The Fling

by John R. Erickson

  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.

  Pretty neat song, huh? You bet. Well, we made our way down a street lined with nice houses and neat yards. We had gone a couple of blocks when we heard a vehicle approaching from the east. Ralph stopped and gave me a wink.

  “That’ll be Jimmy Joe. We’d better hide.”

  We took cover in some shrubs and waited. Sure enough, a white pickup with a cage in the back came creeping down the street. As it drew closer, I could see that it was driven by none other than Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher. His eyes were prowling the yards on both sides of the street.

  He drove past us and I dared to grab a breath of air. Whew! But then he stopped. He got out of the cab, carrying his rope in his left hand. I pressed myself deeper into the shrubberies and held my breath again.

  He spoke. “Ralph, I know you’re out there. I’ve already got a complaint on you for standing in the middle of the street. You’ve had your fun. Come on in. Here, Ralphie! Here, boy!” He cocked his ear and listened. Then his eyes swung around and focused on the very bush where we were hiding. “Come on, Ralphie, give it up, son.”

  Well, I figured that was the end of The Fling. We’d been caught. I turned a questioning gaze on Ralph. He shook his head and whispered, “He’s bluffing. If he’d seen us, he wouldn’t have said anything. He’s a crafty old coot.”

  Sure enough, Jimmy Joe’s eyes moved away from our bush and scanned the other yards on the block. Then he grinned, pitched a heeling loop at the left rear tire of the pickup, coiled up his rope, got in, and went creeping on down the street.

  As the hum of his motor disappeared in the distance, we raised our heads out of the shrubberies. Ralph was grinning.

  “Huh, huh. We done him good on that one.”

  “So . . . this is just a game you guys play?”

  “Yup. He enjoys it as much as I do, only he can’t come right out and say so—him being the dogcatcher and everything.”

  “Now wait a minute. He was looking for you just now, but he didn’t want to catch you? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Uh-huh. That’d be too easy. We both kind of like to string it out, don’t you know. Gives us something to do.”

  “I see. Well, this is pretty strange, Ralph, but I must admit . . . uh, what was it you said a while ago? Something about eating a steak?”

  He glanced up and down the street, then started walking. “Yup. That’s the good part. You’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure I will. I’m very fond of steak, you know, but . . . tell me again where it comes from.”

  “Steak’s provided by the townfolks.”

  “No kidding? Gee, that’s nice of them. I guess the whole town’s in on this, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  I didn’t ask any more about it. Maybe I should have.

  We continued walking down the sidewalk, and I began to notice that Ralph had his nose up in the air and was sniffing. I took this as a cue and followed his lead. Minutes passed. We came to the end of the block and crossed the street. He was still sniffing the air.

  “Ralph, I notice that we’re sniffing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are we sniffing for anything in particular or . . . just sniffing?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, maybe you want me to guess, huh? Let’s see here.” I drew in a large sample of atmospheric particles and began analyzing them. “I’m picking up traces of . . . two dogs.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m picking up tiny traces of . . . Hey Ralph, I can’t smell much of anything, to tell you the truth, so maybe you could . . .”

  Just then he stopped walking. His sniffing increased and his head moved slowly to the left. “There we go. Bingo. That yard over yonder.”

  My gaze went to the yard directly across the street from us. I studied it carefully, memorizing every detail. “What’s in the yard that we smell, Ralph? The bicycle?”

  “Nope.”

  “The car?”

  His eyes came around and locked on me. “You know, you’d have more fun if you let me handle this.”

  “Fine. Sorry. I was just trying to help.”

  “Uh-huh, only your nose works about as good as a big rock.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure about that. For your information, the lady dogs go nuts over my nose. I’ve been told it’s a refined nose, handsome and dignified.”

  “Uh-huh, and if it was a gun, you’d be shooting blanks. You don’t smell that steak?”

  I drew in a big gulp of atmospheric particles. “I . . . no. Do you?”

  “Sure. I can even tell you how many steaks. Four.”

  I was impressed. “You can smell all that from across the street? That’s amazing.”

  He gave me a wink. “I’m a hound. Hounds wrote the book on smells. You ready to eat?”

  “Well, I . . .” He had already started across the street. I trotted after him. “You mean, these people are just . . . donating the steaks to us?”

  “Something like that. Just foller me and don’t mess up.”

  And so it was that I followed Ralph into . . .

  Trouble.

  Chapter Eight: Our Secret Mission into the Yard

  By the time we reached the front yard, I had caught the scent. “Hey Ralph, I can smell it now. Barbecue. An outdoor cooker, right?”

  His eyes swung around and he gave me a sour look. “It might be all right if you want to quit asking questions.”

  “Hey, I was just trying to make conversation.”

  “Uh-huh, but we’re coming to the tricky part, so maybe you could hush.”

  “Well gee, sorry, but I must tell you, Ralph, that I don’t appreciate your suggestion that I’m a blab­ber­mouth. Nothing could be further from the truth. In actuality . . .”

  “Are you gonna hush or are you gonna yap?”

  “I’m going to . . . hush.”

  “Good. Foller me.”

  I decided to let it drop, but I didn’t forget it. The very idea, him suggesting that I talked too much! It caused a deep wound in my . . . whatever, and I decided then and there that Ralph wasn’t the nice guy I’d thought he was.

  Telling me to shut up. I’d never been so insulted. By a hound dog, anyway. Oh well.

  We passed through the front yard and crept around the side of the house. We came to a wooden fence. Ralph pointed to it with his nose.

  “Can you dig?”

  “Sure I can dig. I’m a ranch dog, remember? We’re . . .”

  “Then dig.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay? I mean, some people don’t approve . . .”

  He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “You want me to do it?”

  “No, I don’t want you to do it. I’m perfectly capable of digging, but digging up yards can get a dog in trouble. I know these things, trust me.”

  “Dig.”

  “Okay, I’ll dig.” I moved into position and began excavating a tunnel under the fence. “There, I’m digging. You see? But while I’m digging, I want to . . .”

  He covered his ears with his paws. Fine. If he insisted on being so rude, such a cad, I didn’t want to talk to him anyway. I threw myself into the dig­ging process, clawing up huge gobs of dirt and flinging them into the air, and, heh heh, somehow the dirt went in Ralph’s direction and sprayed him good.

  “Reckon you could point that dirt somewheres else?”

  “No. And don’t talk while I’m working. That’s the trouble with you, Ralph, you’re a blabbermouth. How can I dig a hole with all your jabbering?”

  That got him, and he deserved it too.

  Well, it didn’t take me long to build a ni
ce tunnel under the fence. I stepped back and gave him a triumphant smile. “You wanted a hole, there’s a hole. Now what?”

  He shook the dirt off his face and waddled over to the hole. “I’ll get the steaks. You wait here.”

  I found myself studying him with narrowed eyes. “What are you saying, Ralph? You think I’m not qualified to enter the yard? Or maybe it’s something else. How do I know you’ll come back with the steaks, huh? You’ve got a prison record, you know.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Let’s go. Just don’t mess up.”

  “Mess up, ha! Listen, bud, you happen to be talking to the Head of . . .”

  He wasn’t listening. He stepped down into the hole and wiggled his way through. I did the same, and we came out on the other side.

  “. . . Ranch Security.”

  “Will you hush?”

  We came up in a backyard. I guess that was obvious, but it wasn’t so obvious that it had a cement patio, several fruit trees, and a barbecue cooker. It was hissing and smoking—the cooker was—and now I was getting a strong reading of . . . meat. I scanned the entire yard and com­mitted it to memory. A guy never knows when some tiny detail might turn out to be . . .

  HUH?

  A dog? A huge black dog? Yipes, there was a huge black Labrador sleeping beside the cooker! I shot a glance at Ralph. He had spotted the dog and his eyes showed concern. And that’s when I began to wonder if there was more to this deal than I’d been told.

  I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Ralph, are you sure . . .”

  He waved me off, as if to say, “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”

  Ha. I should have known. When you tunnel into a yard with a big black dog, everything isn’t fine.

  Just then the back door opened, and out walked a man. Description: I don’t remember, he was just a man. Oh, he was carrying a plate in one hand and some tongues in the other. Tongs. Pinchers. What do you call those things? Never mind.

  He walked to the cooker and lifted the lid. Smoke billowed out and filled the air with . . . My mouth began to water. That was the smell of steak, no question about it, and probably sirloin, my very favorite kind.

  Well, my very favorite after T-bones, but what the heck. When the nice people of Twitchell go to the trouble to fix you a sirloin steak, you don’t wish for T-bones. You take what’s offered.

  What a nice guy he was, fixing steak for me and Ralph. They must have been friends or something.

  The man fussed over the meat, pushed it around on the grill. Then he lifted out several hunks and set them on the plate. He went back into the house. The Labrador lifted his head and looked around. I noticed that Ralph flattened himself out on the ground.

  “Hey Ralph,” I whispered, “what’s the deal here? You don’t know that dog?”

  He held his paw up to his lips and told me to shhhh.

  The Lab swept the yard with his eyes and went back to sleep. Ralph slowly pushed himself up to a standing position and gave me a wink. He started creeping over to the cooker. Suddenly I remembered that when he walked, his claws clicked . . . whew, but that was only on hard surfaces such as pavement, and he was walking through grass.

  So far so good. He reached the cooker, and the black dog was still sleeping. Just a little farther. To snag the meat, Ralph would have to go up on his hind legs and get his mouth over the top of the plate.

  Go on, Ralph, hop up.

  He hopped up on his back legs . . .

  Good, good, keep going.

  He balanced his weight on his back legs . . .

  Now push yourself up.

  He pushed himself up and . . . tumbled over back­ward! He made a swishing sound in the grass. The black dog’s ears twitched. One eye drifted open. I thought he was going to wake up, but he didn’t. Whew! We had dodged a bulletin.

  A bullet, shall we say. We had dodged a bullet.

  Ralph pushed himself up to a standing position and glanced back at the house. He was going to try it again, but he would have to hurry. The meat on the grill was hissing and smoking. Soon it would be done and the man would be back for it.

  Ralph crouched down and threw his weight upward . . . and he fell over backward again! What was the deal? This was turning into a comedy of arrows.

  Errors, let us say, a comedy of errors.

  My heart was pounding in my . . . well, in my chest, of course, and I could feel tingles of fear skating down my backbone. Suddenly it dawned on me that Ralph would never be able to reach the steaks. You know why? Because of the way his body was built.

  See, your basset hounds have short legs and thick bodies. There are some things they can do well with such a body shape (I don’t know what they are, come to think of it), but jumping up on their back legs isn’t one of them.

  If we wanted that meat, I would have to do the job.

  I stepped forward and crept over to the cooker. I elbowed Ralph out of the way and dropped my voice to the faintest of whispers. “What kind of rookie deal is that? Get out of the way and I’ll do it myself.”

  He didn’t budge. “I can do it. Third time’s a charm.”

  “Third time’s a wreck, Ralph. You’re too fat for this. Now move.”

  He edged out of the way. “Well, you’d better share the steaks.”

  “Of course I’ll share the steaks. You said there were four of ’em. That’s plenty for both of us. Now watch this and study your lessons.”

  As gracefully as a deer, as quietly as a jungle cat, I went up on my hind legs and peered over the edge of the . . .

  Huh?

  I eased myself back down and turned a steely glare on Ralph. “You said you smelled steaks, right? Four sirloin steaks?”

  “I never said they were sirloins.”

  “Okay, but you said steaks. Well, they’re not steaks, Ralph. It’s a string of frankfurters, all tied together.”

  His ears jumped. “Weenies?”

  “That’s right, weenies, not steaks. I guess that nose of yours isn’t so great.”

  “Well . . . it’s meat. I kind of like weenies, how about you?”

  I shot a glance at the black dog. He was still asleep and hadn’t heard our whispering. “I like weenies, Ralph, but my heart was set on steak. This comes as a crushing disappointment.”

  “Uh-huh, but would you rather have weenies or be crushed?”

  I cut my eyes from side to side. “It comes down to that, doesn’t it? Okay, I’ll settle for weenies, Ralph, and I’ll do the job for you, but we’ll hear no more about your hotshot nose.”

  “Don’t mess up.”

  I stuck my nose in his face. “Listen, bud, if I’d been in charge of this mission from the start, we’d have been in and out of here in nothing flat. I never mess up. I’m Head of Ranch Security, and I’m fixing to show you how it’s supposed to be done.”

  I switched on the Hydraulic Lifting circuit and activated the enormous muscles in my hind legs. My body rose through the air—silently, flawlessly. You’ve seen huge hydraulic cranes and booms at work? Same deal. Pure power without even a whis­per of noise.

  The hydraulics worked to perfection, and within moments my nose and mouth were in position to make the snag. The important thing here was to execute the maneuver without disturbing the plate, see, snag the meat and leave the plate. If the plate fell off the cooker . . . well, that would be a rookie mistake and would get us in a bunch of . . .

  The back door opened.

  “Hey! Get away from my meat! Hyah! Scat!”

  HUH?

  “Margie, call the dogcatcher! There’s a stray dog in our supper!”

  Yipes!

  Chapter Nine: Weenie Waves Cloud My Thinking

  I should have known. Ralph had wasted precious time with all his fooling around, and now the cook had returned. We’d been caught in the act.

  A huge decision
loomed over me. Did we abort the mission . . . or should I grab the meat and hope for the best? My nose was positioned directly above the plate, and fragrant waves of steakness were . . . uh . . . clouding my judgment, shall we say, and . . .

  Okay, they weren’t Steak Waves. They were Weenie Waves, but those are some powerful waves and they made it hard for me to make a clear decision.

  The man was yelling and coming down the steps. The Labrador’s head came up and he was glaring at me with vicious green eyes . . . red eyes . . . he had eyes and they were glaring at me. I had to do something, and fast.

  I grabbed the weenie string in my powerful jaws and headed for the tunnel. I can’t be blamed for the broken plate. My plan had called for . . . We’ve already discussed my plan for the mission: in and out, no noise, no damage. But that had all gone by the hayseed when the chef had blundered out the door and started yelling.

  Wayside. It had all gone by the wayside.

  Anyway, the plate hit the cement patio and broke into a thousand pieces. By that time I had made the sprint across the yard and had reached the mouth of the tunnel. I know it was foolish of me, but instead of diving straight into the tunnel, I turned to check on my pardner.

  I needn’t have bothered. Ralph was not only right behind me, but he ran over me and pushed me away from the entrance. “Oops, sorry. Quick, give me the weenies.”

  “Are you nuts? Give you the . . .”

  “Hurry! That dog’s coming. You hold him off. You’re better at security stuff than I am.”

  Well . . . that was true. My mind was racing. “Okay, Ralph, I’ll have to trust you, but you’d better be waiting on the other side. If you run off with my meat, it will have a real bad effect on our relationship.”

  “No problem.”

  I gave him the weenie string. He seized it and dived into the escape tunnel. Then I whirled around to fight off . . . Good grief, I’d expected to see the dog charging me, but what was charging across the lawn and headed straight for me wasn’t the dog.

  It was the man! He had armed himself with a shovel and he was coming after me and, fellers, he looked MAD! Red face, bulging eyes, exposed fangs, and raised shovel.