The Fling

by John R. Erickson

  “Drover, the problem with you is . . .” I ventured a few steps away from the door and peered off to the east. I saw the source of the loud noise and returned to the shed. “You can come out, Drover, it’s only a truck.”

  I heard his voice coming from the far corner of the shed. “Are you sure? What kind of truck?”

  “It’s a . . . how should I know what kind of truck? The truck part is bright red, and it’s pulling a huge trailer that’s silver.”

  “I’ll be derned. It must be a cattle truck.”

  “Ha. I don’t think so. No, Slim and Loper would never . . .” I studied the truck again. “It’s a cattle truck, Drover, and do you see what this means?”

  “Yeah. It’s loud, and I can’t stand loud noises in the morning.”

  “No, that’s not what it means at all. It means that Slim and Loper ordered a cattle truck without consulting me! The guy just shows up, blaring his motor and leaving tracks on my road, and nobody bothered to tell me. This is an outroge, Draver, and something must be done about it.”

  “Well, I’m kind of busy right now. And my name’s Drover.”

  “Get yourself out here, and that’s an order. Hurry. And by the way, I know your name.” He dragged himself out of the depths of the shed and appeared at the door. “What’s wrong with you? You look sick.”

  “No, I’m scared of red trucks.”

  “See? Just as I suspected. That’s an irrational fear, Drover. Why should you be any more afraid of red trucks than green trucks?”

  “I’m scared of green ones too.”

  “Have you ever seen a green cattle truck?”

  “Well . . . not really.”

  “My point exactly. If you’ve never seen a green truck, then how do you know that you’re scared of them? You see, green is merely a color, and it’s totally irrational to be afraid of a mere color.”

  “Yeah, but I’m scared of big trucks, ’cause they roar and belch black smoke.”

  “Belching is impolite, Drover, but it’s nothing to fear. I’ve heard you belch before. Were you frightened by your own belching?”

  “No, but I don’t belch black smoke. And I’m not a truck.”

  I glared at the runt. “Drover, I’m aware that you’re not a truck. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “I’ve wondered.”

  “What?”

  “I said . . . I’m not a truck.”

  “Of course you’re not a truck. If you were a truck, you wouldn’t be a dog, but what’s wrong with being a dog? Why, all of a sudden, do you want to be a truck?”

  “Well, I guess . . . boy, I sure get confused.”

  “Exactly my point. You’re confused, Drover. Any dog who dreams of being a truck is badly confused. We need to . . .” I stopped in midsentence and walked a few steps away. “I seem to have lost the thread of this conversation. What were we discussing?”

  “Well, you said I couldn’t be a truck. But I already knew that, and besides, I never wanted to be a truck. I’m happy just being a dog.”

  I walked back over to him and looked into his eyes. “Do you really mean that? If it’s true, Drover, then this conversation has had a huge impact on your life. If you feel that you can find happiness and meaning in your dogness, then this has been time well spent.” His eyes crossed. “Don’t cross your eyes while I’m talking to you about the meaning of life.”

  “Okay, sorry.”

  “Now, tell me the truth. Do you think you can go on with your life, even though you’re not a truck?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Great!” I whopped him on the back. “We’ve managed to pull you back from the edge of the brink. Now, I observe that there’s an unidentified cattle truck on this ranch. Let’s march down there and give him the barking he so richly deserves. Are you ready for this?”

  “I’m still a bit confused.”

  “Get used to it, son. Some of us are born confused and some of us get that way through hard work. Now, let’s move out. For this maneuver, we’ll go to Turbo Four.”

  “I don’t have a two-by-four.”

  “In that case, follow me and study your lessons. We’re going to show this guy what happens when cattle trucks show up on our ranch without permission. Let’s go!”

  And with that, we taxied out of the machine shed. After a brief takeoff sequence, I rammed the throttle down and went straight into Turbo Four. Trees, rocks, and other objects flew past. Halfway down the hill, I saw trouble looming up—a bunch of chickens.

  I barked a warning.

  “Out of the way, you fools!”

  I had to alter my course just a bit to run through the middle of them, but I got ’er done and bulldozed ’em. What fun! What joy! Their squawking and flapping brought a rush of new meaning into my life, and once again I understood why no ranch dog should ever wish to be a truck.

  That’s kind of weird, isn’t it, Drover wishing he could be a truck? Oh well. He’s weird. I’ve said it many times.

  And so it was that Drover and I intercepted the trespassing truck just as it was turning around and getting ready to back up to the loading chute. I roared up beside the cab and began laying down a withering barrage of barking. Drover joined me and added a yip or two.

  “Halt! Stop that thing and park it, buddy. We need to see some paperwork before you back up to our loading chute.”

  The driver stared at me. Description: small guy, young, big black cowboy hat pushed down on his ears, glasses that made him look like a dragon­fly, and a stringy little mustache that I would have been ashamed to wear out in public.

  He stared at me and kept backing up.

  “Okay, pal, we tried it the easy way. Get out of that truck or we’re fixing to disable it.”

  He ignored me. How foolish of him.

  That left me with little choice. I rushed to the left front wheel and was just about to rip it to shreds with my enormous jaws, when . . .

  HUH?

  Chapter Three: We Apply the Secret Chemical Agent

  Hang on, you won’t believe this.

  Suddenly the sky opened up and I was pelted with hailstones the size of geese eggs. Goose eggs, I guess it would be, the size of goose eggs, and they struck me on the head and back, causing no small amount of pain.

  “Back off, Drover, we’ve got a hailstorm in prog­ress! Take cover!”

  We cancelled the combat mission and took cover in front of the saddle shed. There, we hunkered down and waited for the storm to pass.

  I turned to Drover. “Boy, that was close.”

  “Yeah, the driver beaned you with a cup of ice.”

  “A cup of . . . don’t be ridiculous, Drover. Those were huge hailstones and . . .”

  I searched the sky for hail clouds. There were no clouds, none.

  Laughter? Laughter from the truck? I crept out of the storm shelter and cast a glance . . .

  Okay, what we had here was a childish, infantile truck driver who had . . . Have we discussed truck drivers? I don’t like ’em, never have, and the very worst are the ones who drive cattle trucks. They all think they’re hot stuff, see, because they sit up there in the cab of a huge truck and can look down on the rest of the world.

  Well, he would pay for this. He had no idea what happens to truck drivers who throw cups of ice at the Head of Ranch Security. I had a little truck in my bug . . . a little trick in my bag, let us say, that would make him regret his foolish behavior.

  I whirled around to my assistant. “Okay, Drover, this guy wants trouble, so we’re fixing to give him trouble in shovels.”

  “Spades.”

  “What?”

  “Trouble in spades. That’s what you meant.”

  “That’s what I said—trouble in spades.”

  “No, you said shovels in truffles . . . troubling shovels . . . I don’t know what yo
u said.”

  “If you don’t know what I said, don’t try to correct me. And don’t forget who’s in charge around here.”

  “Trouble in shovels.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what you said. You said ‘shovels’ but you meant ‘spades.’”

  I stuck my nose in his face. “Do we have time to argue the difference between a spade and a shovel? They both dig holes.”

  “No, I think spades are cards.”

  “On this ranch, a spade is a shovel, and that’s the end of the conversation. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “What about posthole diggers?”

  “They’re in the same category, and I’m afraid we’re out of time.” The truck made contact with the loading chute, and the smarty-pants driver set the air brakes. I turned to my assistant. “All right, Drover, I guess you know what comes next.”

  “Well, let’s see. We’ll sit here and watch?”

  “No. We’re going to put all eighteen wheels of his eighteen-wheeler on Total Lockdown, using our secret chemical agent.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Exactly. He’ll never leave this ranch without dealing with us. You take the west side and I’ll take the east.”

  He gulped. “All of ’em? Nine whole tires?”

  “Yes, all of ’em. It’ll be a challenge, but I know you can do it.”

  “Yeah, but . . . what if we run out of fluid? You know me. I get all excited and . . .”

  “Ration it, Drover. Don’t go squirting in all directions. This is an exercise in self-discipline. We’ve trained for it and you can do it. Are you ready?”

  “I guess.”

  “Great. We’ll regroup at the rear of the truck in two minutes and thirty seconds. Let’s move out.”

  Keeping our bodies low to the ground, we dashed across the open piece of ground that lay between the saddle shed and the trespassing truck. When we reached the front wheels, I called a halt and looked around, just to be sure we hadn’t been observed or followed.

  We were clear, so I gave Drover the Coded Signals that would propel us into the next stage of the mission. I’m sorry, but I can’t reveal those signals. It’s extremely sensitive information, as you might expect. Why, if our codes fell into the wrong hands, every truck driver in Texas would have them, and then there’s no telling what might happen.

  Oh, what the heck, maybe it wouldn’t hurt, but you must promise never to reveal this information to anyone who drives a cattle truck. Promise? Okay, hang on. Here we go.

  Coded Signal Package for Operation Total Lockdown

  1. Left paw makes a counterclockwise circle in the air.

  2. Left eyebrow jumps up.

  3. Left eye winks once.

  4. Tongue darts out of mouth to the left twice.

  5. Left paw returns to the ground.

  End of Top Secret Transmission

  Pretty impressive, huh? You bet it was. Our enemies have never broken this particular signal package. The thing that gets ’em is that we keep going back to the left side, see—left paw, left eyebrow, left eye, left tongue, and left paw. They expect us to throw in some righthanded stuff, but we don’t. By the time they figure out what’s happening to them, we’re already done with our mission and are on our way home.

  So there you are, a little glimpse at our codes and signals and so forth.

  Anyway, I gave the signals and we launched the mission. As planned, Drover took the west side and I concentrated all my firepower on the east. The first three sets of wheels were pretty easy, but then came the hard part, that long sprint from the truck wheels to the back of the trailer. By that time, a guy is getting a little tired and is feeling the effects of dehydration, and of course you have to factor in the terrible emotional strain that comes with these secret operations.

  I felt all of those things, and I’ll even admit that in the middle of the sprint, I thought about giving up. The fatigue, the dehydration, the terrible strain were wearing me down. What kept me going was Cowdog Pride—and the bitter memory of that cup of ice.

  The truck driver would pay dearly for that cup of ice.

  Oh, maybe we haven’t discussed what happens to these trucks when we sprinkle the tires with the Secret Chemical Agent. Heh heh. Boy, what a weapon! It eats into the steel rims and hubs and actually dissolves the bearings. No kidding. And guess what happens when the smart-aleck drivers try to drive off.

  Heh heh. The truck won’t move. That’s right, it won’t move. It’s on Total Lockdown, and it stays that way until the driver comes to US and begs for the Neutralizing Agent. If he’s properly humble and courteous and respectful, sometimes we release the truck and let him go. If the driver gets mouthy (a lot of ’em do), we just walk away and let him live with the consequences.

  You know what happens then? They have to unload all the cattle and call in three big wreckers from Amarillo, and haul off the rig in three or four sections. That’s pretty harsh, but these guys have to learn not to mess with the Head of Ranch Security.

  Well, I was the first to finish the mission. Ex­hausted, burning up with thirst, and panting for breath, I leaned against a corral post and waited for my partner to come in. At last he came dragging around the rear of the truck, gasping for breath.

  “I ran out of ammo on the last tire!”

  “Reload and finish the job, Drover. The entire mission depends on it.”

  “I can’t!”

  “I told you to ration your fluid. What happened?”

  “Well, I got so excited . . . I don’t think I’d better tell you.”

  “Tell me, and be quick about it.”

  “Promise you won’t get mad?”

  “Tell me. Out with it.”

  “Oh darn. Well, I got so excited, I . . . dribbled between tires.”

  My eyes rolled up in my head. “How could you dribble between tires? We’ve worked on that, we’ve drilled and practiced. That’s the one mistake we weren’t allowed to make.”

  “I know, I messed up, I’m a failure. Can you finish it for me?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Okay, I’ll finish your job, Drover, but only because I was wise enough to hold one squirt in reserve. Remember that part of our training? Always keep a reserve squirt.”

  “I know, I just couldn’t control myself.”

  “Drover, he who can’t control himself has no self-control. You think about that while I finish the job.”

  “I’m sorry. I tried.”

  “I know you’re sorry, and I know you tried, but you’ve got to learn to hold back that last squirt.”

  I heaved myself up to a standing position and took a big gulp of carbon dioxygen. I felt weak and a little woozy. My entire body begged for rest and restoration, but the job had to be finished. If we left that one tire untreated . . . there was no telling what might happen, but it would be bad, very bad.

  I pushed Drover aside and staggered around to the west side of the trailer. Sure enough, there it was, as plain as day—a big untreated wheel. With great difficulty, I hoisted myself into the Firing Position and took careful aim.

  Click.

  Huh?

  I relaxed for a moment, took three deeps breath . . . deep breaths, I should say, and shifted back into the Firing Position.

  Click.

  Suddenly I had a feeling that Drover was staring at me. “What are you staring at?”

  “What happened? It didn’t go off.”

  “We, uh, seem to have gotten a batch of faulty ammunition, Drover.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “I mean we got a batch of faulty ammunition, and I can’t be held responsible for that.” I marched past him. “Just forget it, Drover. It was too much trouble anyway.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yes. Hush.”

  And so it was
that our mission to disable the trespassing truck ended in failure. But out of the rubble of the shambles, we emerged with a valuable lesson on water conservation and resource management. Hence, we had snatched a huge moral victory out of the jaws of the feet.

  Defeat, it should be. Out of the jaws of defeat.

  Chapter Four: Yipes! I Get Trapped in a Cattle Truck!

  Once we had notched up a moral victory for the ranch, in the face of incredible odds, I set out to discover what the truck was doing there. As you know, I hadn’t been informed, so it was pretty important that I find out just what the heck was going on.

  Creeping through the corrals and lurking behind fence posts, I was able to pick up bits and pieces of conversation, enough to establish a pattern. Loper had decided to sell this bunch of big steers at the Twitchell Livestock Auction. The truck was there to haul them into town.

  Well, that made a certain amount of sense. It wasn’t a bad plan and I wasn’t opposed to it, but I couldn’t help being a little miffed that they had made all these plans without insulting me. Consult­ing me, let us say. I mean, sometimes my schedule is flexible and sometimes it’s not. When they start shuffling cattle around, I need to know about it.

  Oh well. Part of a dog’s job on these ranches is working behind the scenes to keep the humans from messing things up too badly. We have to let them take all the credit when things go smoothly, of course, but that’s okay. We’re not in it for the glory, but rather for the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

  So once I had figured out what they were doing, I played the part of the loyal soldier and threw myself into the work of loading the cattle. Did Drover pitch in and help? Of course not. He’s afraid of being kicked. Oh well.

  Have we discussed loading cattle? I’m pretty good at it. It’s one of my better skills, actually, and I’ve got the system worked out to a science.

  Here’s how it goes. The truck driver hollers out the number of cattle he needs to load certain compartments in the truck: “Ten head for the front!” We sort ten head of steers into the . . .

  “Hank, get out of the gate!”