I feel my life is going down the drain.
I’ve taken all the hicking I can standa
This hiccuping is driving me insane.
I’ve attempted all the tricks that any dog would likely try:
I’ve held my breath and counted to ten thousand one by fives;
I’ve tried exercise and pesticide and standing on my head.
You’d think the hicks would go away; they’ve gotten worse instead!
It’s hard to run a ranch while you’re hicking.
It’s corrosive to one’s sense of dignity.
I’m feeling desperate and I sense the clock is ticking
On my job as Head of Ranch Security.
Just imagine what would happen if the coyotes came tonight
And launched a bloody raid to satisfy their appetites.
If I met them at the gates and gave them orders stern and loud,
I’d probably hiccup in the middle, drawing laughter from the crowd.
As you see, the situation’s getting serious.
I am losing my authority to rule.
This hiccuping is making me delirious
And my enemies might think that I’m a fool.
So if someone out there listening has a cure for this disease,
I beseech you to inform me of it, hurry, pretty please.
Duty calls, jobs are waiting and it wouldn’t be much fun
If I had to bring the day to life by hicking up the sun.
Hicking up the sun.
You probably think it’s funny that I still had the hiccups. Fine, go ahead and laugh all you want, I don’t care.
Yes, I DO care, and do you know why? Because it wasn’t funny, not at all. How can a dog conduct the solemn business of being Head of Ranch Security when he’s . . . we’ve already covered this and I won’t say any more about it.
But it WASN’T FUNNY.
Where were we? You see what those hiccups do to me? I had something very important to say and then we got sidetracked on the subject of . . . wait, here we go.
I was in the process of brooding over Drover’s shameful and cowardly behavior, when I looked up and noticed a line of angry dark clouds moving in from the northwest. It appeared to be a cold front, the kind of sudden and violent storm we often get in the month of March.
Have we discussed the month of March? Maybe not. It’s the windiest month of the year: north wind, south wind, back and forth, lots of wind, and sometimes sudden storms.
Anyway, I was just standing there, minding my own business, when I looked up and saw this line of angry clouds moving in from the northwest. All at once the air was still, not a breath of wind. You could hear tiny sounds in the distance, such as . . . what was that?
I heard a tiny sound in the distance behind me. I whirled around and faced . . . a rooster. J. T. Cluck was coming toward me, walking slowly with his head down. He didn’t see me until he almost ran into me, then his head shot up and he stared at me.
“Oh. It’s you again. I finally got them hens quieted down, but it took half the night. You sure have a way of getting women stirred up.”
“Thanks. Good-bye.”
“Huh? Good-bye? Who’s leaving?”
“You are. I’ve filled my monthly quota of being around chickens. Go away before I die of boredom.”
He puffed himself up. “Well, too bad, ’cause I ain’t ready to leave. I’ve got something to say.”
“You always have something to say, J.T., and it’s always worth missing.”
“Oh yeah? For your information, pooch, this here is pretty darned important.”
I heaved a sigh and sat down. “Okay, I’ll give you three minutes. That’s all I can stand.”
J.T. glanced over both wings and leaned toward me. “You remember what I told you last night as you was leaving the chicken house?”
“You said the HICK sky was going to fall. And you know what, J.T.? It didn’t happen.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted to talk about. See, I’ve changed my forecast.”
Somehow that struck me as funny, and I laughed. “Changed your forecast!”
“That’s right. The sky’s going to fall, just as sure as shootin’, but it ain’t going to happen as soon as I thought.”
“Oh? What happened?”
“Well sir . . . the wind quit blowing. Did you notice that?”
“Of course I noticed. It’s my job to notice every tiny detail.”
“Well, I noticed it too, and I’m moving my forecast back one month, ’cause the wind quit blowing.”
“So the sky’s going to fall in April?”
“Yes sir, that’s what I’m a-saying. See, the sky can’t fall when the wind ain’t a-blowing.”
“Why is that?”
He stared at me and blinked his big red rooster eyes. “Well . . . just because it can’t. I don’t know why and I don’t have every answer to every little question, mister, but I’m a-telling you: the sky can’t fall if the wind ain’t blowing.”
“And you’re sure it’ll happen in April?”
“That’s right, pooch. How many times do I have to say it?”
This was turning out to be more interesting than I had expected. You know why? As J.T. was telling me all of this, I could see the cold front behind him, bearing down on us from the northwest. The closer those clouds got to us, the meaner they looked, and I had a feeling they had some wind behind them.
Heh heh.
J.T.’s three minutes were up, but I decided to string him along for a while. “What would you say if the wind came up all of a sudden?”
“Huh? I wouldn’t say anything, ’cause it ain’t going to happen. The wind’s already blowed itself out.” He drew himself up to his full height. “Next month, a terrible wind’s going to strike the earth. The dust is going to fly and the wind is going to howl and awful dark clouds are going to cover the earth. And pooch, mark my words, when all of that comes to pass, the sky’s going to . . .”
Perfect timing! I couldn’t have timed it any better if I’d planned the whole thing myself. Right at the climax of J.T.’s windbag speech, the cold front rolled across the ranch like a freight train. And it was exactly what J.T. had described in his phony Chicken Forecast!
It was a hoot, let me tell you. I saw it coming, see, but J.T. never suspected a thing. And just as he came to the most dramatic moment in his speech, the clouds rolled over us and the wind began to scream.
J.T. didn’t even have time to be surprised. That wind lifted him off the ground and sent him rolling like an empty bean can, feathers flying. If he hadn’t smashed into the front of the machine shed, he might have rolled all the way down to South Texas.
Well, you know me. When I see one of our local chickens in distress, I’m the first to offer aid and comfort. Heh heh. With dust and sand stinging my face, I rushed to his side. He was lying on his back, propped up against the machine shed, staring up at the sky with hollow chicken eyes.
“J.T., are you hurt?”
He rubbed a knot on his head. “What do you think?”
“You didn’t finish your speech. You’d just come to the important part. What were you saying?”
“Pooch, I’ve got a feeling you think this is funny, but it ain’t. Do you realize what this means?”
Over the scream of the wind, I yelled, “Yes, I do. It means that you’re just as dumb as I always thought. It means that you’ve wasted my valuable time again, but that’s okay because I really enjoyed watching you get blown away. Ha ha ha.”
He gave me a glare and struggled to his feet against the wind. “No sir, that ain’t what it means. It means . . . see, they keep fooling around with this Daylight Saving Time and it’s got everything messed up. April’s come a whole month too early and the sky’s fixing to fall! I called it right on
the button.” He bent his neck into the wind and started trudging away. “Run for cover, pooch! I’ve got to find Elsa and warn the hens! Help! Run! Take cover! The sky’s fixing to fall!”
That was hilarious, watching J.T. trying to make his way back to the chicken house. See, in a high wind, anything with feathers becomes a kite. Old J.T. would take two steps forward, then get blown sideways, take another two steps, and then go staggering sideways again, all the while squawking his head off. “Elsa, run for your life, sugar! It’s here, the sky’s fixing to fall! I knew it was a-coming!”
Dumb bird.
Well, I was enjoying the show and . . . okay, trying to keep myself from getting blown away by the wind, when I heard a voice behind me. I turned and saw Drover’s head peeking out of the crack between the big sliding doors of the machine shed.
“Hank? I just heard somebody say the sky is going to fall! And this wind . . . oh my gosh, it’s terrible!”
I staggered and stumbled against the wind and made it over to the machine shed, which offered some shelter from the storm. There, I towered over my cowardly assistant and scorched him with a glare of righteous anger.
“Drover, your biggest problem isn’t the wind. It’s that you disobeyed a direct order and failed to complete your vaccination program.”
“Yeah, but if the sky starts falling, it won’t matter if I have the hiccups. Help! Oh my leg!”
“Drover, we’ve already discussed the business of the sky falling. There’s absolutely nothing to it. It’s a chicken rumor.”
“Yeah, but I keep hearing people talk about it. And this wind . . .”
“The people who keep talking about it aren’t people. They’re chickens.”
He gave me a puzzled look. “You mean . . .”
“Yes. The voice you heard belonged to J. T. Cluck. He still thinks the sky is going to fall, but he’s a permanent pessimist.”
“What?”
I filled my lungs with air and yelled, “I said he’s a peppermint permanist!”
“He plays the piano?”
“What? I can’t hear you in this wind.”
“J. T. Cluck plays a peppermint piano?”
I stared at the runt. “Who? A peppermint piano? Drover, what are you talking about?”
“I don’t know! I thought you said . . . did you say he plays a piano made out of peppermint candy?”
“No, no, no! I said J.T. is a permanent pepperist.”
“He eats peppers?”
“Yes, exactly. He thrives on bad news. That’s why he keeps predicting that the sky is going to fall.”
“Then who plays the piano?”
I closed my eyes and let my head fall down on my chest. I felt beaten, worn down by the forces of chaos. “Drover, just skip it. Carrying on a normal conversation with you has always been difficult, but in this wind, it may be impossible.”
He shrugged and gave me a silly grin. “Boy, I sure love candy.”
For a long moment of heartbeats, I stared into his empty lunatic eyes. The lips on both sides of my mouth began to twitch and dance, as they tried to form themselves into a snarl that would . . .
Huh?
Unless my ears were deceiving me, a vehicle had just . . . I whirled around to the left and saw . . . holy smokes, a pickup had appeared out of nowhere and was coming straight at me! Unless I did something fast, such as jump out of the way . . .
Chapter Ten: I Give Slim a Shunning
You’re probably all worried and upset, wondering if I got run over and smashed by some wild maniac in a speeding pickup, right? Well, it was a pretty close call, but you’ll be relieved to know that I survived the ordeal.
But here’s the sad part. The driver wasn’t an ordinary wild maniac or some stranger who had pulled into ranch headquarters by mistake. No sir. I knew the guy, knew him very well. Would you like to take a guess who it was?
Slim Chance, the hired hand on this ranch and a guy I had thought was one of my dearest friends. Here’s the story, the sad, sad story of what happened.
He did it on purpose, see. He saw me sitting there, minding my own business, bothering nobody, and deafened by the roar of the wind, so what did he do? He crept up behind me and tried to scare the . . .
They do this sort of thing all the time, the cowboys on this outfit. A dog can never relax. The moment we let down our guard, they pop up out of nowhere and try to pull some twisted practical joke.
That’s what he was doing, see, trying to be funny. He honked the horn, slammed on the brakes, and slid to a stop, only inches from where I had been sitting. Then—you won’t believe this—he had the nerve to roll down his window and yell, “Never fear, pooch, Slim Chance is at the controls!”
Very funny.
You’d think a grown man with a steady job could find more productive things to do with his time than to . . . if the wind hadn’t been roaring and screaming, I would have heard him a mile away and he never would have been able to sneak up on me like that.
HICK.
You see what he did to me? He gave me such a scare that my stupid hiccups came back! I had cured them with “Hiccup Tango,” but now . . . okay, fine, if that’s the way Slim wanted to live his HICK life, he could do it without his loyal dog.
I’d had all of his tired jokes I could stand for a lifetime.
Our friendship was over. Finished. Destroyed in a puff of smoke . . . in a blast of sand and grit, actually, but the impointant pork is that it was over.
Our friendship, that is.
Important point.
You know what I did? I SNUBBED HIM. Yes sir, I held my head at a wounded angle, turned my back on him, and went into a program we call “You’ve Really Done It This Time!” In this procedure, we refuse to look at the other party or establish any eye contact at all. Oh, and did I mention the tail? No motion on the tail, none, not even a little twitch. What we had was a dead tail.
Remember the old saying “Dead tails tell no dogs”? That’s what we had going here, a lifeless tail that had given up hope, a tail that would never again do Joyous Swings or Broad Friendly Wags, a tail that had become so discouraged with life’s cruelties, it would never wag again.
Pretty severe, huh? You bet, but don’t forget, my feelings had been badly damaged. Slim had brought this on himself. He had made his own bed and now he would have to call the chickens home to roost in it.
Chickens?
Whoa, hold everything! Was that another clue in the mystery? I mean, don’t forget that this whole case started with me answering a Code Three Alert at the chicken house, and chickens had been popping up in my life ever since.
Hmmmm. I turned to the huge computer screen of my mind and punched in the commands for a key-word search on “Chickens.” Data Control went to work and within seconds . . .
Okay, skip it. It wasn’t a clue. False alarm.
Where were we? Oh yes, I was in the midst of a Shunning Procedure and was doing Dead Tail. I hated to take such drastic measures against a friend . . . against a former friend, let us say, but he had brought this upon himself and the chipmunks would have to lie where they fell.
It was out of my hands.
Our friendship was over.
Behind me, I heard Slim’s voice. “Come on, dogs, load up! We’ve got cows to feed.”
This was very sad. Slim still didn’t understand that he had finally pushed his loyal friend over the edge of the brink. I turned to the little lunatic who was sitting beside me.
Over the howl of the wind, I yelled, “Drover, you go.”
“Go for what?”
“Go for the pickup.”
He was staring at me with that empty expression on his face. “No, I think it’s Slim.”
“What?”
“It’s not a gopher. It’s Slim. He’s in his pickup.”
“That’s what I
said!”
“I think he wants us to go for a ride.”
“What? He’s got a gopher inside? I don’t care. You go.”
Drover twisted his head to the side. “He’s got a gopher named Hugo?”
I could feel my eyes bulging out of my head. “I didn’t say his name was Hugo! I know nothing about Slim’s pet gopher and I don’t care if his name is Hugo or Leroy or anything else. I’m breaking off all relations with Slim. You go with Hugo and Slim to feed.”
Drover’s face showed bewilderment. “Hugo’s a slim gopher?”
The wind was so awful, I couldn’t hear half of what Drover was saying, and couldn’t make any sense out of the other half. Did Slim actually have a pet gopher named Hugo? Was that what Drover had said?
At last, in desperation, I put my mouth next to Drover’s ear and said, “Drover, go feed with Slim. I’m staying here.”
“Oh. You’re not going?”
“That’s correct. I’ve quit my job.”
He grinned. “Gosh, I get the whole seat to myself? Oh goodie, I get shotgun! Bye, and thanks, Hank!”
HUH?
I watched with mounting anger as the little mutt scampered over to the pickup, leaped inside and plopped his insolent little hiney down in MY place of honor on the pickup seat. Slim put the pickup in reverse and began backing out of the gravel drive.
I cut my eyes from side to side as I found myself plunging into a new and very serious moral delemon. Do you see what I was facing? Only seconds after I had turned in my resignation as a protest, Drover was already moving into the void created by my vacuum and was making himself right at home in my place of honor!
Was I just going to sit there and take this outrage? Let the little shrimp ride shotgun in the ranch’s pickup, just as though he had earned the right?
No, by George, someone around here had to show some maturity! It wouldn’t be Drover, and Slim was such a goof-off . . . it had to come from me. I had no choice.
I switched off Dead Tail and sprinted after the pickup, doing Broad Swings on the tail section and barking an urgent message: “Hey Slim, hang on! I’ve, uh, had a change of heart and . . . okay, we’ll try to forget your cheap trick. Just don’t let it happen again, hear?”
The Case of the Falling Sky Page 6
