The Case of the Tender Cheeping Chickies

by John R. Erickson

  Can we pause here for me to make a confession? Might as well get it over with.

  I’m nuts about Little Piggie Sausages! I love ’em! I’d rather eat a Little Piggie Sausage than anything else in the whole world!

  There, I’ve said it. It’s out in the open, and my confession will help smooth the way for, uh, what follows, shall we say, for you see . . .

  It happened suddenly. I wasn’t expecting it. I hadn’t planned it. It just . . .

  See, Alfred was holding that yummy thing in his hand . . . actually, between his thumb and first finger . . . he was holding it up in the air, don’t you know, and kind of waving it around, and maybe he didn’t notice that my head was moving back and forth, exactly in time with the luscious sausage.

  My mouth continued to water. My ears jumped. I moved my front paws up and down, and by this time my tail was thrashing the air in crazy patterns that . . . slurp, slurp . . . were so strong and powerful that they made it hard for me to keep my balance.

  In other words, the wave patterns coming off that Little Piggie Sausage were creating a huge disturbance in the force field of my . . .

  As I’ve already said, I hadn’t planned anything. Nothing at all. I was just standing there, minding my own biscuits . . . business, I guess it should be . . . minding my own business, and Alfred was holding up the sausage and then . . .

  Well, he turned his head away for just an instant. Was that my fault? No, I’d had nothing to do with it. I think he was looking back at the cat, but the point, the crucial point, is that just for a second, he looked away and . . .

  . . . and there was that yummy sausage, all alone and just sitting there in his fingers!

  You’ve seen pictures of the Statue of Liberty, right? She’s standing there in the middle of a big lake and holding up her right hand, and she’s clasping a link of Little Piggie Sausage. No kidding. You didn’t know that? It’s true, honest.

  She’s holding up the sausage for all the world to see, and she says, “Give me your tired, your hungry!” Do you see the meaning of this? It means . . .

  Hang on, this gets kind of emotional.

  It means that Lady Liberty is calling hungry dogs from all over the world to come to America’s shores and eat sausage! Hungry dogs from Texas and Canada Dry and Bovina, Mesopotamia, and Pottawatami, Italy, and France and . . . everywhere.

  She’s calling them . . . us . . . to come and share her bounty of yummy sausage, and all at once I realized that Little Alfred looked exactly like the Statue of Liberty and . . .

  SNARF!

  . . . and all at once and before my very eyes, the, uh, sausage just . . . vanished.

  Alfred’s eyes came around and he stared at his thumb and finger where the, uh, Little Piggie Sausage had once . . . resided, shall we say. Where it had been only moments before.

  His puzzled gaze drifted around to . . . well, to ME, you might say, and I gave him a big good morning smile, as if to say, “Oh. Hi. Nice day, huh?”

  He stared at his empty hand. “Where’d my sausage go?”

  Sausage? Had he . . . ? Oh yes, of course, the sausage. Remember that Little Piggie Sausage? He’d been holding it in his hand, and apparently a sudden gust of wind had . . . the wind was coming up, see, and you know this Texas wind. Boy, if you’re not careful, it’ll blow things right out of your . . .

  He scowled and looked down at the ground. Good thinking. If the wind had blown the sausage out of his hand, it probably would have fallen to the ground. I leaped to my feet and rushed to the scene of the, uh, accident. I lowered my nose to the ground and activated our Emergency Locator Program. We use it for special deals, anytime something gets lost—you know, missing children, important pieces of evidence, articles of clothing, stuff like that.

  I switched on the ELP and proceeded to sniff out the whole area around his feet. By George, if the boy’s sausage had fallen to the ground, we were going to find it, even if it took days or weeks!

  These kids need a good nourishing breakfast.

  I searched and searched, sniffed and sniffed, but after searching and sniffing for hours and hours . . . okay, a minute or two . . . I came up with nothing, not even a trace of the Elusive Sausage. My heart was almost broken. The poor lad! I lifted my head and beamed him a look of Deepest Sadness.

  “Alfred, it grieves me deeply to tell you this, but the sausage has disappeared without a trace. I’m sorry.”

  I went to Slow and Caring Wags on the tail section, just to let him know that . . . well, even though my heart was broken, my tail still worked.

  That doesn’t sound right. I wanted him to know, through wags and tragic expressions on my facial situation, that my heart was broken over this deal.

  I studied his face to see if my presentation was . . . uh . . . selling. I held my breath.

  His eyes narrowed into slits. “Hankie, did you eat my sausage?”

  Who? Me? Eat his . . . hey, who had rushed to the scene of the tragedy to share his pain and search for the missing sausage? Me! And now he was wondering if I had . . .

  Just then, the cat came slithering into the picture—purring and rubbing and wearing that sniveling grin that drives me nuts. It was Pete, of course, Pete the Barncat who never spends any time in the barn because he’s too busy loafing in the iris patch and trying to mooch scraps.

  Have we discussed Pete? I don’t like him, never have, but there he was, rubbing on Alfred’s ankles and grinning. All at once, his eyes popped open and he lifted his nose in the air. “My goodness, Hankie, I smell something good. Could it be . . . sausage?”

  I cut my eyes from side to side. Suddenly a plan began to take shape in the vast caverns of my mind. Or to put it another way, it suddenly occurred to me that one of the many things I didn’t like about Pete was that he was just the kind of creep who would steal sausage from a hungry child.

  Did you catch the clues? Maybe not, so let’s do a quick review.

  1. Cat walks up.

  2. Out of the blue, for no reason whatever, cat says something about sausage.

  3. Kid is looking for missing sausage.

  Do you get it now? All at once all the pieces of this mysterious puzzle began falling into place. I turned my eyes upon my dearest pal, Little Alfred, and went to the Urgent Message routine on the tail section, which consists of a slow, circular, counterclockwise motion. Then, with the Urgent Message program still running, I pointed my nose directly at the cat.

  “Alfred, I’m shocked that you would accuse me of terrible crimes, but never mind. The culprit just walked up. I won’t mention any names, but I think it was . . . PETE.”

  Alfred looked deeply into my . . . yikes . . . eyes, but then . . . heh-heh . . . he turned his gaze upon the cat, the sneaking cheating little hickocrip of a cat, and a dark frown began to form upon his face. Heh-heh.

  And he said, “Pete, did you eat my sausage? You did, you naughty cat, and I don’t wike you anymore!”

  And with that, he aimed a boot at Kitty’s hinelary region and, heh-heh, gave him the kick he so richly deserved for being all the things he was.

  Tee-hee! Ho-ho, ha-ha, hee-hee!

  Oh, justice! Oh, truth and honor! I loved it! Kitty was shocked beyond recognition. I mean, he never saw it coming. He hissed and squealed, made a short flight through the air, and scurried away, throwing daggerish looks back at me.

  Did I care about his daggerish looks? Heck no. The little pest had been caught in the act of robbing breakfast from hungry children, and he’d gotten just what he deserved.

  As he slithered away to the iris patch, he managed to hiss a few hateful words to me. “Very funny, Hankie. I’ll remember this.”

  “You do that, Kitty. Remember what happens to cats who sneak and steal and rob from innocent children! I’m shocked, Pete, shocked beyond words.”

  Told him, huh? You bet.

  Chapter
Seven: I Prescribe a Cure for Drover’s Malady

  Okay, maybe it was mean of me to eat the sausage and blame the cat, but I must point out that Little Alfred caused the whole thing with his careless behavior. If he didn’t want his poor hungry dog to snarf down the sausage, he should have . . . I don’t know, put it in his pocket or something.

  And besides, who cares if a cat gets in trouble once in a while? Cats need to be humbled, don’t forget that, and Pete needed it even more than most.

  Well, Little Alfred left the scene of the crime and wandered over to look at the road grader whilst I enjoyed the aftertaste of the Sausage of My Dreams. But suddenly I found myself looking into the vast emptiness of Drover’s eyes.

  “Why are you staring at me?”

  “Well . . . you told a fib and got Pete in trouble. I’m kind of shocked.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you really sorry?”

  “No. Find something to do besides stare at me.”

  He continued staring at me. “And you didn’t share the sausage with me. That really hurts.”

  “Too bad. Stop staring and move your carcass.”

  “What about the rest of me?”

  “Your carcass is the sum total of everything you are, Drover. Move it.”

  “Yeah, but what about my mind? My personality? The real me, deep inside? If I move the carcass, I’ll have to move the rest of it, too.”

  Was he trying to be funny? It was hard to tell. “Drover, your mind is so tiny, and your personality so shallow and empty, they hardly take up any space. Therefore, as I’ve already said, your carcass is the sum totality of your being.”

  “I ate a bean once. Mom said it would sprout in my stomach and the vines would grow out my ears.”

  “This is boring me, Drover.”

  “But you know what? It grew out my nose.”

  I stared at the runt. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that you ate a bean and it sprouted and grew out your nose? I find that very hard to believe.”

  “Yeah, but it’s true. It was big and green.”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t a bean sprout. Maybe it was some kind of disgusting discharge from your nosalary region. Had you considered that?”

  “Well, by doze geds stobbed ub all the tibe. Baby thad was id.”

  “Of course that was it. In the history of the world, there has never been a single case of a bean sprouting in a dog’s stomach and growing out his . . . Drover, why are we discussing beans in the first place? Deep in my heart, I really don’t care about the subject.”

  “Yeah, me neither, and I don’t know beans about ’em anyway.”

  “Exactly my point. If you knew beans about beans, you’d know that they can’t possibly—”

  “I ate a kernel of corn one time, too.”

  This got my attention. “Wait a minute, hold it. Colonel Corn? Who is he and why didn’t you tell me about him sooner?”

  “Well . . . I didn’t think you’d care. You don’t care about beans.”

  “I don’t care about beans, Drover, and for very good reason. There’s a huge difference between beans and colonels.”

  “Yeah, I guess a bean is just a seed.”

  “Exactly, whereas a colonel is a high-ranking officer, perhaps even an enemy spy. Now, out with it. Details, facts. Is there more to this Colonel Corn business?”

  The little mutt seemed to be looking guilty about something. He swallowed hard and glanced around. “Well, maybe one thing.”

  “See? I knew it. There’s always one more thing. Out with it!”

  “Well, it was . . . it was . . .”

  “Yes, yes?”

  “It was . . . popcorn.”

  That word hung in the air between us for a long moment of heartbeats. “What?”

  “Popcorn.”

  “I heard what you said, Drover, but I’m finding it hard to fit ‘popcorn’ into your description of a high-ranking member of the Enemy’s military intelligence unit—who, by the way, might very well be the same guy who ordered the Road Grader Invasion of our ranch. Had you thought of that?”

  “Not really.”

  “Hurry up. Where did you see this Colonel Corn?”

  “Well . . . in a paper sack.”

  “Aha! Paper sack! This is a new one.” I began pacing, as I often do when these cases take a new and puzzling twist. “It’s obviously some kind of disguise. He wore the bag over his head, right? It was some kind of hood or mask. Okay, we’re cooking now, son. Continue.”

  “Well, Sally May cooked some kernels of popcorn and put ’em in a paper sack, and Little Alfred was eating the popcorn and he gave me a bite.”

  I stopped in my tracks and turned slowly around. “What are we talking about?”

  “Well . . . I’m not sure. Popcorn, I think.”

  “What about this . . . this mysterious colonel?”

  “Well, it was a mysterious kernel of popcorn. I guess.”

  The air hissed out of my lungs. Suddenly my head seemed full of fog. Or feathers. I marched a few steps away and gazed up at the sky. “Drover, has it ever occurred to you that one of us might be . . . unbalanced?”

  “Sometimes I get dizzy when I turn around. Could that be it?”

  “No, it’s worse than that. I often find myself feeling dizzy when I talk to you. It’s almost as though . . .” I paused to search for the right words. “It’s almost as though our conversations are meaningless. Nonsense. They just . . . go in circles. Do you ever get that feeling?”

  He wadded up his mouth and squinted one eye. “Well, let me think. No, I kind of enjoy—”

  “Never mind.” I marched over to him. “Skip it. I’m sorry I asked. This loony conversation will be stricken from the record. If anyone asks about Colonel Corn, we’ll say we never heard of him. The world must never know what we discuss behind closed doors.”

  Drover glanced around. “Okay, but where’s the door?”

  I could feel my eyes bulging out of my head. “There isn’t a door, you meathead! Therefore, the world must never know what we don’t discuss behind closed doors. Is that plain enough?”

  “You never hear about a kernel of beans.”

  “Hush! Not another word! What were we discussing before you led us off in meaningless circles?”

  There was a long silence as Drover searched the thimble of his mind. Then his eyes popped open. “Oh yeah, I remember now. You stole Little Alfred’s sausage and didn’t give me a bite, and now I feel terrible. I wanted some sausage!”

  I marched over to him and laid a paw on his shoulder. “You really feel bad about this, don’t you?”

  “Awful. I wanted that sausage more than anything in the whole world.”

  “Drover, this problem of yours is called Sausage Lust. It’s a serious condition that strikes dogs and renders them worthless.”

  “I’ll be derned. That fits.”

  “It does. But I think I can help you through this time of loss and sorrow.”

  His eyes lit up. “Really? No fooling?”

  “Yes. For you see, there is a cure for Sausage Lust, but you have to follow instructions and do exactly as I say.”

  He was hopping up and down. “Oh, sure, I’ll do anything to get my life back.”

  “Good. Stop hopping around and listen. I’m going to prescribe a cure.” He sat down and listened. “Go directly to your room and sit on a sticker for thirty minutes.”

  “A sticker?”

  “Exactly. You see, Drover, the root of the heart of the core of your problem is that you have no self-control.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You seem to crave things you can’t have.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Sitting on a sticker will develop your powers of self-control. After thirty minutes of sticker-sitting, you will
no longer be tormented by these feelings of Sausage Lust.”

  “Yeah, ’cause it’ll hurt like crazy.”

  “Pain, Drover, is the fire that purifies the mind.”

  He blinked his eyes in wonder. “I’ll be derned. But . . . wait a second. You’re the one who ate the sausage. All I did was wish for it. How come you don’t have to sit on a sticker?”

  “Drover, we all have problems and failings, but yours and mine aren’t the same. Your problem is greed and selfishness. Mine was mere hunger. Now run along. Once you’ve spent an hour feeling bad, you’ll feel much better.”

  “I thought you said thirty minutes.”

  “We’ve increased your medication. This is worse than I thought. Now run along.”

  He walked away, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. As I watched him making his way down to the gas tanks, I must admit that I felt a glow of pride and satisfaction. I mean, there are some parts of this job that are just dull routine, but when you can actually reach out and touch the life of another dog . . . help him see that he’s been living a wasted life, that he’s been consumed with lowly impulses of greed and so forth . . .

  Hey, it doesn’t get much better than that.

  To celebrate this great turnaround in Drover’s life experience, I skipped up to the machine shed and indulged myself in a few bites of Co-op dog food. I mean, let’s face it: Little Piggie Sausage is great stuff, but one of them doesn’t go very far.

  Don’t forget the wise old saying: “This Little Piggie went to market; this Little Piggie stayed home; this Little Piggie ate roast beef, but Hankie only got to eat one.”

  Chapter Eight: Alfred Decides to Raise Baby Chicks

  I know that we’ve discussed Co-op dog food, so we needn’t go into great detail in describing it. It comes in a fifty-pound sack. That should tell you a lot right there.

  You know what comes in fifty-pound sacks? Cement, masonry sand, whole potatoes, uncooked onions, horse feed, and deer corn. None of those items is fit to eat.