The Case of the Monkey Burglar

by John R. Erickson

  “That’s my lunch. Don’t even think about getting into it.”

  Me? Steal his lunch? Why, such a wicked thought had never . . . sniff sniff . . . by George, it did smell pretty good.

  “Hank, get your nose out of my lunch!”

  Sure, fine. I was just . . . boy, friendship sure doesn’t count for much on this outfit, not when there’s a scrap of food involved.

  He threw the truck into first gear, and we were off to the hay field. Over the roar of the motor, Slim yelled, “She’s kind of loud, ain’t she?”

  Yes, loud and smoky. Cough.

  We drove north to the county road, turned right, and followed it east for a mile to the alfalfa patch. There, we left the main road and drove out into the field, whose surface was lined with row after row of hay bales. Eight hundred of them.

  Slim stopped the truck and gazed out at the field. “You know, when a guy’s driving down the road and sees a bunch of hay on the ground, it looks kind of pretty. But it changes things when he knows he has to load and stack every stinking bale.”

  We all climbed out of the truck. Slim strapped on his hay chaps to protect his legs from the scratchy hay, pulled on a pair of leather gloves, and seized a hay hook in each hand. Then he went to work.

  Have we gone over the procedures for loading and hauling hay? Maybe not, so let’s take a quick review. When one man is doing the job, he parks the truck beside one of the lines of bales and loads up the ones that are within easy walking distance, usually five or six bales.

  With a hay hook in each hand, he stabs the hooks into the ends of a bale and lifts it up to his thighs. Holding the bale against his legs, he carries it to the truck and throws it up onto the flatbed. After he has loaded five or six bales, he climbs up onto the bed of the truck and stacks the bales, two across and one longways. Then he drives the truck forward and repeats the process.

  After he’s done this about ten times, he’s got a load on the back of the truck, three or four bales high. He drives the truck back to headquarters, throws the bales off on the ground in the stack lot, and starts building a big haystack that will remain in the lot until we feed it to the cattle over the winter.

  Then it’s back to the field for another load. Over and over, all day. Whew! Just talking about it makes me hot and thirsty. See, what you have to remember is that there’s no shade in a hay field, and by noon, the temperature might be up in the high nineties or even over a hundred degrees.

  Oh, I almost forgot to mention that while Slim was loading and stacking the hay, we dogs had our own work to do. Every time he picked up a bale, we had to be cocked and ready to dive on any mice or rats that had taken up residence beneath the bale, so don’t get the idea that Slim was the only one working his tail off.

  Mousing is a very demanding job, and it requires a specialized kind of tail-work that most dogs don’t even know about. See, before Slim picks up a bale, we have to be in the Lock-and-Load Position, whipping our tails back and forth to let him know that we’re ready to pounce on whatever dangerous beasts might be lurking under there.

  Sometimes it’s just crickets or beetle bugs, but sometimes it’s a field mouse or even a huge pack rat. Pack rats are a special challenge, don’t you see, because they not only can run, hide, and dive into holes, but if you happen to grab one, he’ll whip around and bite your lip off.

  For that reason, we . . . uh . . . sometimes find it convenient to let the pack rats escape. I mean, who wants to go through life without lips? Those lips are pretty important. Without lips, you can’t whistle, smile, pout, or deliver flaming kisses to lady dogs, and who needs that? So, yes, we had developed a special set of procedures for dealing with pack rats.

  We pretty muchly left ’em alone, if you want to know the truth.

  Anyhow, that’s today’s lesson on loading, stacking, and hauling hay. It’s pretty impressive that a dog would know so much about the hay business, isn’t it?

  You bet.

  Now, where were we? Oh, yes, in the cool of morning we hauled four loads of alfalfa to the stack lot, and by then the heat had moved over the hay field like a heavy blanket. A white ball of sun blazed down on us from a cloudless sky, and there wasn’t a breath of wind. Slim had dripped enough sweat to fill a fair-sized bucket, and he was looking a little wilted.

  He poured some water down the back of his shirt and fanned his face with his hat. “If Loper was here, he’d crack the whip and we’d keep a-going, but you know what?” He grinned down at us dogs. “He ain’t here. I finally got him off the ranch, and now I’m going to take me a big old juicy nap.” He frowned. “Wait, hold everything. Have I sung you dogs my special deluxe nap-taking song?”

  Drover and I exchanged looks of dread. Oh no, another of his ridiculous songs! Could we stand another one? It was too late for us to run and hide, so we put on our bravest faces and prepared to listen to the tiresome thing. Here’s what he sang.

  Naptime on the Prairie

  There’s many a story ’bout old-timey cowboys

  That tell of both famine and feast.

  They drove herds of cattle to Dodge City, Kansas,

  And put ’em on trains to the East.

  They crossed ’em through mountains and valleys and deserts,

  And drove ’em through blizzards and sleet.

  From daylight to darkness, those heroes pushed on

  And rarely had chances to sleep.

  Well, it’s naptime on the prairie,

  When a cowboy’s ambition grows dim.

  In the heat of the day,

  It’s just normal to lay

  In the shade of a cottonwood limb.

  A modern cowpuncher who works on a ranch

  Has adapted on different lines.

  With inside commodes and gravel-packed roads,

  He’s missed out on lots of good times.

  There’s much that he missed but things that he’s gained

  In being a hundred years late.

  See, now when the boss drives away from the ranch,

  The cowpuncher heads for the shade.

  Well, it’s naptime on the prairie,

  When a cowboy’s ambition grows dim.

  In the heat of the day,

  It’s just normal to lay

  In the shade of a cottonwood limb.

  Those ’punchers who lived in the great golden days

  Never thought about grabbing a nap.

  Or maybe they did and just didn’t tell it

  To grandchildren perched on their lap.

  They say that those trail-driving cowboys were tougher

  Than those of us living today.

  I really don’t care, as I pull up a chair

  And take me a nap in the shade.

  Well, it’s naptime on the prairie,

  When a cowboy’s ambition grows dim.

  In the heat of the day,

  It’s just normal to lay

  In the shade of a cottonwood limb.

  In the heat of the day,

  It’s just normal to lay

  In the shade of a cottonwood limb.

  Chapter Five: The Guppy Invasion

  Well, there you have it, Slim’s deluxe nap-taking song, and I must admit that it wasn’t as bad as some of the other duds he’d inflicted on us. Actually, it was pretty good. I mean, it had a melody and it even rhymed in spots, so maybe he was getting better with practice.

  But I would be less than honest if I didn’t point out a pretty serious mistake in the chorus. Out in the middle of the hay field, Slim didn’t have a “cottonwood limb” to make shade. Would you like to guess where he found his shade?

  He crawled under the truck. There, he made a pillow of his hay chaps and uttered a growl of contentment. “Dogs, if somebody comes along and tries to steal my truck, give me a bark. Otherwise, keep yo
ur traps shut, and I’ll see you in about half an hour.”

  Steal his truck? Who would . . . okay, it was a joke. There wasn’t a thief in the whole state of Texas who would have bothered to steal such a heap of junk, so we sure didn’t have to worry about that.

  And as for me keeping my trap shut . . . fine. What did he think I was going to do, run around and waste a bunch of good barking in the heat of the day, while he sawed logs under the truck?

  Forget that, Charlie. He wasn’t the only employee of the ranch who deserved a nap. There was someone called ME, and I already had my eye on a nice piece of shade under the . . .

  “Not under here, bozo.”

  . . . a nice piece of shade on the north side of the truck, shall we say. I did my Three-Turns-Around-the-Bed and collapsed. It didn’t bother me one bit that Slim had hogged the best shade under the truck.

  Okay, it kind of hurt my feelings, and my name wasn’t “Bozo.”

  Who is Bozo, anyway? Slim called me that all the time, and I had a feeling that there was some kind of joke behind it, but I didn’t know the whole story. I made a mental note to ask around and find out who this Bozzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

  Bozo wozo, flibbering flozo . . . meek wonk whippersnapper whickerbill . . . mudpie pigpen honkly snork sniff . . . zzzzzzt . . . Beulah riding in a cricket wicket . . . red balloon wheedle wheelbarrows . . . zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  You think I wasn’t worn-out, exhausted? Hey, all that work on Mouse Patrol had pretty muchly drained my tank, and once I hit that piece of shady ground, fellers, my lights went out. Exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I tumbled down the deep hole of sleep.

  It was delicious sleep, wonderful sleep, the kind of sleep that ravels up the knitted sleeve of . . . something. It was great sleep, the kind of healing sleep that every Head of Ranch Security longs for and . . .

  “Hank?”

  . . . deserves.

  “Hank?”

  Huh? I heard a voice . . . a voice from outside the deep well of sleep . . . a voice that seemed to be calling someone’s name.

  “Hank, you’d better wake up.”

  Hank? Who was Hank? Did I know anyone named Hank? Did I have a name? Guppy-thoughts swam through the aquarium of my mind. Yes, I had a name: Flibbering Flozo. The call wasn’t for me.

  Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  “Hank, somebody’s here!”

  Suddenly I felt myself being launched up the dark well of sleep, scattering guppy-thoughts and guppy-dreams in all directions. I leaped to my feet and . . . BONK . . . almost broke my head on the stupid running board of the . . .

  I blinked my eyes and swayed back and forth on rubber legs. There, standing right in front of me, I saw . . . four little white dogs! No, wait, two little white dogs.

  Huh? Okay, one little white dog. “Drover? Is that you I see before me?”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’m before or after, but it’s me.”

  “Good. Great. I’ve called this meeting of the Security Division to discuss . . .” I staggered three steps to the right and collapsed. I found myself staring at the dirt. It looked exactly like dirt, only more so. “Drover, how long has it been like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure. I was hoping you might know.” I blinked my eyes and glanced around. “Where are we?”

  Drover grinned. “We’re in the alfalfa field.”

  “Yes, of course.” I staggered to my feet and tried to put on a solemn face. “I’ve called this meeting to discuss alfalfa. Do you have anything to report?”

  He stared at me. “Well, it’s kind of like hay.”

  “Good. Excellent report. Now we’re ready to vote. Everyone in favor of alfalfa, open your mouth and say ‘ahhhh.’”

  “Ahhhhh.”

  All at once, I noticed that Drover’s mouth was open. “Did you just open your mouth and say ‘ahhhhhh’? Are you sick? Do you think I’m a doctor? What’s wrong with you, Drover?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Did you see all those fish? There were hundreds of little fish, Drover. Guppies.”

  “I was a guppy once.”

  “You were a puppy.”

  “Maybe that was it, but I played in the water.”

  “Drover, somebody drained the tank. All the fish are gone. Only moments ago, there were all these fish inside the aquarium and . . .” I gave my head a shake and moved closer to Drover. “Did I say something about fish?”

  “Yeah. I think they were muppies.”

  “Hmmm. Listen carefully. All references to fish will be stricken from the record, do you understand? It was all a big mistake, a breakdown in communications. There were no fish.”

  “Got it.”

  “Now, one last question. Did you just wake me up?”

  “Well, I tried.”

  I heaved a big sigh. “Ah! That explains it, doesn’t it? I was asleep and dreaming about fish. No problem. Open your mouth and say ‘ahhhh.’”

  “I already did.”

  “Well, do it again. I noticed something when you did it before.” He opened his mouth, and I peered inside. “Has your tongue always been that long?”

  “I yink yo.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth open. You need to have that tongue looked at.”

  “Hank, a pickup truck just pulled into the field, over there.”

  He pointed to a pickup that had come to a stop, an old faded green Chevy with a camper on the back.

  “Drover, a strange pickup has just pulled into the field.”

  “Yeah, and it has four tires.”

  “Hmmm. Good point. It does have four tires. This is looking a little fishy to me.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about fish.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Good. Let’s go!”

  We shifted into Turbo Three and went streaking toward the unidentified pickup just as the driver stepped out. Description: a tall, skinny man with long, stringy hair hanging out of a battered straw cowboy hat, faded jeans, long-sleeved Western shirt with snap buttons, and a pair of dark eyes that seemed just a little bit shifty.

  He was looking toward the hay truck, and he even leaned down so that he caught sight of Slim sleeping in the shade. I noticed that his eyebrows rose.

  Right away, I had a bad feeling about this guy, so instead of doing the usual Hose Procedure on his tires, Drover and I slowed to a Stealthy Creep, raised the hair on our respective backs, and moved toward him. I wanted him to know right away that dogs were on duty and we would be watching his every move.

  I figured he might jump back into the pickup when he saw us creeping toward him. People who don’t belong on a ranch often do that, you know, and it’s a sure sign that they’re up to no good. But this guy flashed us a friendly smile, knelt down, and spoke to us.

  “Hi, there. Come here.”

  We stopped in our tracks, leaving ten feet of space between us. I had no intention of getting too friendly too soon. I mean, when you’re in the Security Business, you have to be suspicious of all strangers, no matter how nice they seem to be. It’s pretty tough, being vigilant all the time, but it’s something we have to do. Discipline is crucial.

  The man smiled, as though he understood. “Well, that’s okay. You dogs don’t know who I am, so let me explain. My name’s Willie Sidelow, and I’m with the Texas State Department of Hay. We need to make sure that all your equipment is up to standards, know what I mean?”

  Oh. Well, that made sense. Sure.

  He rose to his feet. “Now, I see that your master’s taking himself a little nap and we don’t need to disturb him. I’m going to send my assistant over to check out the truck, and then we’ll be on our way.” He turned toward the pickup. “Bub, come here!”

  You won’t believe this, but instead
of opening the pickup door and stepping outside, Bub jumped out the window.

  Chapter Six: An Official Inspection

  Pretty amazing, huh?

  Bub was a little bitty feller, couldn’t have stood more than three feet tall. He had big ears and you wouldn’t describe his face as handsome, but other than that, he seemed fairly normal. He was dressed in jeans and a Western shirt, and had a red bandana around his neck and a black cowboy hat on his head.

  He came over to Willie, who said, “Bub, these are the local guard dogs. Shake hands and let’s be friends.”

  Bub stepped toward me and stuck out his hand. Okay, he wanted to shake hands, and I happened to be pretty good at that, so I offered a paw and we sealed our friendship with a shake.

  Bub seemed a pretty swell guy, but when he offered his hand to Drover, the little mutt melted away and hid behind me.

  “Drover, what are you doing? The man’s trying to be neighborly. Shake his hand.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know, there’s something about him that makes me nervous.”

  “You’re being weird, and you’re embarrassing me. These guys are important officials. Shake his hand.”

  Wouldn’t you know it? He cowered behind me and wouldn’t come out to greet our guests.

  But Willie was a good sport about it. He laughed and said, “That’s okay. He’s just a little bashful.” He turned to his partner. “Okay, Bub, go check out the truck and we’ll move on down the road.”

  Bub answered his boss with a snappy salute and headed for the truck. The little guy had plenty of energy. I mean, he didn’t just walk to the truck. He ran. Anybody could see that he really enjoyed his work.

  But then I noticed something kind of strange. After running upright for a ways, he dropped down on all fours and really scooted along. Gee, I didn’t know many people who could run on all fours. And did I mention that he wasn’t wearing shoes? No shoes.

  Willie was watching me and said, “Bub got wounded in the war and sometimes he has to go down on his all fours. He’ll never tell you this, but he won a cigar box full of medals in the Foreign Legion. He served two years in Abrakadabra. The man’s a genuine hero, but you’d never know it, he’s so quiet and humble.” A quiver came into his voice, and he turned away. “It just breaks my heart to see him so crippled up.”