The Case of the Perfect Dog Read online

  The Case of the Perfect Dog

  John R. Erickson

  Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes

  Maverick Books, Inc.

  Publication Information

  MAVERICK BOOKS

  Published by Maverick Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070

  Phone: 806.435.7611

  www.hankthecowdog.com

  First published in the United States of America by Maverick Books, Inc. 2012.

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  Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2012

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012931090

  978-1-59188-159-9 (paperback); 978-1-59188-259-6 (hardcover)

  Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Dedication

  To Tim and Lyndsay Lambert of the Texas Home School Coalition

  Contents

  Chapter One Another Grinding Day in the Office

  Chapter Two A Non-Scrap Event

  Chapter Three I Volunteer For a Dangerous Mission

  Chapter Four This Gets Pretty Scary

  Chapter Five The Bird-Cage Dog

  Chapter Six Happy Lab

  Chapter Seven A Bull In Sally May’s Yard

  Chapter Eight Who Can Stay Mad At a Lab?

  Chapter Nine Hap Finally Learns a Lesson

  Chapter Ten Happy Is Exposed

  Chapter Eleven Happy’s Confession

  Chapter Twelve Incredible

  Chapter One: Another Grinding Day in the Office

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The mystery began one day in August. Yes, it was August because oftentimes in August, the wind quits blowing and we have water problems on the ranch. See, when the wind quits blowing, the windmills don’t turn and the cattle run out of water in the stock tanks.

  When you’re operating a ranch in the Texas Panhandle, the one thing you can’t do in the summertime is run out of water. Cattle can live for weeks without feed, but let ‘em run out of water and they start dropping dead. That has never happened on this ranch, but only because…

  Actually, that water business came up later in the week, so forget that I brought it up. The day of which we are speaking began as most days begin—in the morning. All our days follow a regular schedule, don’t you see. We have morning, then afternoon, then evening, then night, and it doesn’t matter whether it is raining or Tuesday.

  On that particular morning, Little Alfred came out of the house around ten o’clock. The slamming of the screen door woke me up.

  Wait. Let’s rephrase that. I’m never in bed at that hour of the morning, so I couldn’t have been awakened by the slamming of the screen door. I was at my desk, doing paperwork and going over a stack of reports. As usual, I’d gotten about three hours of sleep. I mean, the work never ends on this ranch: night patrol, Monster Watch, Bark at the Mailman, coyote alerts, and taking care of the kids. We squeeze in a few hours of gunnysack time when we can.

  So, yes, I was at my desk, and heard the slamming of the screen door. Drover, my assistant, heard it too, and said, “Sniffle tricky turnip blooms on the back door piffle.”

  I looked up from the report I was reading. “Hardly ever murky snap foggy bottoms.”

  “Red suspenders?”

  “I agree, or donkey underpants in the green tomatoes.”

  We stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then Drover said, “Oh, hi. Did you just wake up?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ve been acroak for hours.” I glanced around. “Where are we?”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure, right now, I guess.”

  “Well,” he yawned, “I’d say we’re still in bed.”

  “Rubbish. It’s almost noon.” I leaped to my feet and took a step…and fell on my face. “Where did I put my legs last night?”

  “Well, I think you’re still wearing them.”

  “In that case, they’re not working properly. Have you been tampering with my legs?”

  “I think you’re still asleep. Try ‘em again.”

  “Please don’t tell me what to do.” I rose to my feet and took several steps. “Okay, they’re working now.”

  “See? You were asleep.”

  “I was not asleep.” I narrowed my eyes and studied the dog to whom I was speaking. “Wait a second, who are you?”

  “I’m Drover, remember me?”

  “Oh yes, it’s coming back to me now. We used to work together, right?”

  “Still do.”

  I gave him a hard look. “If we work together, why are you still in bed at this hour of the morning?”

  “Well…”

  “Five demerits for slacking.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Ten demerits.”

  “You were in bed too.”

  “Fifteen demerits and three Chicken Marks.” At that moment, I heard the squeaking of a gate. “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you, but we have an unidentified person or persons on the ranch.”

  “Yeah, it’s Little Alfred. He just came out of the house.”

  “Oh? Why wasn’t I informed? How can I run this ranch when nobody turns in their reports?”

  He heaved a sigh. “Hank, you were asleep.”

  I marched over to him and melted him with a glare. “Stand at attention when I’m addressing you.”

  He stiffened his posture and sat up straight. “Sorry.”

  “This outfit has no more discipline than a pack of stray cats.”

  “Meow.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, yeah.”

  “What ever happened to ‘Yes Sir’?”

  “Sorry. Yes sir.”

  I began pacing in front of him. I mean, he was fixing to get the full load. “I was not asleep, and spreading lies about a superior officer is a serious offense. If it happens again, you will spend entire days and nights with your nose in the corner.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “Hush. Nobody cares if you’re sorry.”

  “Okay, I’m not sorry.”

  “The trouble with you is that you’re never sorry for your mistakes.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s your attitude, Drover. You have a lousy attitude. I ought to throw the book at you, but I’m going to let you off easy this time. Twenty-three demerits and fifteen Chicken Marks.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t argue with me. This will go into your permanent record.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re dismissed.” I glanced around. “What were we doing before you provoked this outburst?”

  “Well, let me think.” He rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, Little Alfred just came out of the house.”

  “In that case, we haven’t a moment to spare. Prepare to launch all dogs!”

  And with that, we dived into our Rocket Dog suits and went streaking through ranch headquarters to join our little pal. We had no idea what he was doing, but among the possibilities was that he had come out of the house with b
reakfast scraps, and you know where I stand on that issue.

  Scrap Time is a major event in the life of every dog. Not only do we enjoy wolfing down the scraps, but we draw even more pleasure wolfing at the cat and making sure that he gets no scraps. Hee, hee.

  Yes, by George, we needed to check this out.

  We arrived just as the boy was coming out the yard gate. I reconoodled the situation, and noted that he carried a red plastic bucket in his right hand. Left hand. He was carrying a bucket, is the point, and it really doesn’t matter which hand was doing the work. The real question was—what did the bucket contain?

  See, at our previous Scrap Events, he had come outside with a plate and a fork, not a bucket. Most of the time, the plate held luscious scraps and he used the fork to scrape them off the plate, at which point we dogs did our best job of gobbling them down…while following certain anti-cat procedures, shall we say.

  May I speak frankly about those procedures? They’re designed to encourage our little creep of a cat to move along. His name is Pete. We don’t like him and we’re dedicated to the belief that he deserves no scraps, none, zero. Any time Pete gets a bite of scraps, we regard it as a personal tragedy for our side. It plunges the entire Security Division into a period of mourning and brooding.

  Why should the cat receive the reward of scraps? He does nothing that contributes to the good of the ranch. On an average day, he spends most of his time lurking in the iris patch. Now and then, he will come out to rub on someone’s ankles or to whine for a handout, but you’ll never see him doing what ranch cats are supposed to do: catching mice. That’s too much trouble. He makes me sick.

  But would you like to guess who followed Little Alfred out the gate? Mister Never Sweat, Mister Kitty Moocher. His mere presence caused lights to flash in the control room of my mind, and I heard a fearsome rumble in the depths of my throat.

  I rolled up to him and lifted Tooth Shields, revealing two rows of bad news for cats. “Get lost, kitty, dogs are on the scene. Buzz off, go back to your spider web.”

  Do you suppose he took the hint? Oh no. Cats don’t take hints. He gave me his usual smirk, and in his usual whiney voice, he said, “My, my! I think the cops have just arrived.”

  “You get a bingo on that. The cops are here and the cats need to move along. Scram.”

  “But Hankie, I’m curious to see what’s in the red bucket.”

  “What’s in the red bucket is classified information. You’ll be told after we’ve checked it out.”

  “But Hankie,” he widened his eyes, “what if it contains scraps?”

  “We’ll make that announcement at the appropriate time, after we’ve had a chance to sift through the material. If we find scraps, you’ll never see them, but we might tell you about them.” I turned to my assistant. “Drover, stand by. We might need to help this cat find a tree.”

  Drover giggled. “Oh goodie, this’ll be fun!” Drover must have been feeling brave, because he inched closer to the cat and growled. “Pick a tree, Pete, ‘cause we’re fixing to…”

  Bam! It was a left jab. It came out of nowhere and left a tattoo on the soft leathery portion of Drover’s nose. He never saw it coming, and let out a squall of shock and pain. By then, it was over. Pete high-balled it back to the yard and took up a position right below Sally May’s kitchen window. From that location, he waved a paw and stuck out his tongue at us.

  Pete had just brought us to the drink of war.

  The brink of war.

  Chapter Two: A Non-Scrap Event

  Drover was stunned. “He hit me and I hadn’t even done anything yet. Now look at him! He’s sticking out his tongue at us.”

  “I understand, son, but we have to let this one go. We can’t risk sending troops into the yard. Don’t forget Sally May and her broom.”

  “Yeah, but he slugged me!”

  “I know he did, but let me point out something very important. Pete’s gone and we’ve got the scraps all to ourselves. That’s what we wanted, right?”

  “Yeah, but my nose hurts.”

  “Son, you were brave. You accomplished your mission, you got rid of a nuisance, and I’m proud of you.”

  He stared at me, then smiled. “You are?”

  I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Absolutely, and you know what else? I think we can forget about those demerits and Chicken Marks. Let’s just say they disappeared from our files. Now, let’s check out the scraps.”

  “What about my nose?”

  “Bring it along. You can use it on the scraps.”

  It isn’t often that Drover distinguishes himself in combat, and when he does, we try to make a big deal out of it. I realize that getting sucker-punched by a cat isn’t the highest form of bravery, but at least the little guy had dared to put his nose into harm’s way. It was a start, and maybe it would give us something to build on.

  After that touching ceremony, we turned our attention to…where was the boy? And, more to the point, where was that bucket of scraps? He’d been right there beside us when the fighting had broken out, but now…

  At last I caught sight of him. He had gone to the garden, a patch of fertile ground that had been enclosed inside a hog wire fence. You might say that we dogs were not encouraged to go there. Why? Sally May had some peculiar ideas about dogs and gardens. On the few rare occasions when we had jumped the fence, our presence had caused major explosions.

  So it struck me as odd that Alfred had chosen to do Scrap Distribution in the garden. He was about to enter the gate when we arrived on the scene, out of breath but glowing with anticipation of the big event.

  Right away, I went into the Loyal Dog Waiting Configuration: plopped my hind quarters on the ground, sat at attention, and beamed him Looks of Longing and Sincerity. Drover followed my lead and did the same.

  The boy seemed surprised. “Hi Hankie, what do you want?”

  Well…uh…at the risk of seeming blunt…what was in the bucket?

  “Oh, you want some skwaps?”

  Well, sure, scraps would be nice. Yes, absolutely. I gave my tail five vigorous thumps on the ground.

  He shrugged. “Sorry, I took out the skwaps right after breakfast, and you weren’t there.”

  Huh?

  “I gave ‘em all to Pete.” He pointed to the bucket. “This is stuff for the compost heap.”

  WHAT! Compost heap! He’d given all the breakfast scraps to that miserable little…my mind was swirling. In the distance, I heard the cat laughing his head off.

  I turned to my assistant. “We’ve been tricked.”

  “You mean…I got slugged for nothing?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it means. Pete lured us into an argument over scraps that don’t exist. He ate them two hours ago.”

  “Oh darn, now I’m all upset.”

  “Fool! How could you have fallen for Pete’s treachery?”

  “Gosh, what did I do?”

  “Well, in the first place…Drover, Life is full of details. The fact that I can’t remember them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  “Pete got the scraps ‘cause we slept late. That’s the reason you’re mad.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m mad. The other is that you’re still spreading lies and gossip about your commanding officer—namely, that I slept late.”

  “Yeah, but it’s true.”

  “All right, then you’re spreading truth about your commanding officer and that’s even worse.”

  “Yeah, but you gave me an award for bravery.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned that. The award has been revoked and those Chicken Marks are going right back on your record.”

  He gave me a wounded look. “Yeah, but I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “Drover, the cat is laughing his head off and one of us has to accept the blame. I could take the blame, but think o
f the effect it would have on morale of this outfit.”

  He blinked his eyes. “Gosh, I never thought of that.”

  “It could be devastating. Here’s the solution. You take the blame, go to your room, and stick your nose in the corner for five minutes. That will put an end to the whole nasty episode.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  I whopped him on the back. “I like your spirit, son. Now, run along and let’s put this thing behind us.”

  “Okay, here I go!”

  With an air of fatherly pride, I watched as he…huh? You know what he did? After running about ten steps toward the gas tanks, he made a hard right turn and highballed it straight to the machine shed, where he dived through the slot between the big sliding doors.

  “Drover, this is the voice of your commanding officer! Return to base at once and put your nose in the corner! Drover?”

  He had vanished into the depths of his Secret Sanctuary, and it would have taken a pack of bloodhounds to find him in there.

  You know, it breaks my heart when these things happen. You drill the men, try to teach them discipline and loyalty, and just when you think a light has come on in their tiny minds, they make a dumb decision and blow the whole thing to smithereens.

  Oh well. We have to trudge on with our lives.

  Little Alfred had dumped the contents of his bucket into the compost pit, so I drifted over to check it out. Sniff sniff. Carrot peelings, wilted lettuce, coffee grounds, onion skins, peach seeds, watermelon rinds, and three dozen potatoes that had sprouted in the pantry and gone bad. In other words, I was looking at vegetable garbage that a normal dog wouldn’t touch, even if he was starving to death.

  Yes, this had turned into a dark day on the ranch, and to make things even worse, I could hear Sally May’s rotten little cat: “How are the scraps, Hankie? Hee, hee, hee!”

  Right then and there, I made an entry in the Log Book of My Mind: “Kitty will pay for this.” Exactly when and where he would pay had not been determined.

  I turned to Little Alfred, my dearest pal in the world, gave him Shattered Looks and went to Slow Wags on the tail section, as if to say, “Here’s a thought. What are the chances that you could slip into the house and, you know, bring me a cookie? One little cookie might really turn things around.”