The Quest fort the Great White Quail

by John R. Erickson

  Snort’s voice came like the rumble of a volcano. “What dummy dogs doing in coyote cavement?”

  My mouth had become so dry, I could hardly squeak . . . speak. Actually, my mouth had become so dry that squeaking was about all I could do. “Snort, I had a feeling that you’d be wondering about that, and I can assure you that I can explain everything. Honest.”

  The silence was poisonous. I had no idea how to explain anything, least of all what we were doing in his cave. I plunged on. “Okay, Snort, here’s the story. I hiked all the way up here from headquarters to . . . to make you a deal.”

  “Uh. What deal?”

  “Snort, do you know what you guys really need?”

  “Guys need good grub, big yummy, oh boy.”

  “That’s not what you need. What you need, what you really need is . . . a bird dog. See, I’m willing to loan you my bird dog for a couple of hours. Pretty awesome, huh?”

  Behind me, I heard Plato gasp. “Hank, could we have a word?”

  “Shhh, I’m working on a plan to save our skins.”

  I turned back to Snort, who gave his head a shake. “Brothers not want bird dog. Bird dog too skinny, got too many bones for being good yum-yum.”

  “Right, but that’s only if you plan to eat him. See, most folks don’t eat their bird dogs. No kidding.”

  The brothers exchanged puzzled glances. “What most folks do with bird dog?”

  “Well, bird dogs are experts at hunting birds, you know, pointing and fetching, stuff like that. You like to eat quail?”

  Their tongues shot out of their mouths and mopped their lips. “Brothers eat quail pretty good.”

  “Well, there you are. In two hours, old Plato could find you a nice mess of quail.”

  Snort scowled. “Coyote cavement messy enough without quail mess.”

  “Right, but you’ve missed the meaning of ‘mess.’ See, a mess of quail actually means a bunch of quail.”

  Snort gave me a blank stare. “Bunch of quail make feathers everywhere, mess up coyote cavement even more so. Rip and Snort not give a hoot for messy bird mess.”

  Communicating with these thugs had always been a problem, and I could see that this conversation was leading nowhere. I shrugged and gave them a pleasant smile.

  “Well, that settles it, Snort. I thought you guys might want to borrow my dog, but I guess that isn’t going to work out, so . . .” I poked Plato in the ribs and began edging toward the mouth of the cave. “ . . . so we’ll just, you know, run along. Great seeing you again, and tell the family hello.”

  I turned toward the outside and . . . huh? You know, coyotes sometimes appear to be slow and lazy, and sometimes they are slow and lazy, but now and then they’re seized by a burst of ambition and can move very rapidly.

  That’s what happened here. In the blink of an eye, those big lugs shot across the cave and were standing between us and the great outdoors—blocking the exit is what they were doing.

  They gave us toothy grins and Snort said, “Ha ha! Two dogs not leave so berry fastly. What else bird dog do besides make big quail mess?”

  “Well, I . . . Snort, we really need to be getting back . . .”

  Suddenly, he roared and pounded his chest. “Two dogs not leave!”

  “Okay, fine, but you don’t need to screech.”

  Snort slouched toward me and brought his toothsome mouth next to my face. “Snort screech when Snort want to screech.” He opened his jaws and roared right into my face, blowing my ears straight out on my head. “What Hunk-dog say about that, huh?”

  “Well, I’d say . . . what the heck, I guess we can stay awhile.”

  Snort flashed an evil smirk and pointed a paw at Plato. “Rip and Snort ready for singing. Bird dog know how to sing?”

  I turned to Plato. “Okay, pal, here’s our chance. Can you sing?”

  Plato’s eyes had glazed over. When he opened his mouth to speak, here’s what came out: “Muh muh muh muh . . . help!”

  I turned back to the brothers. “There you go. Did you hear that?”

  “What means, ‘Muh muh help’?”

  “It means . . . Snort, bird dogs have their own unique language, don’t you see, and . . .”

  “Coyote not give a hoot for antique language! What means, ‘Muh muh help’?”

  By this time, I was sweating bullets but I had to plunge on. “It means that, yes, Plato can sing. He loves to sing and has a wonderful voice. Why, back home, he’s known as the, uh, Wolf Creek Canary. No kidding.”

  The brothers nodded and grinned. “Uh! Rip and Snort ready for big song. Bird dog canary lead singing, ho ho!”

  “Lead the singing? No problem. Hey, this guy’s a trained, certified choir director, and he would dearly love to lead us in a song, right, Plato?”

  You won’t believe this. When I turned to the Quail King, his eyes rolled up into his head and he FAINTED! Yes sir, wilted and swooned to the floor like a wet mop. I was left stunned and speechless.

  Meanwhile, the brothers were getting restless. “Uh. How come singing-canary bird dog fall down? Coyote brothers ready to sing song right now, ’cause Rip and Snort berry greater singest in whole world, oh boy!”

  I was running out of ideas. “Hey, listen, guys, he’s . . . he’s had an attack, no fooling. Sometimes he faints.”

  Their grins turned nasty, and Snort bellowed, “Rip and Snort wanting to sing pretty quick, or maybe beat up dummy dogs and break face!”

  I turned back to Plato. “Moron! Wake up, you have to lead the singing!”

  He moaned and fluttered his eyelids. “Help! Is this a movie? Where am I?”

  “This is not a movie and we’re about to be mugged by cannibals! Can you sing?”

  He blinked his eyes and glanced around. “Sing? Are you serious?”

  “Look at those two cannibals and tell me if I’m serious.”

  He turned toward the brothers and flinched. “Yipes! You’re serious. But Hank, there’s a problem.” He leaned toward my ear and whispered, “I can’t sing!”

  “Oh yeah? Well, you’re fixing to learn. You’re not only going to sing, you’re going to direct the choir.”

  Pretty scary, huh? I mean, it was good news that the brotherhood had singing on their minds instead of eating, but I had advertised Plato as a song leader and he had just informed me that he couldn’t sing, much less direct a choir of cannibals.

  It wasn’t looking good, and it got worse. All at once Plato began wheezing, gasping, and turning blue in the face.

  Yipes!

  Chapter Eleven: We Release the Anti-Cannibal Toxin

  I turned to the gasping bird dog and screamed, “Now what?”

  “Stress, tension, nerves! Can’t breathe!”

  “Oh yeah? Well, see if this helps.” I grabbed him by the throat and shook him so hard, his eyeballs almost popped out of his head. “Is that better?”

  “Yes!” he squeaked. “I think I can do it.” I released him and, sure enough, he seemed much better. “But Hank, I only know one song. Mother used to sing it to us pups.”

  “I don’t care about your mother. What’s the song?”

  “It’s called ‘The Sunbeam Song.’ ”

  “Oh brother!” I threw a glance at Rip and Snort. They were laughing, belching, and slugging each other, doing the sort of things that good-old-boy cannibals do when they’re having fun. “I’m not sure they’ll go for it, but we’ve got to give it a shot.”

  “Hank, what if I mess this up?”

  I draped a paw on his shoulder. “Plato, if you mess up, you won’t have to worry about finding the Great White Quail, because you and I will be dead meat.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure. You know, Hank, I don’t do well under . . .”

  I shoved him toward the cannibals. “They’re all yours, pal.”

  Pla
to took a moment to compose himself, then turned a terrified smile toward the brothers. “Fellas? Eyes to the front, please. We’re all going to join together and sing ‘The Sunbeam Song.’ ”

  The brothers stopped goosing each other and stared at him with open mouths. Then they broke out in a roar of irreverent laughter. Plato gave me a helpless shrug. “Now what?”

  “Crank it up, son. They’ll either join in or start tearing us apart.”

  Plato blinked his eyes, caught a quick gulp of air, and launched into his song.

  The Sunbeam Song

  When I was a puppy, my mommy would say,

  “Now, sweetie, I want you to know

  That children and puppies should try to be nice,

  So nice that you’ll actually glow.

  “When children show manners and courteous ways,

  Remarkable things start to fly.

  The clouds roll away, the sun shows its face,

  And sunbeams race down from the sky.”

  A sunbeam, a sunbeam,

  Mommy wants us to be sunbeams!

  When children show manners and courteous ways,

  Their sunbeams will brighten the day.

  One morning I woke at a quarter to ten,

  My mood was as dark as a crow.

  I frowned and I pouted and looked out the door,

  The world was all covered with snow!

  But Mommy came over and whispered to me,

  And urged me to squeeze up a grin.

  I did, and by golly, the snow disappeared.

  It melted from sunbeams within.

  A sunbeam, a sunbeam,

  Mommy wants us to be sunbeams!

  Bad weather’s no match for a bright happy grin,

  It’s warmed by the sunbeams within.

  This song has a moral, I’m sure you’ll agree,

  That happiness wins every time.

  Our attitude makes the day better or worse,

  And frowning is almost a crime.

  We all have the choice of trying to be

  Sunbeams or agents of gloom.

  If you can’t be wholesome and happy and bright,

  You might as well go to your room.

  A sunbeam, a sunbeam,

  Mommy wants us to be sunbeams!

  If all you can do is contribute to gloom,

  You might as well go to your room.

  Well, Plato managed to get through the song without fainting or making any serious musical blunders, and I’ll admit that I was surprised. I mean, when you’re working with bird dogs, you don’t expect great things, right?

  But I was even more surprised when I glanced over at the cannibal brothers. I had thought they might make some kind of response—clap, cheer, hoot, jeer, laugh, ridicule, snarl, something—but they just sat there like a couple of logs, staring at the ground with vacant eyes.

  Plato and I exchanged puzzled glances, and he said, “You know, I’m not sure they liked the song. Are they always so subdued?”

  “Coyotes are never subdued.”

  “Yet they seem very quiet, don’t they?”

  “Yes, and that worries me. I’d better check this out.” I walked over to Snort and moved my paw back and forth in front of his glazed eyes. No response. “Uh . . . Snort? Hello? Anybody home? Yoo- hoo?” At last he looked at me. “Hi there. Well, Plato did his song, so I guess we’ll be running along.”

  “Dummy dogs not going nowhere, stay in coyote cavement forever.”

  “Forever? Gee, that’s a long time, and we really need to be . . .” I looked closer at his face. “Snort, I don’t want to alarm you, but you don’t have a healthy color. In fact, your face looks . . . green.”

  He gave me a menacing glare. “Snort not give a hoot for color of face.”

  “I know, but . . . green? It’s unnatural. It makes me wonder . . .”

  His lips rose, exposing two rows of shark teeth. “Hunk-dog shut stupid mouth about green! Rip and Snort not give a hoot for color, only give a hoot for . . .”

  My goodness, he burped.

  “Bless you.”

  “Hunk shut trap!”

  “Yes sir. Sorry I mentioned it.” I rejoined Plato at the rear of the cave. He was waiting to hear my report. “Well, they won’t let us go and Snort seems to be in a real bad mood. It’s not looking good.”

  Plato scowled and studied the brothers, who hadn’t moved an inch and were still staring, wooden-eyed, at the floor. “You know, Hank, they seem to be turning . . . green.”

  “Right, and when I mentioned that, Snort told me to shut my mouth.”

  “Green doesn’t seem natural, does it?”

  “Right, and he didn’t want to hear that either.”

  “Hmmm.” Plato rubbed his chin with a paw. “You know, Hank, if I were guessing, I’d say they were . . . sick.”

  I stared at him as a whirlwind of thoughts moved across my mind. “Sick! That’s it! Don’t you get it? They’re cannibals and their bodies have no resistance to wholesome music! Your song was so wholesome, it’s making them sick!”

  Plato blinked his eyes. “You really think so?”

  “Yes, and you know what else? I just figured out how we’re going to bust out of here.” I whispered my plan in his ear.

  “You think it might work?”

  “I know it’ll work! Sunbeams, smiles, manners, happiness . . . those things are all anti-cannibal! One more chorus should push them over the edge. Are you ready?”

  “I suppose, but in all candor, Hank . . .”

  “Dry up and sing!”

  We turned toward the brothers and belted out another chorus of “The Sunbeam Song.” They responded immediately, as though we had just uncorked a vial of deadly toxins and released them into the air. A look of horror came into their eyes, and they began gasping and gagging and covering their ears.

  They dragged themselves up to a standing position and weaved back and forth on legs of mush. By the third line of the chorus, their color had turned from light green to a darker, alarming shade of green, and the lights had gone out inside their eyes. On the last line of the chorus, their heads were moving up and down, and I heard Snort let out a groan.

  “Uh! Wholesome song make Snort sicker than horse!”

  And with that, he bolted away, leaped off the edge of the cave, and vanished into the fog. Rip stumbled around in circles for another moment, his eyes crossed and green foam dripping from his mouth, then he too went flying out of the cave.

  There followed a moment of eerie silence, the kind of silence that only a heavy fog can produce, but it was soon shattered by the thunderous sounds of two poisoned cannibals . . .“Calling Earl and Ralph,” as the cowboys say.

  “Earl! Ralph! Earl! Ralph!”

  Plato shook his head in amazement. “Honestly, Hank, this is the oddest thing I ever saw.” He grinned. “But, you know, it worked.”

  “It sure did. Now let’s get out of here, before the Anti-Cannibal wears off. When it does, those guys are going to be mad enough to eat rocks.”

  We dashed to the ledge and went flying out of the cave. Since the brothers had gone to the left, we went to the right and headed . . . well, south, I hoped, but I really didn’t care, as long as we didn’t meet any cannibals in the fog.

  I hated to make this trip at Turbo Speed, but the thought of being recaptured by the brothers solved any questions I had about . . . BAM . . . running into rocks or . . . BAM . . . cedar trees in the fog, and yes, we had a few confrontations with solid objects in the murk.

  But after we’d run a quarter-mile or so, the fog suddenly lifted and we set a Speed Course that would take us back to the ranch.

  When we saw ranch headquarters in the distance, Plato slowed to a walk, then stopped. “Hank, I must ask you something. Will we be seei
ng . . . Beulah?”

  “If she’s still around, yes.”

  He hung his head. “I can’t do it! I’m so ashamed of my behavior, running off again like a . . . like a featherbrained bird dog!”

  I laid a paw on his shoulder. “Plato, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I promised Beulah I would bring you back alive, and I did. The bad news, as far as you’re concerned, is that you’re out.”

  He stared at me. “Out?”

  “Right. I can’t think of a nicer way to put it. You are now Beulah’s former bird-dog boyfriend.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yes. That’s the deal she made with me: if I brought you back safe, she’d make me Number One in her life. Now you’re free to chase the Great White Quail and stay gone as long as you want.”

  He was stunned. “Hank, I must tell you something. There really isn’t a Great White Quail. It’s just an illusion, a compulsion, a crazy dream. I realize that now.”

  “That’s right, pal, and it cost you a girlfriend. Plato, from the depths of my heart, I can say that you are the dumbest dog I’ve ever known.” I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a lady, and you can run along. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Hank. No hard feelings. I got what I deserved.”

  He turned and walked away with his nose and tail dragging the ground. For a moment, I felt a sting of sadness, but then a picture of Beulah popped into my mind and, well, somebody has to lose. Better him than me, right?

  Chapter Twelve: The Pledge of No Plastic

  Okay, it was sad, but how many tears can you shed over a soap opera that stars a bird dog? Not many. He got exactly what he deserved and he’d said so himself.

  The Great White Quail. How dumb is that?

  But just because Plato’s life had been splattered like a bug on a windshield didn’t mean that I was going to worry about it. No sir, I had big things waiting for me. Just think about it. For years I had courted Miss Beulah with every trick in the book, and now, at last, I had her all to myself!