a honey, there a bun, everywhere a honey bun.”

  Plato gasped. “No, Hank, please . . .”

  “Honey bun, honey bun, honey bun!”

  Plato’s eyes rolled back in his head. Beulah’s eyelids sank. The pickup lurched and bounced, and Rufus’s ugly head appeared above the tailgate.

  I gave him a lazy grin. “Hi. How y’all today?”

  He spoke in a deep booming voice. “Who said ‘honey bun’?”

  “Well, let’s see. It wasn’t Plato. It wasn’t Beulah, so perhaps ’twas I.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. How about yourself?”

  He roasted me with his eyes. “I said, WHO are you, smart guy. I don’t care how you are.”

  “Oh, sorry. Hank the Cowdog. You’re on my ranch.”

  “Oh yeah. I whipped you once—on your ranch. It was fun but it didn’t last long.” He aimed a paw at me. “Don’t say those words again. I don’t like ’em.”

  “You mean ‘honey bun’?”