The Fling

by John R. Erickson

  He looked me over with those big sad eyes. “Nope.”

  “Of course you do. I’m Hank the Cowdog.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m Head of Ranch Security on a huge outfit south of town.”

  “Nope.”

  “Hey Ralph, we served some time together at the dog pound. I was on Death Row and we became dear friends.”

  “Huh. I can’t remember names, but I always forget a face. Maybe it’ll come to me here in a second. Wait. Are you the soap guy?”

  “Yes, that’s me. I was poisoned by my enemies. They slipped a bar of deadly foaming soap into my food, and your friend the dogcatcher thought I had hydrophobia. He arrested me and hauled me off to the dog pound. Remember?”

  “Okay, sure. Well, how’s life been treating you?”

  “How’s life been . . . Hey Ralph, right this minute things aren’t looking so swell. I’ve been arrested on false charges and I’m on my way to prison. To be honest, that worries me. It also worries me that you don’t seem to be worried.”

  He yawned again. “You ain’t the first dog in history to get nabbed. Happens every day.”

  “It happens every day! Listen, Ralph, this is . . .”

  “Shhhh.” A pained expression came over his face, and he pushed himself up to his feet. “I just woke up. Let me think about this.”

  I fought back an impulse to roar at him and tell him . . . well, I’d already told him everything, so there wasn’t much I could do but sit there and let him “think about it.” And just in case he didn’t think about it, I thought about it.

  What I thought was that I was in big trouble.

  Chapter Six: Ralph and I Make a Bold Escape

  I waited for Ralph to do his thinking. I figured he would be pretty slow at it, and he was. Ralph didn’t get in much of a hurry for anything.

  He yawned and stretched and walked around the cage, looking out. “It’s kind of a warm day, ain’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s warm and very depressing.”

  “Uh-huh. Days are like that sometimes.”

  “I suppose.”

  “It’s getting close to fall, ain’t it?”

  “Uh, Ralph, I don’t want to rush you . . .”

  “I’ve always liked the fall.”

  “You were going to think about my problem, remember?”

  “Don’t rush me.”

  “Sorry.”

  Again, I waited. Ralph sat down and scratched his right ear. “Wax.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He stared at me. “Wax. I get wax in my ears and it tickles sometimes.”

  “How interesting. So then you have to scratch, I suppose.”

  “Yalp. Sometimes it helps and sometimes it don’t.”

  “Mmmm, yes.” I watched as he kicked himself in the ear. “It’s probably better by now.”

  “Nope, still tickles.”

  “Great.” Seconds crawled by. I watched him scratch and tried to contain myself. The pickup lurched to a stop. “Uh-oh. Is this the dog pound?”

  Ralph glanced around. “Nope. Coffee time. Jimmy Joe’ll be here for thirty minutes. We do this every day.”

  Sure enough, we had pulled up in front of the Dixie Dog Cafe. The dogcatcher climbed out, stretched a kink out of his back, and went inside. My gaze drifted back to Ralph. He was still scratching his ear.

  Ralph was scratching, not the dogcatcher.

  “Uh, Ralph, I’ve always been a dog of few words.”

  “Good.”

  “But under the circumstances, I think I’ll depart from tradition.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Could we discuss my future? You said something about developing a plan, or words to that effect.”

  “Uh-huh. Already did.”

  “You already . . .” I stared at him. “You’ve already got a plan in mind?”

  “Yup. A good one too.”

  “Ralph, I’d be the last dog in the world to doubt what you say, but I’ve been here in this prison cage for the last half hour and I’ve seen no evidence that you were thinking or planning. You’ve been scratching, if I may be so blunt.”

  He grinned. “Helps me think, scratching does.”

  “Good. Fine. Could we discuss your thoughts? I mean, I don’t want to seem impatient or doubtful or pushy . . .”

  He raised a paw to his lips. “Shhhh. You’re starting to get on my nerves.”

  That was more than I could take. “I’m starting to get on your nerves? I’m sorry, pal, but shall we be frank and earnest?”

  “I’m Ralph, Dogpound Ralph, and I think your name’s Hank.”

  “I know your name and I know my name, and you know what else? You’re starting to get on MY nerves. My life is at stake here and I demand that you stop noodling around and get down to business.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yes, I most certainly do.”

  He yawned, pushed himself up, and waddled over to the cage door. He gave it a push with his left front paw and . . . you won’t believe this . . . it swung open!

  My eyes darted from the door to Ralph and back to the door. “How’d you do that?”

  “Gave it a shove.”

  “I saw that part, but how’d you know it wasn’t latched? I mean, I never would have thought . . .”

  “That’s the problem, see. You talk all the time and don’t do much thinking.”

  “I resent that. For your information, I don’t talk all the time.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m . . . How’d you know the door wasn’t latched?”

  “’Cause I pay attention. ’Cause I knew Jimmy Joe didn’t lock it. You want to leave or stay?”

  My gaze went to the open door. “This isn’t a trick, is it? I mean, this seems too easy, Ralph, and somehow I smell a rat.”

  He heaved a sigh. “The door’s open.”

  “Right, but consider this, Ralph. My background is in Security Work, and we’re trained never to fall for the obvious. When something seems too good to be true . . . Hey, where are you going?”

  He hopped out of the cage and trotted away.

  I edged toward the door and did a rapid Sniff and Check. See, I still wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t some kind of setup deal, and I wanted to check it out for, well, electronic sensors, powerful energy fields, magnetic thermocouples, and the other devices that might have been installed on the door.

  To my surprise, it was clean. Nothing.

  I dived through the door and into Sweet Free­dom, hurried away from the awful prison truck where I had been confined for weeks, and caught up with Ralph. He was walking down the middle of a side street. I fell in step beside him. For a minute or two, neither of us spoke.

  “Ralph, one question. If you knew that door was unlatched, why didn’t you say so?”

  “Too much trouble.”

  “What? I thought my life was about to end, and it was too much trouble for you to tell me otherwise?”

  “You’re still alive, ain’t you?”

  “I’m still alive, but I aged several years.”

  “Aged beats dead.”

  “I won’t argue that, Ralph, but . . . where are we going?”

  He stopped and sat down in the middle of the street. He looked at me with his big sad eyes. “You just keep firing questions, don’t you?”

  “Asking questions is part of my job, Ralph. I ask questions, seek answers, and follow every clue to its . . . Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know where you’re going, but I’m out on a fling.”

  “Oh? What’s a fling?” I heard him heave a sigh. “Sorry, but I’m from the country. I don’t know what a fling is.”

  “A fling’s a fling.”

  “Great. So what is it?�
��

  It took me a long time, but finally I managed to drag an explanation out of him. Here’s what he told me.

  He lived at the dog pound, remember? Only he wasn’t one of the convict dogs. He was Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher’s pet. Once every month or two, he got tired of living behind bars and went on a “fling,” which meant that for several hours or days, he indulged himself in naughty behavior and played chase games with Jimmy Joe.

  I found this strange. “Wait a minute. The dogcatcher lets you do this? He’s part of the game?”

  “Yup. We both get tired of the same old stuff. When business is slow, Jimmy Joe forgets to lock the door.”

  At that very moment, a car approached us from the west, and there we were, sitting in the middle of the street. The car screeched its brakes, swerved, honked, and zipped past us. The breeze from the car caused my ears to ripple.

  “Hey Ralph, maybe we ought to get out of the middle of the street, huh?”

  He grinned. “Naw. They’ll swerve. They always do.”

  “Yeah, but what if they don’t? What if . . . Wait a minute. Is this part of your fling?”

  “Uh-huh. Kind of exciting, ain’t it?”

  “Well, I . . . I’ve never thought about that, Ralph, but to be real honest . . .”

  Another car came along, this one from the other direction. The driver didn’t see us until the last second. He hit his brakes, smoked his tires on the pavement, and brought the car to a stop just inches away from us.

  Ralph’s eyes brightened with . . . I don’t know what. Some kind of devilish delight, I suppose, and though I had known Ralph for quite a while, I’d never seen this side of him before.

  He chuckled and gave me a wink. “That was a good ’un, wasn’t it?”

  The driver stuck his head out the window and blew his horn. “Get out of the road, you idiots! What do you think this is, a parking lot for mutts? I’m calling the dogcatcher!”

  With that, he roared away, leaving us to roast in his angry glare.

  I turned back to Ralph. “That guy was pretty mad.”

  “Yeah, it drives ’em nuts, me sitting in the middle of the road.”

  “And you think this is fun, right?”

  “Yup. And you know what else?”

  I cast glances over my shoulders, just in case another car was coming. “No, I don’t know what else. What else?”

  His eyes, usually so sad and dull, were spark­ling. “There’s funner stuff yet to come. The Fling has started. Jimmy Joe’ll be after us any minute now.”

  I moved myself out of the road and sat down on the curb. “In that case, I’ll be leaving soon. To be perfectly honest, I think this is a little . . . weird.” Another car zoomed past, missing Ralph by inches. “Ralph, you’re going to get smashed. What’s the point of all this?”

  He joined me at the curb, his ears dragging the ground and his toenails clicking on the pavement. “The point is that I get tired of being a good dog, so I bust out and do naughty things. Don’t you ever wish you could be naughty?”

  “No. I guess we’re different, Ralph. You’re just a jailhouse mutt. Me, I’m Head of Ranch Security.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s a very heavy responsibility.”

  “Yalp. So you don’t want to go with me and be naughty?”

  “Of course not, and I’m shocked you’d even suggest it.”

  “Oh. Well, see you around.” He walked away.

  “Good-bye, Ralph. I’ll be heading back to the ranch. I appreciate your help and so forth, but I want the record to show . . .” He kept walking and I had to yell. “Ralph, I want the record to state that I don’t approve of this dark side of your . . . What sort of naughtiness did you have in mind?”

  “I’m gonna eat me a steak.”

  Huh?

  At this point, we must bring this story to a close. What follows has been sealed and classified Top Secret. It won’t be available to the general public for twenty-five years.

  Sorry.

  Chapter Seven: The Fling Begins

  It’s too bad we can’t reveal any more about The Fling. It turned into quite an adventure, and I had several narrow escapes and close calls.

  But we can’t release any more details to the general public. You see, it contains certain . . . how can I say this without revealing too much? It contains certain information that could . . . uh . . . tarnish, shall we say, the reputations of several . . .

  Might as well just blurt it out. Hang on, this might shock you.

  See, I’ve always tried to be a good dog. No kidding. Since I was just a little shaver, I’ve tried to be a good dog and a good example to other dogs and little children. It’s part of being a cowdog. It comes with the job of being Head of Ranch Security.

  I have a reputation to protect. When the little children hear the name Hank the Cowdog, they naturally think of, well, courage and bravery, intelligence, good looks, dedication to duty, good looks, superior mental ability, and devilish good looks.

  What they never think of when they hear my name is . . . well, naughty behavior. It’s just not a part of my nature, and that’s why I was so shocked and impaled when Ralph tried to lead me down the path of naughtiness.

  Appalled, not impaled. Impaled means . . . I don’t know what it means.

  How foolish of him! How careless and insensitive! Why, the very idea . . . but you know, when he brought up the business of the steak . . . well, that kind of changed the deal.

  I mean, what could be naughty about eating a steak? Steaks are wholesome and nourishing. Any­thing wholesome and nourishing can’t pos­sibly be unwholesome or unnourishing . . . or naughty. And that’s when I knew, in my most secret heart of hearts, that Ralph was really a wonderful guy and a model of good behavior. Yes, he was a little boring, and yes, he was just a jailhouse mutt, but down deep, he was the kind of dog you’d want your kids to own and play with.

  And I realized that he was the kind of dog I, uh, needed to associate with—because of his immuckable standards of conduct and because of his passionate interest in . . . well, nutrition and wholesome dietary so forths.

  And besides that, he needed a friend to keep him out of trouble, just in case things got out of control on The Fling. I knew he would be safe with the Head of Ranch Security, so you see, there was a Higher Motive in my decision to . . .

  This is going so well that we might declassify the rest of the story. What do you think? Should we risk it?

  Tell you what, if you’ll promise to ignore any parts of the story that might, uh, cast doubts on my reputation, we might risk letting you take a peek. But you have to promise.

  Okay. The Fling began innocently enough, with Ralph saying something about food . . . steak, actu­ally, and you know where I stand on the issue of steak. I’m 100 percent in favor of steaks. I love ’em and have very few opportunities to eat ’em.

  They don’t often feed us steak at the ranch, you know. The people there are kind of cheap. Oh, they’ll sure feed steak to guests who come in for a few hours’ visit, but do you think they’ll waste a steak on their own Head of Ranch Security, the guy who’s out there in the dark protecting their ranch? Oh no. That would cost too much and drive the whole operation into bankrubble.

  So they give us Co-op dog food—tasteless dry kernels of . . . something. Sawdust, perhaps, and stale grease. Is that fair? Is that just? No, it’s not fair at all, but I can’t allow myself to get worked up over the injustice in the world, so let’s just skip it. I’ll say no more about it.

  Yes I will. I want the record to show that my lust for beefsteak was caused by the owners of my ranch, and their stingy, penny-pinching No Steak Policy toward dogs. If it hadn’t been for that, I would never have been lured into The Fling.

  Off we went on our little romp through town. I, being a trusting soul, followed my pal Ralph down the street. He w
as in high spirits.

  That seems odd, doesn’t it? A basset hound in high spirits. I mean, they always look so sad and mournful, but old Ralph was actually wearing a grin. This business of The Fling appeared to be a big deal to him. After spending months cooped up at the pound, he was now loose in the world. We were both in high spirits, and it seemed a perfect time to knock out a little song about our adventure. Would you like to hear it? Here’s how it went.

  The Fling Song

  Hank

  Hey, Ralph, I’ve got a question I must pose. (I must pose)

  Before today, I would describe you as morose. (Mo-rose)

  And maybe just a little boring

  Now I see your mood is soaring,

  I don’t get it, pal, you’re blooming like a rose. (Like a rose)

  Ralph

  Well, I’m here to tell you something ’bout a hound, (’bout a hound)

  Even one who makes his living in the pound. (In the pound)

  You may think my life is wretched

  Just because my face suggests it,

  But that changes when old Ralphie hits the town. (Hits the town)

  On a fling (on a fling), on a fling (on a fling)

  You can do almost anything.

  If you have a naughty thought

  Or some act you shouldn’t ought,

  The time to do it’s when you go out on a fling.

  Hank

  I’ll be derned, Ralph, this is sounding interesting. (Interesting)

  And I think I just might get into the swing. (In the swing)

  Eating steak sounds mighty fine,

  I just wonder who is buyin’.

  Or is everything provided on a fling? (On a fling)

  Ralph

  Yup, you bet, them yummy steaks are free and clear. (Free and clear)

  People cook ’em and we suddenly appear. (Appear)

  You might say it’s just a service,

  There’s no need for being nervous,

  Now it’s time for us to get our tails in gear. (Tails in gear)

  On a fling (on a fling), on a fling (on a fling),