The Fling

by John R. Erickson

  Gulk.

  Ralph’s fat bohunkus was still plugging the tunnel, so I decided to try . . . well, charm and diplo­macy. You shift all your circuits over to Sincerity and Remorse, and concentrate extra hard on beaming the “I didn’t do it” message to the offended party. Sometimes it works.

  And sometimes it doesn’t.

  BAM! Down came the shovel. It missed me by inches. I went to higher voltage on the Sincerity Transmission and . . .

  BAM! If I just sat there, he was going to find his range with that shovel and do great harm to my body. At that point . . . BAM . . . we cancelled the Sincerity Transmission and threw all circuits over to a setting we . . . BAM . . . call Rocket Dog.

  I went to Turbo Six and took dead aim at the back fence. I had no choice but to batter my way through it. It looked pretty stout, probably five feet of solid wood, but there was a shovel-swinging lunatic behind me and I had to get out of there.

  I felt the G-forces compressing the flesh of my face. All my bodily fluids moved back into my tail section. Faster and faster. The earth was whizzing by me now, nothing but a blur. Fighting the terrible G-forces, I reached out and pushed the throttle one more notch—to Turbo Seven.

  We had never traveled at this speed before. It was unknown territory. Would the equipment take it? Could our hardware stand such punishment? We just didn’t know. We had simulated this contagency through Data Control, but that was simulation. This was the Real Thing.

  I was aware that at any moment, my entire body might be vaporized in a violent explosion. A ball of fire, a column of smoke, and no one at the ranch would ever know what happened. They would grieve, mourn, cry, wear sackcloth and ashes for weeks and weeks, but they would never know how their heroic dog had met his end.

  The fence loomed up before me. My mouth went dry. My lips were parched. Faster and faster. The moment was approaching. Five. Four. Three. Two . . .

  I stepped in a stupid hole! Who would have expected . . . but at such astonishing speeds, even the tiniest of depressions on the launching surface can cause a derailment. This wasn’t a tiny hole. It was a deep hole, probably dug by that idiot black dog, and suddenly everything went to pot and we found ourselves . . . well, doing cartwheels, you might say.

  When I quit rolling, I was lying against the fence. BAM! There was the shovel again, and if I hadn’t dodged, it might have changed the location of my head. Well, that was enough. It was time to sell the farm. Bail out. Abort the mission. I dashed between the man’s legs while he was reloading the shovel, and crawled into a large bush.

  It was dark in there. I could hear the man out­side, muttering threats and thrashing on the bush.

  “Come out of there, you thieving hound! Attila, get him! Tear him up!”

  Attila? Who was . . . Oh yes, the big black dog. Gag, I had escaped one form of murder only to stumble into another. But where was he?

  I cocked my ear and listened. I could hear him . . . breathing. He was in the bushes! Attila and I were occupying the same bush. It was an eerie sound, let me tell you, and what made it even spookier was that I couldn’t see him. It’s hard to see a black dog in the dark, right? That was the deal. I knew he was in there but . . .

  I inched forward and . . . bumped into something big and hairy.

  I froze. I didn’t dare move or even breathe. I cocked my ear and listened. The sound of his breathing had stopped. He had switched to Quick Quiet, just as I had, and we were now engaged in a very dangerous waiting game. The first one to breathe . . .

  Silence. My whole body ached for air. I held my breath as long as I could. Then I took a gulp of air . . . and so did he. I heard it.

  I swallowed hard. “Attila, I don’t know you well. In fact, we’ve never been introduced, but we need to talk.”

  There was a throbbing moment of silence, then I heard his voice. “Right.”

  “I realize that from your perspective, this all looks pretty bad. I mean, a couple of strange dogs show up in your yard and . . . well, plunder the mas­ter’s supper.”

  “Right.”

  “But I think I can explain everything. Will you listen, just for a moment? I’ll be brief.”

  “Sure.”

  I breathed a sigh. “Great. Here’s the straight story. You saw that other dog, right? Basset hound, short guy, big ears, sad eyes?”

  “Right.”

  “He’s a convicted murderer and he’s been in jail for years. You ever visit the dog pound?”

  “Not me.”

  “Well, that’s where he’s been until this afternoon. Attila, he broke out of prison this very afternoon and he’s gone on a wild rampage. I tried to stop him but he . . . he threatened to tear me limb from shred.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  This was selling. I could tell by the tone of his voice. I plunged on.

  “He came into this yard looking for a dog to eat.”

  “I knew it!”

  “He saw you sleeping.” I heard a gasp. “He was moving toward you.” Another gasp. “But at the very last second, I smelled the meat cooking and said, ‘Hey Killer, take the meat and leave the poor dog alone. Haven’t you eaten enough dogs for one day?’ And you know what he said?”

  “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Take the weenies, take the grill, take the whole yard, I don’t care, but just get out of here.”

  “You really mean that? You’re not sore about this?”

  “Sore? Listen, fella, I ain’t a guard dog. I play with tennis balls, know what I mean? They throw the ball, I chase it and bring it back. That’s me, that’s who I am. My whole life’s wrapped up in chasing balls.”

  “So, if I happened to slither out of here, you, uh, wouldn’t be bitter?”

  “Right. Just leave. Look at me. I’ve got hives!”

  “It’s dark, I can’t see.”

  “I’ve got hives. I can’t stand the stress. Pres­sure kills me. Big bumps. They itch.”

  I began edging toward the tunnel. “Okay, Attila, have it your way. I’ll leave.”

  “Great. Peace, brother.”

  “Same to you. And thanks for the weenies. You want us to save one for you?”

  “Nah. Garlic gives me indigestion. Just go.”

  I shot out of the bushes. The man was standing right there with his shovel raised over his head. BAM! Did he think I was going to sit there and let him smash me? Ha. He could forget that. I put some amazing moves on him, juked him out of his shorts, and headed for the tunnel.

  BAM! The foolish man thought he could run me down. Ha. I showed him speed like he’d never seen before. In a flash, I had streaked across the yard and dived into the tunnel and was heading for . . .

  BAM!

  . . . freedom, but my hiney was a little slow about getting under the fence and, yes, the insane person with the shovel finally scored a hit. It hurt pretty badly and gave me a slight tail concussion, but I managed to claw my way through the tunnel and popped out on the other side.

  Wow, that had been a close one. I shook the dirt off my coat and was about to go looking for my trea­sure of captured weenies, but then I heard something that forced me to stop.

  From the other side of the fence, I heard the man say, “Attila! Git ’im, boy! Tear ’im up!”

  Then I heard the bushes crash. Then, barking at the top of his lungs, Attila hurled himself against the fence between us.

  “Come back here, you dirty rat! I’ll bust all your legs and tear off your ears! Where’d he go, let me at ’im!”

  I thought about saying something to the mutt, but decided not to. What the heck, I had won the prize, and when you win, you can afford to be modest about it. Let him bark.

  Besides, my mouth was watering and I could almost taste those barbecued weenies. I set out to find Ralph, never dreaming that . . . well, you’ll see.

  Chapter Ten: Ralph Stole
My Weenie Feast, the Scrounge

  Attila was a Labrador, right? And everybody knows that Labs are nothing but big cream puffs, right? What we had here was a yard mutt who was scared of his own shadow and played with tennis balls, so I felt pretty confident that . . .

  The yard gate burst open and out stepped the former owner of the weenies. He was dragging Attila by the collar and pointing at . . . well, he sure seemed to be pointing at . . . ME.

  “Git ’im, Attila! Do your stuff, boy!”

  And here he came, bounding across the yard, and you know what? He didn’t look like a cream puff any more. I saw a huge black body, blinking red eyes, and gleaming fangs, all coming straight at me.

  My first reaction was to . . . well . . . to run. I mean, mostly I ran from the shock of it all, but also because . . . let’s face it. Most people and dogs would run from a big black dog with blinking red eyes, right? They wouldn’t just sit there and try to figure things out.

  Yes sir, I ran and I wasn’t ashamed to be running. But I also tried to conduct some Over the Shoulder Diplomacy.

  “Hey, Attila, what’s the deal here? I thought . . . Listen, bud, those hives are looking worse. No kidding. How about a few sets of tennis, huh? You go back to the house and find a ball and we’ll . . .”

  He was not only big, he was also quite a bit faster than you might have supposed. He closed the distance between us with those long loping strides and caught me just as I reached the middle of the street. He hit me with a full head of steam and sent me rolling.

  When I quit rolling, he was right there in my face—all teeth and eyes and nastiness. I was lying on my back, which meant that my throat and belly were exposed to his fangs, if he chose to use them.

  In a serious fighting situation, a guy never wants to end up on his back. Have we mentioned that? It’s true. Nothing could be worse. That’s where I was, in the worst possible position to defend myself from this monster.

  I looked into his blinking red neon eyes. They were heartless, showed no hint of mercy. But then . . . they sort of shorted out, you might say, and he spoke.

  “Hey, fella, are you scared?”

  “What?”

  “Are you scared?”

  “Uh . . . yes, I’m a little scared. How about you?”

  “Out of my mind. I hate this stuff!”

  “Yeah? Well, for a guy who hates violence, you’re putting on a great show.”

  “That’s all it is, nothing but a show. The boss wants it, know what I mean? I’ve got to do this to keep my job.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe we can work out a deal.”

  He shot a glance back at the yard. His boss was standing there, waiting for some action. “Let’s. You don’t hurt me and I won’t hurt you. We’ll make it look good—growl, bite, snarl, roll around, lots of noise, big scene.”

  “Okay, that’ll work.”

  “You lose the fight, see, and make me look good. You keep the weenies, I keep my job. Got it?”

  “Got it. Uh . . . you’ll have to let me up.”

  “Right, sure.” He stepped back and I leaped to my feet. He gave me a wink. “You ready?”

  “Sure. Let’s go for it.” I threw a wild punch and raised my voice. “There, take that, you ruffian rascal!”

  “Good, good. Now here’s mine. Watch this.” He roared a bark and threw a wild punch. “There, take that, you shameless weenie thief!”

  “Don’t you call me a shameless weenie thief!”

  “I’ll call you a shameless weenie thief any time I want, because that’s what you are!”

  “Oh yeah? Well, you’re nothing but a tennis-loving ruffian rascal with red eyes!”

  He grinned and whispered, “Good shot, good shot.” Then he roared, “Don’t you call me a tennis-loving ruffian rascal, you weenie-thieving shameless cad!”

  This went on for several rounds, and in between insults we threw a lot of punches that missed the mark. It was kind of fun, to tell you the truth, two dogs dancing around in the street, doing the things we had to do to keep our jobs and weenies.

  Heh, heh. And Attila’s boss, the dumbbell, ate it up. He was jumping up and down, yelling, and cheering us on to more and bloodier things. He must have thought this was a dogfight to the death. Heh, heh. Little did he know.

  After several great rounds, I said, “What do you think? Enough?”

  “Just a little more. I haven’t seen the boss this happy in months.”

  “Okeydoke. Try this.” I puffed myself up and yelled, “And furthermore, you big oaf, your mother’s a fat cow!”

  Attila stopped in his tracks and stared at me. “Why’d you say that?”

  “Well, it’s part of the show. You know, insults and stuff like that.”

  “Yeah, but . . . you insulted my momma.”

  “It was a joke. Hey, relax. I say that to the cattle at the ranch all the time.”

  “Yeah, but their mothers are cows. My momma’s not a cow.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t I know that? Look, let’s . . .”

  He shook his head. His red-light eyes had come on again. “Uh-uh. You shouldn’t have said that, man, you shouldn’t have insulted my momma. I can’t take that. It hurts too much.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  He advanced a step toward me. “It unleashes something terrible inside me.”

  I began backing up. “Attila, whoa, easy boy, settle down.”

  “I’m gonna wrap you around that light pole there, buddy, for telling lies about my momma.”

  “I take it back, okay? Your momma’s a wonderful lady. She’s not a fat cow. She’s not fat. She’s not even a cow.”

  “Too late, buddy, the damage is done.”

  Well, he was wrong about that. The damage wasn’t already done, at least the damage to me, but he took care of that pretty quickly. We needn’t dwell on the darker parts of the story. I’ll say only that Attila lived up to his name, and he did try to wrap me around the light pole. The only reason he didn’t get it done was that his aim was bad. Instead of hurling me into the light pole, he shanked his throw and put me into a rosebush instead.

  After that, he didn’t get another chance. I . . . uh . . . seized the opportunity to . . . uh . . . make a graceful exit. Okay, I ran, might as well come out and admit it, and he chased me for a whole block. No kidding, a whole block.

  When he finally gave up the chase, he called out, “Hey, buddy, I’m sorry. I lost my head, know what I mean? Nothing personal, okay?”

  Hunkered down in a flower patch, I yelled back—in the privacy of my own mind, that is—I yelled back, “Yeah, right, nothing personal. Well, your mother’s still a fat cow and you’re a lunatic! And see if I ever steal weenies from you again!”

  There. That got him told. Peering out of the flowers and shrubberies, I saw him turn and leave, the coward, and go back to collect pats and congratulations from his boss. When he was a full block away, I raised up and yelled, “I guess you know this means war!”

  He stopped and turned around. I ran.

  Well, one of us had to show some maturity. I mean . . . skip it.

  Having given the big lug the thrashing he so richly deserved, I went in search of my partner. Ralph. Remember Ralph? We’d pulled the job together, you might recall, and somewhere in this huge city, he was holding my share of the loot. I had to find him.

  I walked down the street, calling his name. “Ralph? Oh, Ralph? Come out, come out, wherever you are. I’m ready to split the loot.”

  Weenies, oh boy. I could hardly wait.

  I called and called, but Ralph was nowhere in sight. I walked down one side of the street, then crossed over and walked down the other. I saw some children playing. Several cars whizzed past. But no Ralph.

  At that point I began to get suspicious. Surely my old pal didn’t take off with all our loot. He woul
dn’t do that, would he? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that, yes, that’s exactly what the scrounge had done.

  I mean, he was a jailhouse mutt, right? Had a prison record as long as your leg. And what would a jailhouse mutt do if he found himself alone with a string of weenies? Stick around and wait for his partner to show up? Ha.

  Oh, what a fool I’d been, trusting Ralph with my share of the business!

  Bitter and angry thoughts marched across the parade ground of my mind. I had been swindled out of my fortune, and now I had nothing to show for my trip into town. We’d had our Fling, all right, and Ralph had flung me right into the garbage heap of Life.

  He would pay for this. If I ever saw the mutt again, he would pay a terrible price for his greedy ways . . . but of course I would never get a chance to even the score. This was his town. No doubt he knew exactly how and where to disappear.

  I had worked myself up into a towering fit of righteous anger and was walking past an alley, when I heard someone say, “Pssssst.”

  I stopped and turned my head slowly to the right, half expecting to see Attila, in which case I was primed and ready to, uh, take appropriate measures. Or could it be the dogcatcher? Yes, of course. Attila’s master had told his wife to “call the dogcatcher,” remember? I had forgotten about that, but now . . .

  I was just about to set a Speed Course back to the ranch, when I saw a sad droopy basset face peering out from behind a garbage barrel. It was the face of a dog, and he seemed to be . . . calling me.

  I squinted my eyes and studied the face. It looked a lot like Ralph’s. Then he motioned me over with his paw.

  I’ll be derned, it was Ralph.

  Chapter Eleven: Ralph’s Tragic Story

  When I recognized his face, I felt a huge sense of relief. My partner had been true to the end.

  I dashed over to him and enveloped him in a big manly hug. “Ralph, by George, it’s great to see you again! Where have you been? I looked everywhere.”