The Fling

by John R. Erickson

  “Well . . . I had a little trouble.”

  “Hey, you talk about trouble. When you left the yard . . .”

  I told him the whole story about how I had fought my way out of the yard and was forced to give Attila the thrashing of his life. I could see that he was impressed.

  “You done all that, huh? He was sure a big dog.”

  “He wasn’t as big as he thought, Ralph, nor as tough. If I could buy that mutt for what he’s worth and sell him for what he thinks he’s worth, I’d be a wealthy dog.”

  He chuckled. “Huh, huh. That’s pretty good.”

  “You bet. Oh, it was a terrible fight, Ralph. We tore down a peach tree, knocked out a whole section of fence, hair flying, teeth flashing . . . wait a minute.” I stopped and stared at the ground at Ralph’s feet. “Where’s the loot? Where are the weenies?”

  Ralph hung his head. “Well . . . they’re gone.”

  I held him in a blistering gaze. “Gone? Gone! I knew it, I knew you couldn’t be trusted! Ralph, you’ve just broken my heart. I thought we were friends, pals, jailhouse buddies.”

  “They got stolen.”

  “I thought we were . . . What?”

  “The weenies got stolen.” His big sad eyes came up. “I waited for you across the street. While I was waiting, these two big dogs came along. They smelled the weenies and said they wanted ’em.”

  “Two big dogs . . . go on, Ralph, I want to hear the rest of this.”

  “Well, then they . . .” A big tear slid down his cheek and his lip trembled. “I can’t go on. I’m ashamed of myself. You trusted me and I let you down.”

  He choked up and couldn’t speak. I gave him a pat on the shoulder and began pacing in front of him. “It’s all right, Ralph, just take it easy. Let me see if I can finish the story for you.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “No problem. You see, Ralph, you’ve given me a couple of clues, and I can see the whole scene before my very eyes.”

  “Gosh. Really?”

  “No kidding. It comes from years in the Security Business. You see, Ralph, in my line of work, we often start with tiny clues and reconstruct the entire crime. Let’s see how close I can come.” I set my jaw, lowered my brow, and plunged into deepest thought. “Okay, you’re sitting there on the curb, waiting for me to return from combat.”

  “Yalp.”

  “You’re sitting there, minding your own business, when these two big mutts pass by and catch a whiff of your weenies. Our weenies, actually.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Like I said, they’re big guys, scruffy and hard-eyed and tough.” I stopped pacing. “How am I doing so far?”

  “Boy, you’ve nailed ’em.”

  I flashed a brief inward smile and resumed pacing. “This is just a hunch, Ralph, but let’s throw it out. Their names were . . . Buster and Muggs.”

  He let out a gasp. “I’ll be derned. How’d you know that?”

  “I have my sources, Ralph, that’s all I can tell you. We know about those guys and have been keeping files on them for a long time.”

  “Yeah, it was them, all right.”

  “Just as I suspected. Okay, they stop and they say . . . Buster would do the talking . . . Buster says, ‘Say, pal, how would you like to share the weenies? We ain’t had much to eat today.’ Is that close?”

  Ralph was amazed. “Boy yeah. That’s just what he said, but how’d you . . .”

  “Heh, heh. Years of experience with the crinimal mind, Ralph, but let me continue. It’s coming fast now.” I resumed pacing. “At first you try to ignore them, but they won’t be ignored. You try to walk away with the weenies, but they block your path. By this time, you’re getting scared.”

  “Yup. They were pretty scary guys.”

  “Just as I thought. Okay, at this point you’re scared but you don’t want to give up the weenies. I mean, we worked hard for those weenies and you don’t want to lose them to a couple of bullies, so you . . . okay, you try to make a run for it. Am I right?”

  His head bobbed up and down. “That’s just what I done. I tried to make a run for it.”

  “Right, and that’s when they jumped you, Ralph. Those two big bullies jumped you and tore the string of weenies out of your mouth.”

  He was starting to cry again, as the painful memories returned. “Yes, yes! They tore the weenies right out of my mouth, the mean old things!”

  I plunged on. “They stole the weenies from you, Ralph, and walked away . . . laughing.”

  “Yup, they laughed.”

  “Which left you feeling helpless and terrible, Ralph. See, you blamed yourself.”

  “Uh . . . yeah, I did, sure did.”

  “And those same feelings are coming back at this very moment, aren’t they?”

  “Yes!”

  “And you’re still blaming yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Yes! I’m a failure and a chicken liver! I should have gone down fighting!”

  I paced over to him and patted him on the back. “I know how you must feel, Ralph, but I want you to know that our friendship is worth more than a string of weenies.”

  He looked at me through a veil of shimmering tears. “It is? You mean that?”

  “Honest. We’ve been through so much . . .”

  Suddenly, he burped. “Oops, ’scuse me.”

  “No problem. We’ve been through so much . . . Do you smell garlic?”

  “Me? Nope, don’t smell a thing.”

  “Hmm, that’s odd. There for a second, I thought I smelled . . . Where was I?”

  “In the yard with that big dog.”

  “Oh yes, there I was, facing this huge . . . We were talking about our relationship.”

  “Oh yeah.” He burped again. “Sorry.”

  “No problem. Anyway, Ralph, the bottom line of all this is that you can’t go on blaming yourself. Somehow you have to . . . I smell garlic again. You don’t smell garlic?”

  He sniffed the air. “Oh yeah, it’s coming from the garbage barrel.”

  “Ah yes, of course. Somehow, Ralph, you have to pick up the pieces of your shattered life and move on.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Reckon I ought to go back to the dog pound?”

  I gave that some thought. “Maybe you should. I mean, we had our Fling and it was a good experience for the most part.”

  “Yalp.”

  “We had some laughs and we had some tears, but what really matters, Ralph, is that it deepened our friendship. We lost the weenies, but by George, we have the memories.”

  “Yalp.”

  “And nobody can take those memories away from us, Ralph. They’re precious and we’ll keep them forever.”

  “I guess so.” He pushed himself up. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

  My gaze followed him. He was walking away. “Hey, wait a second. I wasn’t quite finished.”

  “Uh-huh, but there’s my ride.”

  It was then that I noticed the dogcatcher’s pickup creeping down the street. Jimmy Joe was listening to country music on the radio and had his arm stuck out the window.

  I followed Ralph into the street. “Hey, wait. We haven’t even said good-bye.”

  “You might want to stay hidden. I’m Jimmy Joe’s pet, but you’re an escaped convict.”

  “Good point.” I dived into a hedge. “Well, good-bye, old friend, old prison buddy. We had our Fling, didn’t we?”

  “Yalp. It was a good ’un. See you around.”

  “And don’t blame yourself any more. It’s just water under the dam.”

  He waved a paw in the air and went clicking out into the . . . He sure was walking funny. I mean, I hadn’t noticed it before, but Ralph was badly overweight. Why, he looked as though he had swallowed an inner tube or something.

&n
bsp; He was as fat as a hog! He could barely walk on those short legs of his.

  That happens to your town dogs, you know. They gulp down big meals and never get the proper exercise, and before you know it, they’ve taken on the shape of a weenie.

  Oh well. Even though he was fat and not terribly smart, Ralph was my pal, and as I watched him waddle out to meet the dogcatcher, I felt a warm glow of satisfaction. We had shared some meaningful experiences and I had helped him through a deep personal crisis.

  And now it was time for me to head back to the ranch—which, come to think of it, wasn’t going to be such an easy matter. I mean, twenty-five miles across country . . . and it was getting dark.

  Gulp.

  I could only hope that the coyotes weren’t out. If they were . . .

  I waited for the dogcatcher to leave. When the sound of the pickup vanished into the distance, I pointed myself to the south and headed out in a long trot.

  I would have to travel all night. With luck, I would be home by midmorning. Without luck, I would be . . . in trouble.

  I made my way to the highway on the south edge of town and hit the road. Hours passed and the miles stretched out behind me. Darkness fell, and onward I plunged, driven by a powerful longing for my home. It suddenly occurred to me that I even missed . . . well, Drover.

  It must have been around three o’clock in the morning when I finally reached the Wolf Creek road. I was tired, but still had three miles to go. It seemed to me that I should stop and take a little . . .

  Howling? I stopped and listened. There it was again, the howling of distant . . . coyotes, and all at once I felt refreshed and had no interest at all in stopping to rest. I needed to get home. Fast.

  Have we discussed coyotes? Maybe not, but maybe we should. They can bark just like dogs. In many ways they look just like dogs. In other very important ways, they’re not like dogs at all. In fact, they’re dangerous to dogs.

  They were close and getting closer. Good grief, I had walked right into the middle of a whole nest of cannibals! I could hear them barking and howling in all directions, which meant that . . . well, maybe I was surrounded. Yipes.

  I happened to be standing at the base of a large cottonwood tree. Climbing trees wasn’t part of my background or cultural heritage. I mean, that’s the kind of thing cats do, but dogs? Never. As far as I knew, nobody in my family had ever climbed a tree or had even thought about climbing a tree.

  Yet I was thinking very seriously about climbing this tree. Could it be done? Was it possible? The answer came to me in the form of a blood-chilling howl that errupted about a hundred feet in front of me. In a flash I leaped straight up, wrapped my paws around the first limb, and hauled my enormous body up into the tree.

  You think dogs can’t climb trees? Just bring in a few cannibals and see what happens.

  But check this out. Suddenly I realized that the tree was full of . . . big black things.

  Chapter Twelve: Buzzards and Another Happy Ending

  I sat down on a limb and glanced around. What were those large humps sitting on the limb beside me? I could just barely see them in the darkness, but I managed to count two of them. No, three. Four?

  Holy cats, there was a whole line of these large dark forms perched on the limb! I cut my eyes from side to side. What was going on here? After a moment of deep thought, I dared to reach out a paw and touch . . . and suddenly I heard a voice. It said:

  “Hee hee hee. Th-th-that t-t-tickles. Are y-y-you a b-buzzard?”

  To which I said, “Why . . . yes, of course. Yes, I am definitely a buzzard. How about yourself?”

  “Oh y-y-yeah, I’ve b-b-been a b-buzzard m-m-most of my l-life.”

  “Same here. It’s a great way to, uh, make a living, isn’t it? And a good wholesome lifestyle, I guess you’d say.”

  “Oh y-y-yes, w-w-we’re very p-p-proud, m-m-me and Pa. H-have you m-m-met my p-p-pa?”

  Wait, I recognized that voice. It was Junior. Quickly, I tried to cover for myself.

  “No, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m, uh, new here, just flew in from Abilene.”

  “You w-w-want to m-meet my p-p-pa? I c-c-can w-w-w-wake him up.”

  Just then, a loud hacksaw voice cut through the silence. “You already did, Junior, so y’all don’t need to whisper and tippy-toe, ’cause you’ve already woke up me and half the buzzards in the Panhandle.”

  “Oh g-g-g-good.”

  “What’s good about it? Sleeping is good, son. Wakin’ up is the pits. I did a hard day’s work today and when I come home to the roost, I expect to sleep, not listen to a bunch of chatterboxes talkin’ about nuthin’ and wakin’ up the whole tree.”

  “P-p-p-pa?”

  “What!”

  “I w-w-want to introduce y-y-you to my n-n-new f-f-friend, new friend.”

  Have you figured it out? I had climbed up into a tree that happened to be the local buzzard roost, and it appeared that there were dozens of ’em. Buzzards, that is. The tree was full of big black sleeping buzzards—including Wallace and Junior. Pretty scary, huh?

  Well, Wallace leaned forward and looked at me. In the pale moonlight of the moon, I saw just enough of him to get a description: Ugly. Very ugly.

  He spoke. “Name’s Wallace.”

  “Okay. Hi, Wallace. How’s life?”

  “Life’s hard. That’s why we sleep at night.”

  “H-h-h-he’s from Abilene, P-p-pa.”

  “Huh. Don’t they believe in sleepin’ down there? And I’ll tell you something else, Junior. He looks like some kind of freak to me.”

  “P-p-pa, h-h-hush.”

  “Well? It’s true, ain’t it?”

  “H-h-h-he’s d-different, is all.”

  Wallace leaned forward again and scowled at me. “That’s the only buzzard I ever seen with ears.”

  “W-w-well, that’s j-j-just the w-way they d-d-dress down at Abilene.”

  “That ain’t dress, son, that’s equipment. Show me a buzzard with ears and I’ll show you . . .” All at once Wallace looked down at the ground below. “Junior, son, I don’t want to scare you, but there’s somebody down at the base of this tree. Reckon you ought to swoop down there and check it out?”

  Junior rocked forward and looked down. “Uh . . . n-n-no, I d-d-don’t think so.”

  “Who do you reckon they are?”

  “W-w-well, I’d s-s-say m-m-maybe th-they’re c-c-c-coyotes.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and in the silence we could hear sounds drifting up from below: the tramping of feet, the low rumble of voices, and an occasional burst of harsh laughter. I got the feeling that Wallace was staring at me.

  “Hey, you with the ears. Abilene. How would you like to go down there and tell them rowdies to shove off and take their noise to some other tree? ’Cause if you don’t, we’re liable to be up all night, and I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  At that very moment our conversation was interrupted by a loud voice from down below, and I must admit that it sent a cold chill through my entire body.

  “Uh! Coyote get strong smell of dog, follow strong smell to tree. Coyote think dog hiding up in treetop.”

  Wallace and Junior exchanged worried glances. Then Wallace whispered, “Son, we have barbarians at the gate.” The old man glared down at the coyotes. “Now y’all boys better knock off the noise and go on home, we’re trying to sleep up here.”

  “Ha! Coyote not give a hoot for sleep, want dog from treetop.”

  “We ain’t got a dog. Dogs don’t live in trees, and if y’all keep on making all that racket, you’re fixing to learn something about buzzards you really don’t want to know.”

  This was greeted with a chorus of hooting and laughing, and all at once the tree began to shake. Bam, bam, bam! It appeared that the coyotes were head-butting the tree, if you can believe that, which gi
ves you some idea of just how tough those guys were.

  Then we heard the voice again. “Coyote get tired and tiredest of waiting, maybe tear down whole tree and find dog for eat!”

  Wallace puffed himself up. “Hoss, I’m runnin’ out of nice ways of tellin’ y’all to scram out of here.” Bam, bam! Wallace heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Okay, y’all have asked for it and begged for it, so you’re fixin’ to get it.”

  You know what he did? He leaned out over the limb and proceeded to throw up on the cannibals. That’s what buzzards do when they get mad, don’t you know, and it’s . . . We don’t need to go into chilling details about the, uh, molecular structure of what went down on top of their heads. It was too awful to describe.

  Fellers, you talk about something that will kill a party. That did it. A moment of eerie silence followed, as poisonous fumes and vapors spread through the airwaves. Then . . . an explosion of screams and shouts, the crashing of brush, and the thunder of footsteps fading into the night. Then . . . silence.

  Wallace sniffed his nose and rubbed his belly. “Dadgum rowdies. That was the best skunk I’d eaten in months.” He turned to us. “Well, you reckon we can get some sleep now?” He fanned the air with his wing. “Shew! Them coyotes need to take a bath once in a while. Night, y’all.”

  “N-n-n-night, P-p-pa, and n-n-nice w-w-work, nice work.”

  I didn’t say a word. I was having trouble just breathing. I didn’t figure I’d ever get to sleep, and if I ever did, I was pretty sure I’d end up falling out of the tree. But somehow it all worked out, and the next thing I knew it was dawn.

  What woke me up was the sound of singing. I know, that sounds odd, but when my eyes popped open, I found myself looking at one of the most peculiar scenes you can imagine: a whole tree-full of big black birds, all singing the same chant in unison. It went like this.

  Buzzard Chant

  Morning sun and morning light,

  Fading stars and fading night.

  Diamond dew frosts sparkling grass,

  Yellow sun rays have come at last.

  Warm’s the sun and still’s the air,

  Gone’s the darkness everywhere.