The Case of the Bone-Stalking Monster

by John R. Erickson

“Hmmm, yes, that’s true, I suppose, but that’s a horse of a different color.”

  “I got hoarse once. Barked all night. Made my throat raw.”

  “Drover, hush. I was leading up to a very important point, which is that only moments ago, someone stole . . .”

  My gaze fell upon a small pile of something between Drover’s paws. I hadn’t noticed it until now. “What is that between your paws, Drover?”

  “My paws?” His eyes drifted down and settled on the objects. “Well, let’s see here.”

  “They look like bones to me. Three bones.”

  “Yes, they do. Look like bones. Sure do.”

  I sniffed the air. “Furthermore, they smell like bones.”

  He sniffed. “I’ll be derned, they do. Smell like. Bones.”

  “If they look like bones and smell like bones, then by simple logic we arrive at the conclusion that they are . . . what?”

  “Uh . . . bones?”

  “Very good.” I lumbered over to him and stuck my nose in his face. “Three bones, Drover, the exact number of bones that were stolen from me at the yard gate. Is it possible, could it be that you stole three bones from the Head of Ranch Security? From your superior? From one of the few friends you have left in this world?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Because if you did, Drover, then you are a thieving, scheming, traitorous, treacherous little pick­pocket.”

  “Oh my gosh, don’t say those things, Hank!”

  “It’s true, isn’t it? Out with it! I want the truth, the holey truth, the awful, dreadful truth. Go ahead and confess, Drover, before it’s too late.”

  “Well . . .” He was so shook up, I thought he might start crying. “All right. I confess.”

  “I knew it, I knew it!”

  “I confess that I saw . . . a Bone Monster!”

  An eerie silence moved around us. I stared at the runt. I could hardly believe my ears. The words had gone through me like a bolt.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I said . . . when?”

  “Just now. Repeat what you just said.”

  “Oh, okay.” He rolled his eyes and wadded up his face in an expression of . . . something. Great concentration, I suppose, or total confusion. I couldn’t tell. At last he spoke. “Was it something about clocks and chickens?”

  “No.”

  “Hogs and pigs?”

  “No. You were confessing, Drover, and you said something about a . . . a Bone Monster.”

  “Oh yeah. What a scary guy!”

  I marched a few steps away. “Drover, I’ve been on this ranch for many years and I’ve never seen or heard of a Bone Monster. I don’t mean to doubt your word, but tell me more. Did you actually see this . . . this thing steal my bones?”

  “Oh yeah, you bet, saw it with my own eyes.”

  I sensed that the interrogation was entering a critical phase, so I told him to sit down and relax, while I stalked back and forth in front of him.

  I mean, this was pretty serious stuff. A Bone Monster, on my ranch? I had to get to the bottom of this.

  Chapter Five: Drover’s Shocking Story

  Interrogating a nitwit requires just the right technique, don’t you see. It’s not as easy as you might suppose.

  “All right, Drover, we’re entering the Factual Phase of the interrogation. In ordinary language, that means we’re searching for the facts, only the facts.”

  “Oh good.”

  “Question: Where did you see this so-called Bone Monster?”

  “Well, let me think here. He was up by the yard gate.”

  “Hmmm. That checks out. What did he do that made you think he was stealing my bones?”

  “Well, he stole your bones.”

  “That checks out too. How many bones, Drover?”

  “Three.”

  “Describe the Bone Monster.”

  “Well, let’s see here.” He closed one eye and twisted his mouth. “He was big. And shaggy. And looked like a gorilla, a big shaggy gorilla.”

  I marched several steps away, gathering my thoughts. Suddenly I whirled around. “All right, Drover, I can reveal that we’ve run your story through our files at Data Control and it checks out. We’re now convinced that you’re telling the truth.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “What?”

  “I said, oh good. Oh boy. I’m so happy.”

  “Exactly. Now that we’ve cleared the first turtle, we’ll zoom in for more specifics and finer details.” I studied him out of the corner of my eye for a moment. “Drover, there’s just one part of your story that doesn’t mash. You have told this court that you saw the Bone Monster in the act of stealing my bones, is that correct?”

  “I think that’s what I said.”

  “That IS what you said.”

  “Oh good, ’cause that’s sure what I wanted to say.”

  “Great. But there’s a missing chink in the puzzle. If the Bone Monster actually stole my bones, how did you end up with them?”

  “Oh gosh, that’s a good question. Did you think it up yourself?”

  I studied the claws on my right paw. “Oh yes, I handle all these interrogations myself, and coming up with probing questions is just part of my job.”

  “Boy, you did a great job.”

  “Well thanks, Drover. It’s kind of you to say that. A lot of dogs wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “Yeah, it was a great question. I really en­joyed it.”

  “Good. That’s . . . hmmm, I seem to have lost my train of thought. Where were we?”

  “Well, let’s see here.” He yawned. “I think you’d just asked me about the weather.”

  “Yes, of course. How’s the weather been, Drover?”

  “Oh, pretty good. Not too hot and not too cold.” He yawned again. “We could use another rain.”

  “Am I boring you? You keep yawning.”

  “No, sometimes I yawn, that’s all.” He yawned. “See?”

  “Yes, I saw that. But back to the weather, it’s getting dry, isn’t it?”

  I waited for his answer. When it didn’t come, I swung my gaze around just in time to see his eyelids slam shut. I was about to awaken him with a thunderous roar—I mean, after all, the little dunce had fallen asleep while Court was in session, and sleeping under oath is one of the many things I don’t allow on this ranch.

  But I caught myself just in time. You see, a plan had begun to form in the darkest outskirts of my mind. It suddenly occurred to me that the bones were sitting there, unwatched and un­guarded.

  And they were, after all, MY bones. I had won them, fair and square, in a scuffle with the cat, and gathering information about the Bone Monster could, uh, wait.

  I wasn’t sure I believed his story anyway. I mean, who ever heard of a Bone Monster?

  I cut my eyes from side to side. No one was watching. On silent paws, I crept over to the pile of bones, loaded them up in my enormous jaws, and we’re talking about all three at once, and crept away from the gas tanks on padded paws that made not a sound.

  Ten feet away, I shifted into a rapid walk, then into a trot, and finally into an easy gliding lope. And whilst I was doing all this, my mind was racing. Where would I deposit this treasure of bones?

  I considered a list of secret locations, and re­jected all but one for the same reason: The ground was hard and I hate to dig. Having shrunk my list of options down to one, my decision became very easy.

  I would deposit my treasury of bones in Sally May’s garden, for her husband had tilled it up just weeks before. Perhaps in some strange manner, known only to women, she had perceived that her loyal dog would soon need a soft place to bury some precious bones.

  They are very perceptive, you know. The ladies, that is. Sometimes they seem able to read minds and
forecast the future. It’s called Women’s Insti­tution, and it can be pretty spooky.

  Well, if Sally May’s institution had caused her to plow up the garden just for me, it seemed totally right that I should accept her act of kindness. I mean, she was probably aware that digging in hard ground will dull a dog’s claws, and that sharp claws are very important to the, uh, overall security program of the ranch.

  It all fit together. Only one obstacle stood in my way. The alleged garden was enclosed inside a hogwire fence, but it happened that hogwire fences were no big deal to me. Clenching my enormous jaws around the bones, I went into a deep crouch, took a huge gulp of air, and launched myself into the air.

  Charge! Bonzai!

  BONK.

  Okay, we had forgotten about that strand of barbed wire above the hogwire. What we had was four feet of hogwire with the single strand of barbed wire above it, and that small fact had altered all our careful calculations and equations and so forth.

  It was no big deal, it could have happened to any dog, and it merely etched another mark into a nose that had already been etched by the stupid cat.

  And by the way, those had been lucky punches.

  Anyways, I made contact with the almost-invisible top wire and took a rude tumble to the ground. OOF! Knocked the breath out of me for a second, but I’m no quitter. I reprogrammed all of the launch data, sank into another deep crouch, and went flying over the top like a . . .

  Tomato plant? It appeared that she—Sally May, that is—she had not only tilled the garden but had also set out some tomato plants, so to speak. No­body had informed me of this, and it’s very hard to operate a ranch when nobody tells you anything.

  They expect us to know everything, and they’re very quick to pass out blame when a small mistake is made, but ask for current information and everybody’s too busy to file their reports.

  But the important thing was that I had made it into the garden area and had wrecked only one of Sally May’s tomato plants. One or two. Several. But it was a small price to pay for a successful mission, and I knew that Sally May would understand.

  I mean, those bones were a very precious cargo.

  Once in the garden area I set up shop and went to work. I dug a hole in the soft dirt near the northeast corner, dropped the first precious bone into it, and covered it up with my . . . well, with my nose.

  Why do we dogs dig holes with our paws and cover them up with our noses? I’ve seen it happen over and over, and it’s always the same. To be perfectly honest, I don’t understand it but I do it very well, so maybe it doesn’t matter.

  I mean, if you can do it, who cares if you understand it? And if you understand it but can’t do it, what’s the point?

  The point was that I buried the first bone, then hurried on and buried the other two, following the exact same procedure: digging with paws, covering with nose.

  On completing the third and final bone deposit, I paused to rest a moment, to gaze out upon a job well done and . . .

  Suddenly the silence was shattered by a voice coming out of nowhere!

  Hey, I had thought I was all alone in the world—just me and my precious buried bones and the warm glow of a job well done. But hearing the voice behind me, I knew that I was not alone in the world.

  The voice startled me, jolted me, so to speak, out of a dreamy state of mining. I jumped, twisted my entire body to the left, and heard myself deliver a kind of gurgling growl. It wasn’t my best growl, I’ll admit, but very few of us are at our best in such awkward moments.

  The important thing is that I did manage to fire off a growl or two before . . . well, landing in the midst of another tomato plant. And, yes, maybe I transplanted a few sprigs of lettuce.

  She had—Sally May, that is—it appeared that she had planted a few rows of lettuce, but of course nobody had turned in that report either, and when they don’t turn in their paperwork, how am I supposed to know where the silly lettuce is planted?

  Who can run a ranch when he has to tiptoe through the tulips and lettuce and tomatoes? We have to keep the Big Picture in mind, don’t you see, and . . .

  I turned all my sensory equipment toward the sound of the voice, half expecting to see a huge shaggy . . . okay, relax. It was Slim. He was leaning on a fencepost.

  Grinning at me.

  Chapter Six: I Break the Tragic News to Drover

  Have you noticed that Slim always seems to be leaning on something? It’s true. He never stands up straight on his own two legs. He leans.

  This could be caused by simple laziness. I’ve suspected for a long time that Slim is, at heart and down deep where it really counts, a lazy man.

  Or perhaps his body is crooked, and it just naturally falls into a slouching state whenever he is at rest—which is fairly often, if you ask me. If they ever gave me full authority to run this ranch, I would . . . but never mind that.

  He was draped over the corner post and he was grinning at me. “Hey pooch, has anybody ever told you that you’ve got mud on your nose?”

  I . . . there wasn’t a simple answer to that question. Of course I knew that mud existed on the end of my nose, but technically speaking, nobody had ever pointed it out before.

  But I was aware of it, and I was also aware of why it was there.

  “Have you been playing backhoe with your nose?”

  No, I certainly had not . . . okay, maybe I had done some backhoe-type work with my nose, but I hadn’t been PLAYING. It was very serious business. Heads of Ranch Security don’t PLAY.

  We WORK, which was a concept he wouldn’t understand.

  “You know, Hank, only your best friends would tell you this, but you look pretty silly, standing there with a mudball on the end of your nose.”

  I held my head at a proud angle and glared daggers at him. Not only was I not ashamed to have mud on my nose, I was proud of it. So there.

  Small minds will always find something to ridiculate. Ridicule, I guess it should be, something to ridicule.

  When you do serious backhoe work with your nose, it becomes muddy, and that was nothing to ridiculate.

  He chuckled to himself and started walking toward the machine shed. “Well, if I was you, pup, I believe I’d get out of that garden. Sally May’s liable to take a dim view of you plantin’ bones in the midst of her tomater plants.”

  I had to admit that he had . . . gee, was it so obvious that I had . . . that a strong wind or something had blown down a plant or two? Maybe so, and yes, leaving the garden area before certain parties arrived seemed a pretty good idea, even though the idea had come from one of the smaller minds on the ranch.

  You probably think that I left the garden right then. Not true. First, I scanned the entire garden area and committed to memory the locations of all three of my precious bones.

  See, a lot of your ordinary ranch mutts will go to the trouble of burying a bone and then leave. Only later will they realize that they have no idea where they left it. That falls into the category of Dumb Behavior.

  If you’re going to bury a bone, doesn’t it make sense to remember where you left it? Of course it does. That’s what I did, and then I made a rapid exit, so to speak, from the scene of the, uh, accident.

  I felt pretty bad about the damage, but history has proven over and over that if you’re going to make an omelet, you have to break a few tomatoes.

  On the other hand, I’ve heard Sally May and other leading experts on gardening say that tomato plants actually do better after they have been “flailed,” I believe they call it.

  Flailed or frailed or flogged. Whipped. Beaten. Thrashed with a stick. No kidding. Some people whack on their tomato plants with a stick, so in a sense, you might say that I had actually helped Sally May with some of her, uh, gardening work.

  Hey, I was glad to do it. Sally May was a very busy wife and mother, and she had no business thrashi
ng tomato plants in the hot glare of the sun’s hot glare.

  I made my way back to the gas tanks. Drover was just as I had left him, conked out—snoring, wheezing, twitching, grunting, and doing all the other things he does in his sleep.

  I sat down and watched him for a few minutes. Did I make such noises in my sleep? I didn’t think so. I also took this opportunity to figure out how I would break the sad news to him. At last I came up with a plan, which began with a gentle wake-up call.

  “Wake up, half-stepper, arise and sing!”

  Well, you won’t believe this. I hardly believed it myself, and I was there and saw the whole thing. Before my very eyes, the little mutt arose and sang. Here’s how it went, and he sang it more than once, if you can believe that.

  The Wake-up Song

  Murgle skiffer porkchop on a summer day.

  Skittle rickie snicklefritz eat a bale of hay.

  Elephants.

  Sugar ants.

  Steak fat snork.

  Porkchop mork.

  I listened to the entire mess. As far as I knew, Drover had done very little singing in his lifetime, and it certainly showed. It was pretty bad.

  I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, but unless I’m badly mistaken, you are not only sleeping in the middle of the day, but you’re also singing on the ranch’s time.”

  His eyes came into focus and that silly grin of his slithered across his mouth. “Oh hi, Hank. You’ve got a mudball on the end of your nose.”

  “Oh yes, I . . . uh . . .” I turned away and swiped my nose with a paw. “Thanks. I can’t imagine how it got there.”

  “Maybe you were digging.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Drover, and don’t try to change the subject. The point is that you were singing on ranch time.”

  “Me? I was singing?”

  “That’s correct, on the ranch’s time and during business hours.”

  “I’ll be derned. I can’t even sing.”

  “I noticed. Now brace yourself, Drover. I have some terrible news.”

  “I don’t think I can stand it. I just woke up and you know how I am in the morning.”