The Case of the Tender Cheeping Chickies

by John R. Erickson

  I steered my nose to the box and positioned it right under the lid. We had contact! I punched in the commands for Silent Hydraulic Nose Lift, and slowly, very slowly the lid of the box began to . . .

  “Hank!”

  HUH?

  “Get out of my car! Scat! Hike!”

  Well, sure. Okay, fine. I had just . . . hey, they’d been busy with other matters, and I’d heard this odd sound coming from . . .

  If she didn’t want me doing security sweeps of her car, all she had to do was . . . don’t forget, she’d left the door open. Had I opened the door, broken a window, forced myself into her car? Heck no. I had merely . . . what’s a dog supposed to think when they . . .

  Okay, fine. I could take a hint. It was clear by this time that Sally May didn’t want me inside her car. It made no sense to me, but it was her car, so I did what any normal, healthy American dog would have done.

  I scrambled myself underneath the car, and there I proceeded to beam her Sulks and Pouts and Looks of Shattered Dignity.

  By George, the next time I heard roars and growls and dangerous noises coming from the backseat of her car, would I rush to check it out, and possibly save her from being attacked and bitten by a bunch of crazed mice? Ha! Not me, never again.

  Okay, maybe they weren’t exactly “roars and growls and dangerous noises,” but they were certainly odd and unusual sounds. But never mind all that. The damage had been done to my pride, and I doubted that I would ever recover from this vote of no confidence.

  And for the next several minutes, I gave Sally May a withering display of Pouts and Sulks. I’m not sure I’d ever done a better job. Would you believe that my Pouts and Sulks were so strong, so caustic, that one of the bushes inside the yard dried up, shed its leaves, and died? No kidding. I just roasted that bush.

  But you know what? Sally May didn’t even notice! She lifted Molly out of the car and went into the house. And suddenly I was alone with my thoughts and my broken reputation, alone and abandoned beneath Sally May’s . . .

  “Hankie, come here.”

  A voice? A friendly voice? I squinted my eyes and saw . . . Little Alfred. My pal, my dearest friend. He was inside the yard, sitting on the sidewalk and holding the . . . slurp, slurp . . . hold-ing a cardboard box in his lap, shall we say.

  I wiggled my way out from under the car and went to the gate. Duty was calling.

  Chapter Ten: Temptation!

  The gate was open, but I didn’t dare enter the yard.

  Do you understand why? Because Sally May had laws against dogs in her yard, that’s why. Now, the cat could come and go as he pleased, loaf all day in the iris patch, mooch scraps, rub on every human leg that passed, and that was all right. But let a dog set foot inside the gate . . .

  She has some weird ideas about dogs, that’s all I can figure. She seems to think that if we ever get inside the yard, we’ll . . . I don’t know, go nuts or something. Dig holes. Sit on her flowers. Trademark all the shrubberies. Leave big ugly tracks in her flower beds. Beat up her Precious Kitty.

  Okay, maybe there was a tiny shred of truth behind her Yard Laws, but only a tiny shred. For the most part, her Yard Laws were insulting to dogs and totally unfair, but I can’t let myself get worked up over that.

  The point is that I didn’t set foot inside the yard. Even though the gate hung open and Little Alfred had summoned me for an important meeting, I stopped on the Dog Side of the gate. I went to Broad Swings on the tail section and waited for further orders.

  Alfred saw me there. “Come on in.”

  I, uh, no thanks. I’d love to, but you know your ma. Better not.

  He picked up his box and came over to where I was standing. My ears shot up, and I found myself . . . well, looking closely at the box and . . . sniff, sniff . . . wondering what it might contain.

  He gave me a grin. “Want to see what’s inside my box?”

  Before I knew it, my tongue shot out and sliced across my lips, so to speak, and I beamed him a facial expression that said, “Oh well . . . yeah, sure, why not? Let’s see what’s inside the . . . uh . . . box.”

  He lifted the lid and I saw . . .

  My ears jumped. My eyes widened. My front paws moved up and down. My tail went into a confused circular pattern of wagging that tried to express . . . that tried NOT to express . . . as I say, it was a confused pattern. And once again, my tongue was working overtime to sweep up all the, uh, water and digestive juices that were suddenly pouring into my mouth.

  Chicks. Baby chickens. Five of them. Sitting in the box and staring up at me.

  I gave the boy a puzzled look. I mean, didn’t he understand that dogs . . . how can I say this so that it doesn’t sound too harsh? Didn’t he understand that we dogs live under the constant shadow of . . . temptation?

  I mean, when a guy rises through the ranks and achieves the position of Head of Ranch Security, he’s supposed to be above and beyond the temptations that honk your ordinary run of mutts. Haunt, I should say, temptations that haunt the so forth. But the truth of the matter is . . .

  Let’s try a different approach. We have chickens on the ranch, right? They’re adult birds—hens who lay eggs. Sally May shuts them up at night, but during the day they have free run of the place. In other words, I see chickens every day. You’d think that after a while a dog would lose his . . .

  This is very hard and you’ll have to bear with me. See, I sure wouldn’t want the kids to get the wrong idea. I know they kind of admire me, look up to me, and, you know, think of me as a hero, and they’d probably be disappointed if they knew . . . that is, if they thought . . .

  We’re tiptoeing all around this business, aren’t we? Okay, it’s time take off the gloves, drop all the namby-pamby stuff, and go straight to the bottom line.

  Hold on to something steady. This might come as a shock. Here, listen to this.

  Temptation

  There are times when a dog doesn’t know how to act.

  He gets thoughts in his mind that cause his bod to react.

  Under certain conditions they could have an impact.

  It’s temptation.

  Temptation.

  A guard dog’s a good dog, down to his boots.

  But bad thoughts are a major cause of disputes.

  Poison ivy has its poison way down in the roots.

  It’s temptation.

  Temptation.

  There’s something ’bout a chicken that can start a stampede.

  In the mind of a dog, it’s like planting a seed.

  And it grows into something like a noxious weed.

  It’s temptation.

  Temptation.

  Temptation is a feeling that a dog must contain.

  It takes constant supervision with a vigilant brain.

  When it’s out of control, it drives a feller insane.

  Temptation. (Slurp, slurp, slurp.)

  Temptation. (Slurp, slurp, slurp.)

  There! Now it’s out in the open. The truth is . . . the awful truth is that . . . I HAVE A TERRIBLE WEAKNESS FOR CHICKEN!!!

  I said it, and now you’re shocked and disappointed. But there’s more to this confession. It gets worse before it gets awful.

  Can I go on with this? I’ve got to try.

  Okay, here’s the deal. In my daily comings and goings around the ranch, I see chickens every day, doing the things you would expect a brainless bird to do. They peck gravel, chase grasshoppers, and cluck. No big deal there, no surprises. But even though I see chickens every day, there’s something really strange about the way . . .

  I don’t see them as they actually are, but as . . . meals. Food. Dinner.

  It’s true. When I see a fat hen scratching up gravel in front of the machine shed, I don’t see her with feathers and feet. I see her . . . on a plate! On a plate with mashed potatoes and
gravy, green peas, and a tossed salad! With fragrant waves of chickenness hovering in the air!

  It’s a terrible thing, this trick my mind plays upon my body, but I just can’t seem to change the picture. It goes on and on, day after day . . . chicken dinners walking around in front of me, chicken dinners waiting to be eaten, chicken dinners . . .

  Now you know the darkness that follows me around every day, the dreadful specter of temptation that lurks inside my heart and mind.

  But Little Alfred didn’t understand, and when he lifted the lid on the cardboard box, I found myself staring at . . . five little chicken dinners . . . sitting on five plates . . . with five big helpings of mashed potatoes and gravy.

  Slurp, slurp.

  I beamed him a look of Greatest Urgency. I had to get the message across to him: “Alfred, son, what we’re doing here isn’t good. It’s very bad. You need to close the lid and take the box inside the house . . . somewhere . . . anywhere . . . but get it out of here!”

  He wasn’t even looking at me. He missed it all. He was admiring his new . . . uh . . . pets. “See what I’ve got, Hankie? Five wittle chickies. I’m gonna waise ’em to be gwown chickens, and then I’m gonna win me a wibbon at the county fair.”

  His eyes came up and focused on me. He seemed to be waiting for a response of some kind. With tail wags and facial expressions, I managed to say, “Oh. Yes. Chickies. That’s nice. Very nice.”

  The boy went on. “We’re gonna keep ’em in a cage in the yard, Hankie, and I’m gonna wet you guard ’em.”

  HUH?

  Me? Guard the chickies?

  My gaze wandered away. For some reason, I found it hard to . . . well, look him in the eyes, shall we say.

  He continued. “And if the coyotes come up in the night, you bark and wun ’em off, okay?”

  For a moment of heartbeats, I found myself alone with my . . . uh . . . thoughts. There were many of them. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to . . . uh . . . discuss them. Sorry.

  I turned back to the boy and gave him a broad, toothy . . . that is, I gave him a pleasant smile that said, “Sure, that’ll work. No problem. It’s just part of the . . . heh-heh . . . job, right? You bet. No coyote will ever get a chance to eat those little guys . . . and that’s a promise. Heh-heh.”

  So there it was. I had been assigned to Special Chickie Guarding Duty, and I must admit that I was honored and flattered that my little pal had . . . uh . . . selected me out of all the dogs in the world to handle this special task.

  And once I took over the job, he sure didn’t need to worry about coyotes gobbling down his little friends. No sir! Not coyotes, nor skunks nor badgers nor coons nor great horned owls. Once the Head of Ranch Security was on the job, he didn’t need to worry about . . .

  You remember that stuff we discussed, the business about temptation and chicken dinners and so forth? Ha-ha. Nothing to it. Honest. It was just . . . gossip. Nonsense. A momentary leap into the world of fantasy, shall we say.

  It was a joke, just a harmless little joke.

  Ha-ha.

  So don’t give it another thought. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d just forget we ever mentioned it, because . . . well, because we didn’t. You thought we discussed my so-called weakness for chicken dinner, but you were probably misquoted. What I meant to say . . . what I actually did say was that Heads of Ranch Security are above temptation, and we have no weakness for . . . uh . . . you know, chickies and so forth.

  No kidding.

  Everything was fine and under control.

  Where were we? Oh yes, I had just been named Guardian of the Chickies, and after the ceremonies, Little Alfred and his mother went to work preparing a house for my . . . that is, for the chickies. They hiked up the hill to the machine shed and found a little chicken coop, and hauled it down to the . . .

  I was sitting by the yard gate, minding my own business and watching the preparations and so forth, and all at once I got this creepy feeling that . . . that Sally May was staring at me. No, it was worse than that. She seemed to be looking into my mind and soul, almost as though . . .

  Have we discussed Sally May and her X-ray Eyes? Maybe not. Well, she’s got these eyes that don’t just glide over the surface of things. They drill and bore and penetrate into the dipper deefs . . . the deeper depths, shall we say, and they always seem to be looking for . . .

  Naughty thoughts.

  It has something to do with Motherhood. Mothers seem to be suspicious of all dogs and little boys, don’t you see, and they have these X-ray Eyes that are equipped to ignore the surface details and to probe the dipper deefs. I mean, a careless smile that would fool Slim or Loper doesn’t have a chance against that woman. She’s relentless. Her eyes have the nose of a bloodhound.

  That sounds odd, doesn’t it, but it just goes to prove that she . . . well, she makes me nervous. And even though I had nothing to hide, even though I hadn’t hosted a naughty thought in . . . well, days or weeks or even months, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was . . . reading my mind.

  And that gave me a creepy feeling, so I, uh, found it convenient . . . that is, it suddenly occurred to me that I needed to check on Drover. Remember Drover? I had sent him to his room to sit on a sticker and suffer, and by George, I needed to, uh, check on him. No kidding.

  So I left my spot beside the yard gate and hiked myself down to the gas tanks. Thirty yards south of the gate, I finally placed myself beyond the reach of her radar. Whew! Only then was I able to relax.

  You might want to make a note of this. Motherly Radar is deadly accurate up to a range of thirty yards, but beyond that . . . heh-heh . . . little boys and dogs are free to think whatever they wish.

  Although I must hasten to point out that I had nothing to hide, almost nothing at all. No kidding.

  You won’t be surprised that I found Drover asleep on his gunnysack bed, and we’re talking about conked out—snoring, quivering, twitching, squeaking, and doing all the other bizarre things he does in his sleep.

  I stood over him for a moment, marveling at all the noise. Then I eased my nose down to the level of his left ear and shifted into a little routine we call “Alarm Clock.” We use it to pry slackers and loafers out of their, heh-heh, slumber.

  I yelled, “Wake up and spit, the world’s on fire!”

  Chapter Eleven: I Try to Help Drover

  I must admit that I get wicked pleasure out of waking up Drover. You should have seen the little mutt. He started scrambling all four legs, but since he was lying on his side, he didn’t move an inch. One ear shot up, and his eyes popped open, revealing . . . well, not much. When he’s half asleep, Drover’s eyes contain a vast nothingness.

  And now that you mention it, they contain the same vast nothingness when he’s awake.

  “Help, murder, Mayday! Fire, fire! Spit on the fire and put out the galloping pork chops!”

  Heh-heh. This was fun.

  After a moment or two of Stationary Stampede, he finally made it to his feet. He staggered around in circles, then recognized me. “Oh, hi. How’s the fire?”

  “Fine, thanks. How about yourself?”

  “Oh . . . I’m not sure. I think I just woke up.”

  “Exactly my point, Drover. If you just woke up, it means that you were asleep.”

  “Yeah, ’cause the awaker you are, the asleeper you used to be.”

  “Say that again?”

  “I said . . . the asleeper you are, the awaker . . . I’m not sure what I said.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is”—I began pacing, as I often do when I’m conducting a heavy interrogation—“if you’ve been down here sleeping, you weren’t suffering for your crimes. I sent you down here to stick on a stuffer and sucker.”

  He rolled his eyes around. “You mean, suck on a sticker and suffer?”

  “Yes, exactly. That’s what I
just said. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  “What?”

  “I said, stop repeating myself. Now, did you suck on the sticker or sit on it? We need to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Well, let me think here.” He twisted his mouth into a thoughtful pose. “I sat my bottom on the sucker, and my hiney still hurts. Does that sound right?”

  “Good, good!”

  “What’s good? It hurt like crazy.”

  “Yes, but that’s the whole point of spitting on a sticker, Dricker. You suffered. Under certain conditions, suffering is good for us.”

  “Yeah, but my name’s Drover.”

  I stopped pacing. “What?”

  “You called me ‘Dricker.’”

  “I did not call you Dricker. Why would I have called you Dricker? Dricker isn’t even a word.”

  “Yeah it is. If it wasn’t a word, you couldn’t have said it.”

  “I didn’t say it. I said ‘suffer.’”

  “No, you said ‘sticker,’ and then you called me Dricker.”

  I heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky. “I came down here for a reason. I came to watch you suffer, Druffer, and now you’ve got me so confused, I don’t know whether it’s raining or Tuesday.”

  “Well, I think it’s Thursday, but last week was March and my name’s still Drover.”

  I marched over to him and stickered my nose in his fose. “Why do you keep saying that? I know your name! Do you need proof? Okay, here. Drover, Drover, Drover, Drover!”

  “What, what, what, what?”

  “I know your name.”

  “Then how come you keep calling me Dricker and Druffer?” He lowered his head and began to snucker . . . sniffle, that is. “And I wish you wouldn’t yell at me. You know I can’t stand to be yelled at in the morning.”

  “I’m not yelling!” I yelled. “And besides, it’s not morning. It’s . . .” Suddenly I realized that nothing we were saying made any sense. I heaved a sigh and marched a few steps away, allowing the toxic vapors to clear from wreckage of my mind. “Drover, listen carefully.”