Lost in the Blinded Blizzard

by John R. Erickson

Wouldn’t it be a shame if I got eaten? Not only would that mess up my plans for the future, but it would just about ruin the story. And what about Little Molly and her cough? Had you stopped to think about that?

  If the coyote brothers happened to eat me for supper, then it follows from simple logic that there would be nothing left of me to finish my errand of mercy in the howling blinded blizzard, or to deliver the medicine to Little Molly.

  Just think about poor Little Molly. Coughing all night, crying, coughing some more. Can you see Sally May standing over her crib, biting her lip and . . .

  When I say “biting her lip,” I mean that Sally May is biting Sally May’s lip, not Molly’s lip. She’d never do that. Sally May wouldn’t bite her child’s . . . never mind.

  Anyways, can you see Sally May standing over the baby’s lip and biting her crib? Her face shows the little web-lines of worry and she’s wringing her hands.

  Nearby, Loper is pacing the floor. “It’s all resting on the shoulders of our Heroic Guard Dog.”

  “Yes,” says Sally May. “He’s such a wonderful dog!”

  “But where could he be? Something terrible must have happened, hon, because . . .”

  “I know. Because nothing but a catastrophe could have stopped Hank from bringing the medicine to our sick child.”

  “Yeah. What a dog!”

  “He’s so wonderful!”

  “I only wish I had dozen dogs just like him.”

  “At least a dozen. Well . . .” She walks to the window and looks out at the swirling terrible frozen blizzard outside. “We can only pray that he makes it.”

  Pretty touching scene, huh? I can’t tell you for sure that such a scene actually happened, but I’m guessing that it did. Or could have.

  Yes, the terrible responsibility of making it through the storm and delivering the medicine to Little Molly was on my massive shoulders, and you’re probably sitting on the edge of your chair right now, wondering what happened next, right? Okay, hang on. The coyotes ate me and that’s the end of the story.

  I already told you, I got eaten by coyotes. You needn’t bother to turn the page again.

  Chapter Eleven: Just Kidding

  You turned the page again, didn’t you?

  And by now you’ve figgered out that I wasn’t actually eaten alive by hungry cannibals and the story isn’t over yet. But it MIGHT have turned out that way if . . .

  You won’t believe this. I didn’t believe it either, but it happened. Okay, I was backed into a corner and surrounded by Rip and Snort, who were all set to start supper. Things looked real bad for Yours Truly.

  Well, all of a sudden a bird-like object poked its head out of a hole in the embankment. The bird-like object resembled, well, a bird, you might say. In fact, it was a bird.

  An owl. A little owl.

  HUH?

  Holy smokes, it was Madame Moonshine, the witchy little owl! The soggy condition of her eyes suggested that she had just awakened from a nap.

  “Excuse me,” she yawned, “but by any chance, are you an owl?”

  “An owl? No, I don’t think so.”

  “How strange! I could have sworn that I heard an owl hooting.”

  “Oh, that. No, it was the coyote brothers, singing a song about how they don’t give a hoot.”

  “My goodness. I thought that coyotes howled and owls hooted. Now you’re telling me that coyotes hoot. I suppose the next thing you’ll tell me is that owls howl.”

  “No, I don’t think . . . hey Madame, I’ve got a small problem I need to discuss with you.”

  “Did you realize that owl + H = Howl? I find mathematical relationships so fascinating! Don’t you? And speaking of you . . .” She blinked her eyes and stared at me. “My goodness! Unless I’m still dreaming, you are Hank the Rabbit.”

  “Hank the Cowdog, ma’am, Head of . . .”

  “And shame on you for waking me up!”

  “Let me get right to the point, Madame. These coyotes are fixing to eat me, and if you’ve got one trick left in your bag of tricks, I’d be mighty grateful if you’d pull it out, real quick.”

  She smiled. “Quick trick. Did you realize that Quick – Qu + Tr = Trick? Oh, these universal principles are just wonderful! Everything is related, you see, which means that we’re all relatives.”

  “Madame, please hurry.”

  “But if all things are relative, then nothing is actually related. Oh, it’s all so wonderful but so confusing!”

  “Madame, those coyotes are planning to eat me.”

  “Coyotes? Oh yes, coyotes. Are these the same coyotes who hoot?”

  “They’re the same coyotes who don’t GIVE a hoot.”

  “Oh, then I was mistaken. I thought you said they were some sort of hooting coyotes.”

  “Well, yes, they were hooting, but they were hooting about how they don’t give a hoot.”

  She shook her head and sighed. “I’m confused. How can one hoot when one doesn’t give a hoot?”

  “Never mind the hoots, Madame, THEY’RE GOING TO EAT ME!”

  “Oh rubbish! Surely they wouldn’t . . .” She saw their fangs and drooling lips and sparkling yellow eyes. “My goodness. On second thought, I think you have a point. They do look threatening.”

  “Right. And when they’re finished eating me, they’re liable to be looking for a dessert with feath­ers on it.”

  All at once her eyes popped wide open. “I think we have just moved out of the realm of abstraction, Hank, and yes, we do need a trick—quick.”

  “Thank you, Madame, and please hurry.”

  She closed her eyes and concentrated. By this time, the Coyote Brotherhood had gotten close enough so that I was getting a much better look at their bloodshot eyes than I wanted.

  “I’ve got it!” she said at last. “Timothy will save us.” She stuck her head back into her cave and called, “Timothy? Timothy! Come here at once! We are under siege.”

  You remember Big Tim, Madame Moonshine’s personal bodyguard? He was a great big huge nasty-looking six-foot diamondback rattlesnake, and boy, do I dislike great big huge snakes, and boy, did I have a hard time sitting still when he came crawling out of the cave and coiled up between me and Madame!

  He flicked out his tongue at me, and in what I would describe as a weak voice, I managed to say, “Hey, Tim, how’s it going, pardner?”

  Because I’m scared of snakes, just don’t like ’em at all. I mean, I don’t allow rattlesnakes around headquarters and I’ve killed my share of ’em in the yard, but I’d never tangled with one even half as big as Timothy, and fellers, Timothy was pretty muchly free to come and go as he pleased on my ranch.

  Biggest rattlesnake I’d ever seen, and hey, when he flicked that tongue out at me, the thought of being eaten by coyotes lost some of its sting, so to speak.

  “Uh, Madame, do you suppose you could point your snake in the right direction? He’s staring at ME, and my ma always told me to be careful around loaded snakes.”

  “Oh rubbish, he wouldn’t . . . Timothy, you naughty snake, stop glaring at Hank! And stop sticking out your tongue at him! Shame on you! The enemy is over there.”

  She pointed a wing at the Coyote Brother­hood. Big Tim gave me one last glare—and I’m almost sure that he curled his lip at me too—and swung around to face the approaching barbarians.

  That made me feel much better. I mean, my favorite rattlesnake pal was fixing to clean house on Rip and Snort, and I was all set to enjoy the show.

  Madame stood erect and addressed the brothers. “Excuse me? My name is Madame Moonshine, and this is my cave. I have a few words to speak to you.”

  The brothers stopped and grinned at each other. Madame went on with her speech.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I do not allow ruffians near my cave. Now, shoo and scat!” They didn’t move. �
�I shall say it one more time: shoo and scat!” They didn’t move. “Very well, you leave me no choice. Unless you leave at once, I shall have to resort to drastic measures.”

  They just sat there, staring and grinning. Madame continued.

  “I perceive that you’re not familiar with the different species of serpent, so let me warn you that Timothy is a registered Skull-and-Crossbones Turbo-Diamondback Rattlesnake. He is trained to attack. His venom has been tested and certified by the Bureau of Terrible Things.

  “He is armed with two .9MM Uzi fully automatic fangs, with silencers and infrared detection devices, which enable him to perform his duties in total darkness. He is capable of striking a target in .13858 seconds, and,” she smiled, “we have never had the opportunity to time him on a second strike. We keep losing our targets after one shot.”

  She patted him on the head and turned back to the coyotes.

  “And now, you may leave. I wish you a happy snowstorm and a good day.”

  The brothers didn’t leave. What they did kind of surprised me. They started laughing. They fell over on their backs and rolled in the snow and kicked their legs in the air, yipped and hollered and hooted and howled, got a heck of a big laugh out of Madame’s speech.

  Hey, I had always suspected that those guys were a couple of bales short of a full load of brains, but laughing at Big Tim set a new record for Dumb.

  Snort jumped to his feet and shook the snow off his coat. “Uh! Coyote ready for play with snake.”

  “Does that mean you won’t be leaving?”

  “Uh! Send snake for big fun in snow.”

  “Very well, you have been warned.” Madame Moonshine swiveled her head around to Big Tim. “Timothy, go teach the ruffians a lesson. Charge! Tallyho!”

  Tim zipped his head around and glared me again. “Don’t point that thing at me, you . . . uh, Mister Timothy. In other words, please go get the coyotes . . . if you please, that is.”

  He stuck out his tongue at me one last time—I told you he couldn’t be trusted—and he went slithering out to rout the barbarian hoards.

  I couldn’t help admiring the way that snake moved. I mean, not only was he huge, but he was also quick. I figgered it wouldn’t take old Timothy long to . . .

  You know, I’d almost forgotten just how tough Rip and Snort were. I’ve said before that they loved a good brawl above all other things, even eating, and they were no more afraid of that snake than if he’d been a big worm.

  You know what they did? While Tim hissed and coiled and struck and put on a demonstration of his Oozie-Turbo-Whatever-It-Was, Rip and Snort simply dodged and weaved and kept out of his fangs—laughing and hooting all the while.

  And then do you know what they did? When old Tim ran out of Turbo, Snort picked him up in his jaws and pitched him to Rip, and I’ll just be derned if they didn’t play pass-and-touch right there in the midst of the blizzard—using Timothy the Turbo-Worm as their football!

  I had suspected all along that Timothy was just a big windbag. He sure hadn’t impressed me much.

  Well, I looked at Madame Moonshine and she looked at me. She was the first to speak. “They’re playing football with my bodyguard?”

  “Yes, and having a pretty good time, I’d say. Did you have any other ideas for getting us out of this mess?”

  “I’m afraid not. Unless . . .” She stared at me with her big owlish eyes. “Is there any reason why we’re sitting here, watching this disgraceful folly, when we could probably pick up and leave?”

  I shot a glance at the brothers. Snort was running a deep post pattern and Rip was winding up to throw the bomb. They were moving farther and farther away from us.

  “No, by George, in his own peculiar way, old Timothy just might have saved our bacon. On the other hand, his own bacon seems to be up for grabs, so to speak.”

  She sniffed at that. “Timothy will survive. Whether or not he will keep his job is another question. I had expected dramatic results, but of a different sort. Shall we go?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  And with that, we turned to the west and went streaking up the creek.

  Don’t forget, I still had an important mission to accomplish.

  Chapter Twelve: A By-George Happy, Heroic Ending

  Well, I had somehow managed to dodge another bullet—with a small assist from Madame Moonshine and her phony windbag snake—and now it was time to get back to business.

  Madame and I went plunging into the eye of the teeth of the storm, and soon we disappeared behind the curtain of snow. Shortly after the curtain of snow dropped behind us, I began to suspect that I had lost my axles. Bearings.

  “Madame,” I yelled over the wind, “which way is west?”

  “Just look for the setting sun.”

  “The sun isn’t setting, and even if it were, we wouldn’t be able to see it for all the snow.”

  “That’s true, and oh dear. It appears that we are lost in the storm.”

  “Great.”

  “Unless . . .”

  “Tell me more about unless.”

  “Well, I do have these magical sensory powers, but using them requires a great deal of effort. And if I help you find your way back to the ranch house, you won’t be able to keep me company throughout the rest of the storm.”

  I explained to her just how important this mission was—you know, about the sick baby and so forth.

  She sighed. “Very well, I suppose I can try.”

  She hopped herself up on my back and directed my nose in what I hoped was the right direction, although it seemed all wrong to me.

  I went charging through the snow and wind. The minutes passed. I was getting tired. I’d been out in that terrible storm for several hours, you know, and traveling through that deep snow was beginning to wear me down.

  On and on we went, until at last I had to stop and catch my breath. “Madame, I just hit the bot­tom of my breakfast. I don’t think I can go another step. I guess we’re lost.”

  “Yes, and I feel terrible about it. You trusted me, didn’t you, Hank?”

  “I guess I did, yes.”

  “On the other hand, what is that object directly to our right?”

  I turned my head and squinted into the snow. “Well, let’s see. It looks a little bit like a . . . hmmmm, a yard gate covered with snow.”

  “My goodness, a yard gate? If there is a yard gate, then do you suppose there might be a yard to go with it? And where you find a yard, you often find a house nearby.”

  All at once the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. “By George, Madame, I be­lieve we’ve found our way back to the . . . Madame? Madame Moonshine?”

  She had vanished. One second she had been sitting on my back, and the next, she was gone, and hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye, almost as though she had, well, planned it that way.

  Hmmm. That was a very strange little owl, but you might say that I didn’t take the time to think about it, because right then my most important job was to bark at the house and finish my job.

  Using the very last of my energy reserves, I waded through a deep drift and collapsed on the porch. I wasn’t sure that I had enough energy to scratch on the door. I mean, I was beat, wiped out.

  Exhausted.

  On Death’s doormat.

  Going into convulsions of tiredness.

  Frostbitten and snow-blinded and hypothermiated. No ordinary dog could have . . .

  “Mmmmmm, hello, Hankie. Been out for a little walk in the snow?”

  My ears twitched. Throwing the very last of my energy reserves into the task, I raised one eyelid. And there, curled up in a little ball on the porch, was Pete the Barncat.

  He was smirking at me. “I was here first, Hankie, and this is my porch.”

  Throwing the very last of my energy reserves into the task
, I opened my other eye and staggered to my feet. “Oh yeah?”

  “Um-hmm. First come, first served.”

  Funny, I was feeling stronger by the second. “Oh yeah?”

  “Um-hmmm. And if you don’t leave my porch right now, I’ll screech and yowl and cry and limp around in circles, and guess who will come outside with her broom.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “That’s right, Hankie. Sally May will come out with her broom and . . .”

  “ROOOOF!”

  “REEEEEER!”

  I figgered we might as well put Pete’s theory to the test. I barked in his face. He hissed and yowled and humped up his back and pinned down his ears, and then, as if by magic, he began limping around, dragging a so-called wounded leg.

  The front door flew open. Pete took time out from his acting career to give me a wink and a smile, and then he said, “I told you, Hankie.”

  Loper stepped out on the porch. “Holy cow, it’s Hank. He made it with the cough syrup!” He came over and, you won’t believe this, picked me up and gave me a big hug. “Good boy, Hank, good boy!”

  I never would have dared believe that he would take me into the house. I mean, we know that I deserved such treatment, but miracles weren’t common on our outfit. But that’s exactly what he did.

  Oh yes, and the best part came as he was carrying me toward the door. He tripped over the crippled cat, stumbled, yelled some harsh words, and booted old Pete right out into the snow.

  Oh, how I loved it! Bravery and devotion to duty hath no greater rewards than to see the cat booted into a snowdrift.

  Well, once we got into the house, I became the hero of the hour—of the day, in fact, or even the whole week. Or month.

  Heck, the entire year.

  Loper took me over to the woodstove and set me down in the place of honor. He stroked my head and scratched me behind the ears, and then he even scratched me on that spot just below my ribs, you know, the spot that’s hooked up to my back leg?

  I’ve never understood exactly how and why that deal works, but when they scratch me there, my old back leg goes to kicking. Feels wonderful.