Every Dog Has His Day

by John R. Erickson

I slipped around the pickups and trailers and checked things out, marked a few tires, kept my eyes and ears open, continued gathering data and amassing clues. When High Loper came down from the house, wearing his summer leggins and big-rowel spurs, I had enough evidence to come up with a Working Hypothenus . . .

  Hypotenuse. Hypodermicus. Hyrolysis. What is the dadgummed word? Hippopotamus.

  . . . I had turned up enough evidence to form a Working Hippopotamus: Without consulting me, the cowboys had decided to roundup and brand one of the pastures. Furthermore, they had invited strangers to come onto the ranch to help, with the work—again, without consulting me.

  Well, this discovery really burned me up. I mean, running a ranch is hard enough under the best of circumstances, but when your own people start slipping around and making plans behind your back, it’s really tough. But never mind, that’s just part of the job.

  I was in the process of sniffing tires and sifting clues when I heard a voice coming from the pickup above me: “Well, hello there, big boy. Imagine meeting you here!”

  I froze. Hadn’t I heard that sultry voice before? Hadn’t I experienced that sudden increase in heart rate and blood pressure that I now felt? The an­swer was yes, I had, and it had been caused by a certain gorgeous beagle dog named Miss Scamper.

  I lifted my eyes and saw her head protruding over the side of the pickup bed. Description: lovely brown eyes with big lashes, long beagle ears, a freckled nose, a very exciting pair of jowls.

  Even though my deepest heart of hearts belonged to my one and only true love, Miss Beulah the Collie . . . MERCY! Furthermore, the last time Beulah and I had met, she had snubbed me for a worthless, stick-tailed, spotted bird dog named Plato, and I hadn’t forgotten that snub or quite forgiven her for choosing a bird dog over a cowdog, and . . . MERCY!

  “Well, blow me down,” I said, “I believe I’ve just stumbled upon one of the seven wonders of the world.”

  “You could be right, but I didn’t know there were six others.”

  “I may have miscounted, Miss Scamper. What’s a nice place like you doing in a dog like this?”

  “I just came along for the ride, thought I might, ah, see some different scenery.”

  “Well, I don’t know how the scenery looks to you, ma’am, but from down here, it’s just pretty awesome.”

  “This must be your lucky day.”

  “Indeed it is, Miss Scamper, which brings to mind a poem:

  Roses are red, the gas tanks are gray

  Holy tamales, it’s my lucky day!”

  She winked. “Not bad, for a big old hunk of dog like you.”

  “Would you like to hear another one?”

  “Oooo! I’m not sure I can stand it, but let’s give it a try.”

  “All right. Hang on, here we go:

  Roses are red but your face is incredible

  I’d gobble you up if I thought you were edible.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m so impressed with your poetry!”

  “Hey, that’s only the beginning. Can you stand another one?”

  “Just one more. I’ll try not to faint.”

  “Fair enough. Here we go:

  Roses will readily stab you with thorns

  But this ache in my heart ain’t caused by a rosebush.”

  The smile faded from her lips. “I think you missed on that one, big boy. It didn’t exactly rhyme.”

  “Well, no, but that was a modern poem. They’re not supposed to rhyme.”

  “I see. You just have an answer to every little question, don’t you?”

  “Yes ma’am. I not only have answers to every little question, but I have answers to several big ones. Furthermore, I have answers to questions that haven’t even been asked yet.”

  “How interesting!”

  “And speaking of questions, what do you have planned for the next thirty years?”

  I gave her a wink and she gave me one back. “I’ll, ah, have to look at my calendar and . . . ooooo, what have we here!”

  Her eyes seemed to be looking past me. I turned my head and found myself peering into the face of a dog I had never seen before, didn’t know, and didn’t particularly want to know.

  Description: black and white, long hair, long nose, medium height and build, pretty good conformation. In some ways, he resembled your border collie, a breed of dogs known for their ability to herd sheep.

  On closer inspection, I began to suspect that he not only bore some faint resemblance to the border collie, but that he was a border collie, possibly one with papers and hot-rod breeding.

  How could I have known all that in such a short span of time? Good question. The answer lies in my remarkable powers of concentration and a certain sixth sense I have about bloodlines. I mean, I can just by George look at a dog and pretty muchly tell you where he came from.

  This one not only had the markings of a low-class sheepdog, but he also grinned all the time. Always grinning, that’s the border collie. It comes from the fact that they go around with their mouths open and their tongues hanging off to one side. (Try that yourself and see if it doesn’t make you grin.)

  Let me pause here to point out that I’ve never had much use for dogs that fool with sheep, nor have I ever trusted a dog that went around grinning all the time, and furthermore, I didn’t care for the way Miss Scamper was making eyes at this one.

  I had a feeling that me and this sheep-herder weren’t going to become bosom pals any time soon.

  Chapter Three: Benny the Cowdog

  I glared at the stranger and he grinned back at me. Then he spoke. “Good morning, sport, perfect day for a roundup, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t know as I’d say that at all. I’ve only seen a small part of this day and . . .”

  He wasn’t listening. “And what have we here?” He looked up at Miss Scamper with glittering eyes. “My, my! I don’t think we’ve met, have we?”

  Miss Scamper fluttered her eyelashes. “Not yet, but I have a feeling that could change at any moment.”

  “Indeed it could, you’re very perceptive, Miss . . .”

  “Scamper.”

  “Miss Scamper! What a lovely name, my goodness, there’s poetry in it and music, and my goodness, aren’t you a pretty little thing!”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” she said in her sultry voice, “and from some ver-ry reliable sources. And what might your name be, if I might be so brazen as to ask?”

  “Benny the Cowdog, my good lady.”

  “Don’t jump to any hasty conclusions about the ‘good lady’ business, and I’m so, SO happy to meet you.”

  “My goodness.” The mutt turned to me and winked, as though we were best of friends, which we weren’t. “This one could turn out to be a real bombshell. Are you her father?”

  “No.”

  “She’s a doll, pops. You ought to be proud of her.”

  “I am proud of her.”

  “That’s what I like to hear, a father who’s proud of his girl. That’s really touching, pops, that’s okay.”

  I moved closer and gave him a withering glare. “My name isn’t Pops. I’m not her father. You’re butting into my conversation, and you’re on my ranch.”

  “Huh? Are you the yard dog or what?”

  “I’m Hank the Cowdog, Head of Ranch Security.” For the first time, he stopped grinning. He stared at me and then burst out laughing. “Did I say something funny?”

  He looked up at Miss Scamper. “Did he say he was a cowdog?” She nodded, and he turned back to me. “Did you say cowdog or plowdog?”

  “I said cowdog, and that’s what I meant. And before you get into any more trouble, I’ll need to check your identification.”

  “Identification, yes, we have that, we sure do. Shall I start with my sire and dam? Both grand champions. Grandfather s
wept the Ft. Worth show four years in a row. Mom and Dad practically owned the Abilene stock dog trials, I mean, it was almost embarrassing. And my brothers . . .”

  “That’s probably enough,” I said. “What you’re trying to tell us is that you’re pretty hot stuff.”

  “I’m not sure I would have put it in those exact words, but . . . yes. When you consider the breeding, the training, the contests, the winnings—well, most dogs find it overwhelming and more than a little intimidating.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes, we’ve found that to be the case most of the time.” He cast a leering eye at Miss Scamper. “What do you say, Sweetness?”

  “Ah, well, I think I’m about to be overwhelmed and intimidated.”

  Benny turned back to me and shrugged. “We see this all the time.”

  “Well, it’s a shame you can’t stay longer.”

  “Oh, I am going to stay longer. I’m here for a demonstration with the cattle. I’m told it could turn into a permanent job.”

  “It could turn into a permanent injury. I take care of the cattle work on this outfit.”

  He was still grinning. “I don’t know quite how to put this, but apparently someone thinks this ranch needs a good stock dog.”

  I moved a step closer. My patience was wearing thin. “Apparently someone was wrong. Get back in your pickup and wait for further orders.”

  “Sorry, old sport, but I take my orders from higher authorities.”

  There’s a time for talk and there’s a time for action. It was time to teach this dog a few lessons about higher authorities. I bristled up and made a dive at him. You might say that I missed.

  “You’re a little clumsy with that move, sport. I could give you a few pointers on your technique.”

  I made another dive at him and missed again. He was quicker than you might have thought.

  “You’re about half a step behind, it seems to me.”

  We glared at each other. Or put it this way: I glared at him and he grinned at me, while I tried to think of something clever to say that might explain why I had missed him twice in a row. But just then, Drover came rushing up.

  “Hank, I found out what’s going on! It’s round­up day, they’re having a roundup right here on the ranch, and that’s why all these pickups pulled in!”

  “Very good, Drover. Did you figure that out yourself?”

  “Yes! Well, no, I heard Slim talking about it, and did you know there’s a famous dog here too? He’s a champion cowdog and he’s won contests and everything and . . .” It was then that Drover saw the stranger. “Oh my gosh, I bet that’s him!”

  Benny grinned and dipped his head. “I’ve been discovered, it seems.”

  Drover began groveling and turning in circles. “I’ve never met a famous dog before, boy, this is so exciting, I just don’t know what to say!”

  I glared at the runt. “Drover, when you have nothing to say, one of your alternatives is to keep your trap shut. That way, nobody will ever know how little they missed.”

  “I know, that’s what I ought to do, but he’s famous and . . . oh my gosh!” It was then that Drover saw Miss Scamper, and that finished him off. He rolled over on his back and started kicking his legs in the air.

  Benny walked over for a closer look. “It seems the little fellow’s had an attack of some sort.”

  “Get up, Drover, you’re making a spectacle of yourself, and what’s more important, you’re making ME look bad.”

  “I’d say so, yes,” said Benny, giving his head a shake, “it gives a bad impression of the ranch.”

  Drover opened his eyes and blinked them.

  “Where am I?”

  “Just where you were before you made a fool of yourself.”

  “Hank, will you deliver an important message for me?”

  “What message, and to who or whom?”

  “Tell Miss Scamper that I think I love her.”

  Miss Scamper heard the message and arched one brow. “My goodness, that’s three in a row! This could turn out to be one of my better days.”

  “Get up, Drover, and stop talking nonsense. This is roundup day and we’ve got work to do.”

  “Well, not really,” Benny butted in. “I’ll be in charge of the roundup and I doubt that I’ll need any help.”

  I turned away from Drover and gave our uninvited guest some fangs. “Let’s get something straight, pardner. My ranch, my roundup. If you want to tag along and see how we do things on this outfit, okay. But keep your opinions to yourself.”

  I was all set to clean house on that guy once and for all. I mean, patience is a virtue only up to a point, and then it’s time to start busting heads.

  But just then, I heard High Loper call my name. I turned to Mister Smarty and gave him a smirk. “There, you see whose name they’re calling? You’ll find that when the chips are down, they’re very seldom up, and good management calls in the First String.”

  “Really? We’ll see, I suppose.”

  “I suppose we will, and we’ll just see whose cow ate the cabbage.”

  “I don’t follow that.”

  “It’s just as well that you don’t, because you’re going to stay right here while I go up and get my orders for this roundup. Drover, on your feet and prepare to move out. I’ll be right back with our assignments.”

  The little mutt staggered to his feet. “Maybe I’d better stay here and guard Miss Scamper’s pickup, ’cause my leg . . .”

  “Never mind your leg. It’s your so-called brain that I’m worried about. Don’t say anything stupid until I get back.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  And with that, I gave Miss Scamper one last wink, whirled around, and marched straight to the corrals, where the High Command was waiting to begin the strategy conference.

  They couldn’t start without me.

  Chapter Four: HUH?

  The cowboys were gathered around the door of the saddle shed. Loper was crouched down, doodling in the dust with his finger, which seemed a little odd to me.

  I marched right into the center of things, which is sort of where you would expect the Head of Ranch Security to go, right? I sat down and waited for the conference to begin.

  Loper’s head came up. “You’re sitting on my map of the pasture, you idiot.”

  I glanced around the circle of faces, searching for the alleged “idiot” who had . . .

  “WILL YOU MOVE YOUR WORTHLESS CARCASS!”

  He appeared to be looking at . . . well, ME, you might say. I gave him a smile and began sweeping the ground with my tail.

  “GET OFF MY MAP!”

  I looked around for this map he was yelling about, and I’ll be derned if I could see one. Obviously, he was speaking to someone else, yet he continued to glare at me and yell. So I, not knowing anything better to do, acted on a sudden impulse and licked him on the face.

  Maybe that was the wrong sudden impulse to act upon. I mean, let’s examine the facts: some guys appreciate a juicy lick on the face and some don’t; sometimes it’s just the right way to start off the morning and sometimes it ain’t. At a high level conference, you just never know.

  The point I’m sort of easing into is that Loper grabbed me and threw me out of the inner circle, while the others laughed and slapped their knees, and then he went back to drawing in the dust with his finger.

  Oh. He was making a map of the . . . how was I supposed to know? He re-drew the pasture in the dust. I poked my head in between several pairs of legs and observed.

  “Slim, you and Baxter take this trail up the caprock and check out the northwest corner. If you find any cattle, push them east toward me. I’ll be over in the northeast corner. We’ll push everything south and try to bunch them in the prairie dog flat northeast of the house. You got that?”

  The men nodded. So did I.
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br />   “All right, Billy, you cross the creek and ride out the south side. I noticed a big bunch over in the southeast corner yesterday evening.”

  Billy nodded. So did I. It was a pretty simple strategy, really, the same one I would have suggested.

  “Johnny, you take the dog and ride down the creek to the Parnell water gap. There’s a bunch of tamaracks and willows down there, and that’s where the dog might make a hand. Turn him loose in that brush and see if he can bring the cattle out.”

  Johnny nodded. So did I. Loper was exactly right in thinking that I could bring those cattle out of the heavy brush. That’s one of my specialties, brush work.

  You’ll find that some of your modern-day, lower-bred stock dogs won’t do brush work. For example, you hear a lot of these blue heelers nowadays complaining about thick brush. They don’t like it. They’d rather sit in the back of a pickup in front of the coffee shop and growl at everyone who goes in and out.

  I never had much use for the coffee shop crowd myself, and heavy brush has never bothered me in the least. As far as I’m concerned, the heavier the brush, the thicker it is, and I like to be in the thick of things. So there you are.

  It struck me as a little odd that Loper had assigned me to work with Johnny, a man I didn’t know. A lot of dogs would find it difficult, if not impossible, to coordinate complex pasture maneuvers and command systems with a total stranger.

  Me? I take things as they come. Loyalty to the outfit is very high on my list, and if that means working with a stranger—hey, I’ll be there, covering my territory and doing my job.

  “Any questions?” Nobody had a question. Loper pushed himself up to a standing position and I noted that his knees popped. I salted that information away for future reference. You never know when mere information might turn into a valuable clue.

  “Boys,” Loper went on, “I’ll be riding a green colt this morning. If the cattle make a run, you boys with better horses will have to go with the leaders and I’ll stay with the drag.” They nodded. “Baxter, will that beagle dog of yours stay in the pickup?”