The Ghosts of Rabbits Past

by John R. Erickson

  “I agree, and since this was your big idea, why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

  They glared at each other for a long moment, then Loper said, “By grabs, I’ll take a piece of that. Five bucks says we’ll be done and out of here in ten minutes—that is, if you don’t mess up the driving too.”

  Slim shook his head. “Not five bucks, Loper. Ten.”

  “You’re on, son. Kiss your ten goodbye.” He burst out of the cab. “Give me that rope.”

  He snatched the rope away from Slim. In a flash, he built a loop, made two quick twirls, and pitched a hoolihan loop around a clump of broom weed. He gave Slim a wink and a smirk. “That’s how it’s done in the Big Time. And I’ll show you another trick. Pay attention.”

  He went to the front of the pickup and tied the home-end of his rope to the grill guard, then hopped up on the hood. “This is where you want to be when you rope out of a pickup. Can you drive without falling out of the cab?”

  Slim barked a laugh. “Loper, you beat it all.”

  Slim started the pickup and we moved toward the cow. Up on the pickup hood, Loper had his loop cocked and ready to fire. Closer and closer. The cow watched us with an evil eye and shook her head. When she turned to run, Loper saw his shot.

  In one rapid motion, he flicked out a loop that dropped over the cow’s head and settled around her neck. He jerked the slack and turned around and showed Slim a grin that seemed to say, “That’s how it’s done.”

  Inside the cab, Slim muttered, “That was dumb luck. I think I just lost ten bucks.”

  It was a pretty piece of cowboy work, for sure, but let me pause here to discuss some of the broader aspects of ranch management. See, if a top-of-the-line, blue-ribbon cowdog had been in charge this operation, he wouldn’t have put troops into combat until he had answered one simple question:

  “Is the pickup’s grill guard stout enough to hold the jerk of a full-grown cow?”

  It was a simple, obvious question, and the answer was absolutely crucial to the success of the mission, but I was pretty sure that neither Loper nor Slim had paused to ask it.

  I knew these guys, I had worked beside them for years and knew how they approached a job of work. In a word, slap-dash. See, they’d exhausted all their mental assets figuring out how to pitch a noose around the neck of something big and mean, and had no mental reserves left to figure out what might happen if they succeeded—or, for that matter, how they might get their rope back.

  Every cowboy should ask how he’s going to get his rope back, but they seldom do. You know who wonders about such things? The dogs. See, for decades, loyal cowdogs have been sitting in ranch pickups, observing roping fiascos that turned absolutely bizarre. I mean, no circus master, no writer of comedy, no carnival owner could invent the scenes of chaos and mayhem that we dogs observe in the course of a normal day’s work.

  Just when we think we’ve seen it all, we find that we’ve seen only the beginning. There’s more, always more.

  Are you still with me? I hope so, because it’s fixing to get wild and western.

  Okay, when Loper tied the end of his rope to the grill guard, it never occurred to him to wonder if the bolts that held it to the frame of the pickup were worn and rusted. You’d suppose this might be a matter of interest, considering that 1) most ranch pickups are old; 2) ranch roads are rough and hard on bolts; 3) it sometimes rains and snows in the Texas Panhandle, and moisture is the leading cause of rust; and 4) bolts that are old, worn, and rusted tend to break under stress.

  Loper didn’t wonder about any of this. I, sitting in the pickup, wondered about it, but also knew that our people don’t want to know what their dogs are thinking, so I sat in silence and didn’t raise even a squeak of concern.

  The most important question of the day was soon answered: No, the grill guard was not stout enough to take the jerk of a full-grown cow.

  When she hit the end of the rope, we heard a loud, sickening CRUNCH. And two cowboys watched in amazement as the cow ran off, dragging the grill guard behind her. I was amazed that they were amazed. I mean, where do these guys live? What kind of cotton balls do they have inside their heads?

  Oh brother.

  Slim watched with an open mouth, then burst out laughing. “Good honk, will you look at that!”

  Loper was nowhere close to laughing. “Don’t just sit there. Grab the rope!”

  Oh, the stories we dogs could tell if we only had a chance!

  Loper bailed off the hood of the pickup and Slim exploded out the door, and the two of them sprinted after the cow. Well, this had turned into the disaster I had predicted, and I had let it go on long enough. I went sailing out the window. These yo-yoes needed help, before someone got maimed or killed.

  Once on the ground, I kicked the jets up to Turbo Four, and began…I refuse to take the blame for tripping Slim. He was an adult male, a grown man, and should have been watching where he was going. My eyes were locked on the radar screen and, well, we had a little collision and he took a nasty fall.

  Of course, he blamed ME. “Hank, for crying out loud, get out of the way!”

  See? I live with this all the time.

  The chase continued. Loper was the first to reach the grill guard, which had now become a sled made out of steel pipe and angle iron. He jumped on it. A moment later, Slim arrived and jumped on it too.

  Maybe they thought their weight would stop the cow, but they were wrong. She might have been thin and weak, but she gave the boys quite a ride, circled the windmill, and threw up a choking cloud of dust around the sled.

  Flying blind through dust, I intercepted the beast just south of the windmill. I punched the targeting information into the computer and got a blinking red light to Launch the Weapon.

  In this kind of combat situation, we target the nose, not the heels. Firing barks and bites at the rear of the brute will cause her to run faster, so when our objective is to stop the cow, we go for the nose. That’s what I did, took a double-jawed bite on her nose and hung on.

  That shut her down, and it gave Loper enough time to dig a knife out of his pocket. He managed to cut the rope and unhitch it from the grill guard. At last, we were getting a handle on this situation, but we weren’t quite out of the woods yet.

  The cow gave her head a mighty jerk and sent me flying through the air. Oof! I leaped to my feet and turned to face the…yipes, her eyes were flaming, and coils of steam hissed out of her nostrils.

  She had decided to kill a certain dog. Me. And here she came!

  Only a dunce would have stood there, waiting to see if she could do it. I whirled around and ran for my life, and within seconds, she was breathing fire on my tail section.

  Perhaps you’re wondering what the cowboys were doing while all this was going on. Great question, but you won’t believe the answer. Loper grabbed the end of the rope, wrapped it around his hips, dug his heels into the dirt, and leaned back, with the apparent intention of stopping the cow.

  I don’t want to seem judgmental, but…what can you say? This was one of the DUMBEST stunts I had ever witnessed. What do you suppose happens to a one hundred and eighty pound rancher when a thousand-pound cow hits the end of a rope? I mean, it should have been obvious.

  I suppose we can give him credit for being brave, but the result wasn’t pretty. He got jerked out of his tracks like a tent peg, and was soon being dragged by the same cow that was trying to eat me. And she was getting closer by the second.

  At that point, I did what any normal, intelligent, American cowdog would have done. I dived into the overflow pond, knowing that she would never follow me into the water.

  Chapter Nine: Back On the Case

  I’ll be derned. She followed me into the water. She sure fooled me.

  The good news is that I waded and swam across the muddy, stinking pond, and made it safely to the other side, turning a potentia
l disaster into a triumph for the Security Division. The bad news is that Loper was still hanging onto the rope and got dragged into the pond.

  Safe on dry land and dripping water, I barked a scorching message to the hateful witch. “And let that be a lesson to you! Cheaters never win and chinners never weep, and your mother was a cow!”

  I got her told, didn’t I? You bet. Even so, we weren’t out of this deal yet. Don’t forget our original objective—not to go sled-riding or play in the water, but to remove a bone from the throat of a lunatic cow.

  The pond wasn’t deep, only two or three feet of nasty stinking water with a muddy bottom. Halfway across, the cow stopped. She couldn’t breathe too well with that bone in her throat, don’t you see, and she’d finally run out of gas.

  She panted for air. Standing in water up to his thighs, Loper panted for air. Slim watched from dry land and tried to keep from laughing his head off. “What’s your plan now?”

  “Shut your gob!”

  “I can handle that. Anything else?”

  “Let’s see if we can drive her to the windmill. We’ll tie the rope to the tower.” He waded toward the cow and waved his arms. “Hyah!” The cow stared at him with wooden eyes and gasped for air. She wasn’t moving another step.

  Standing on the bank and trying to bite back a smile, Slim said, “Well, maybe she’ll stand still and you can snag the bone.”

  “Yeah? Or maybe you can get your skinny bachelor tail out here and help.”

  “Get in the water?”

  “That’s right, and you might want to hurry, before she gets her wind back.”

  Slim grumbled and muttered while he pulled off his boots and stripped down to his shorts. He waded out into the water and proceeded to “mug” the cow—threw an arm around her neck and held her tight, while Loper pried open her jaws and stuck his hand inside her mouth—pretty deep inside her mouth. The old rip had run out of fight and stood there through the whole operation.

  Loper found the bone, gave it a jerk, and pulled it out. He held it up and gave it an inspection. She had gnawed all the sharp edges and it appeared to be in perfect condition for dog-chewing. My ears shot up, my tongue shot out, and my tail began to wag in wild anticipation. I could hardly wait for him to…

  What a bummer. You know what he did with my bone? He pitched it over his shoulder, and with a splash, it was gone forever. It almost broke my heart. After all I’d done…what a waste of a good bone.

  Oh well. Ranch dogs know a lot about broken hearts. We get one every two or three days. It just seems to go with the job.

  When they waded to shore, they looked like two sea monsters slouching out of the Black Lagoon. Slim’s shorts had turned brown from the muddy water, and he had green moss in his hair. And Loper? Wow, what a mess—jeans, shirt, boots, hat.

  They walked over to the stock tank and washed off the worst of the gunk with fresh water. As Slim slipped back into his jeans and boots, he said, “What time you got?”

  Loper looked his wrist. “My watch is full of water.”

  “I’m guessing that you’ve missed your appointment in town.” Loper said nothing. “And you owe me ten bucks. But I’ll forgive your gambling debts if you’ll do one little thing: admit that we should have brought horses.”

  Loper’s face turned bright red, and he gave Slim a ferocious glare. “We should have brought horses. And when we get back to headquarters, you can start looking for another job.” He stomped toward the pickup. His boots were so full of water, they squeaked and sloshed on every step.

  Slim followed along in his cold-molasses walk, chuckling and shaking his head. “Loper, I swear, you’re something else.” I was walking beside him and he looked down at me. “Don’t worry, pooch, he was only kidding about firing me. He knows it would take five men to replace me, and there ain’t five men in the whole world who could stand his company for more than half a day.”

  Oh. That was good to hear. With those two jokers, you never know what to believe.

  Well, we had survived the Bone Ordeal and, once again, I had pulled their chipmunks out of the woodchucks. I wasn’t shocked or offended that they made me ride in the back of the pickup. After all, I was wet and muddy, and had acquired the stench of stale pond water.

  Okay, it seemed a little unfair that they had singled me out. I mean, they smelled as bad as I did, but…oh well. Riding in the back was fine with me.

  I took up my position of honor and seated myself in the middle of the spare tire. Loper put the pickup in gear and we started toward home. I was in the process of licking some of the water off my fur coat, when I happened to catch sight of something in the corner of my periphery. It wasn’t much, just a flash of movement.

  I turned my gaze toward the spot and took a closer…holy smokes, you’ll never guess what I saw: two big scruffy coyotes! In fact, Rip and Snort.

  Do you see the meaning of this? They’d been lurking in a wild plum thicket, waiting for their chance to make a meal out of old Bone In The Throat. We’d messed up their supper plans, and now they were heading back to wherever cannibals go when they can’t eat a helpless cow.

  And suddenly I remembered what I’d been doing before I’d gotten drafted for this mission. I’d been preparing to go in search of poor little Drover, who’d been kidnapped by those same two thuggish coyotes! Maybe you’d forgotten about that, but not me. Okay, maybe I’d forgotten about it.

  How could I have forgotten about it? Oh brother! Sometimes I wonder…never mind.

  Well, the sight of the coyote brothers woke me up, and right away, I noticed a chilling detail: Drover wasn’t with them, which meant: A) they had already eaten the little mutt, or B) he was sitting in a coyote dungeon, waiting for the evening festivities to begin.

  I had to do something. Fast! My opportunity arrived when Loper stopped the pickup so that Slim could open a wire gate. I dived out of the back and set sail to the east, toward those deep canyons north of headquarters.

  You probably think that my cowboy pals called and begged me to come back. Ha. They didn’t even notice, and do you know why? Slim, Mister Songbird, had composed a funny little song about our ordeal with the cow, and he was singing it as they drove away.

  Do you have any interest in hearing another of his corny songs? I guess it wouldn’t hurt anything. Let’s give it a listen.

  Never Rope a Cow From the Hood of a Pickup

  Now, me and Loper were driving around

  The pasture and we found this cow

  She’d swallowed a bone. Could we fix her up?

  “Heck yeah,” said Loper, and he’s the boss,

  “But we don’t have time to saddle a horse.

  Let’s rope her from the hood of the pickup truck.”

  Without a brain to guide his steps,

  He pitched a loop around her neck.

  What followed then was just what you’d expect.

  The grill guard flew off with the tug,

  Me and Loper were getting drug.

  Our lives were moving swiftly towards a wreck.

  Never rope a cow from the hood of a pickup.

  There’s cheaper ways to get your thrills.

  So cut that rope in thirty-seven pieces, boys.

  You can’t afford the doctor bills.

  That cow was mad as an atom bomb.

  She gave us a bath in a stinking pond

  And a heck of a ride on a grill guard sled.

  She done her best to kill us both,

  You’d have to say, she came pretty close.

  It would have made her day to see us dead.

  Did Loper learn from woe and pain,

  Not to pitch his loop on a moving train?

  I doubt it and I’d say he flunked the course.

  But there is a lesson here for them

  That’s smart enough to comprehend
:

  Park the frazzling truck and use a horse!

  Never rope a cow from the hood of a pickup.

  There’s cheaper ways to get your thrills.

  So cut that rope in thirty-seven pieces, boys.

  You can’t afford the doctor bills.

  Well, it wasn’t as bad as some of his songs. Actually, it was pretty funny, but the point is that they were so caught up in Slim’s performance, they drove off and didn’t even notice that they’d left me in the pasture.

  Fine. I would have to finish the job all by myself.

  I picked up the coyote scent right away. I didn’t have the nose of a bird dog or the tracking instincts of a bloodhound, but let’s be honest here: trailing a couple of flea-bag coyotes wasn’t hard. They smelled so bad, even Drover could have tracked them. We’re talking about a couple of guys who ate rotten meat, rolled on dead skunks, and never bathed.

  So, yes, I picked up the scent right away and locked it into Snifforadar. The signal came in loud and clear. I set my speed at a long trot, a pace I knew I could maintain for several miles, and followed the yellow brick road of their bad smells.

  On and on I went, over buffalo grass flats, up and down washed-out ravines, and across prairie country that was covered with things that were sharp and unfriendly—cactus, yucca, and cat-claw bushes. The farther east I went, the more the terrain began to change from rolling prairie country to deep unhospitalized canyons.

  Deep INHOSPITABLE canyons. That’s where you’ll find the wild coyotes, in the deep inhospitable canyons, and the inhospitabler it is, the better they like it.

  As I approached the mouth of Big Rocks Canyon, I stopped to rest. After catching my wind, I surveyed the country up ahead, and began to realize that…well, I’d been trailing these guys for half an hour but hadn’t actually seen them. That seems odd, doesn’t it? I mean, at some point in the Trailing Procedure, a guy ought to catch at least an occasional glimpse of …unless they had…

  Gulp.

  Have you ever been all alone, but suddenly got a feeling that you weren’t all alone? That was the feeling that swept over me as I sat there…all alone in a trackless wilderness, miles from house and home, and from anyone who might be able to come to my rescue.