The Case of the Coyote Invasion Read online

  “Exactly. One of these days, maybe cats and dogs can dare to be friends, but . . . well, we’re not there yet. See you around.”

  He waved one last good-bye and vanished around the north side of the house. At that point, I indulged myself in a rush of inward laughter and celebration. Do you see what this meant? Ho! I had just conned the cat out of a great idea!

  Maybe you missed it, so let me explain. Using clever interrogation techniques, I had coaxed some extremely important information out of the kitty. Here, take a look at my notes of the interrogation.

  End of File. Please Destroy at Once!

  Pretty awesome, huh? You bet. By merely switching food supplies, we could introduce balance and justice into the universe, while investing ranch dollars in our most important asset—ME.

  Wow! You talk about a great concept! This was a work of art, so beautiful that it almost brought tears to my eyes.

  And the best part about it, the very very best part, was that I had STOLEN the idea from Pete! Ha ha! I had promised to give him a “little reward,” remember? Well, I would deliver on that promise . . . and give him the littlest reward that money could buy: absolutely nothing.

  Ha ha, hee hee, ho ho. I loved it!

  Well, why not? Pete had built his whole career on luring me into traps and getting me into trouble, so this was just payback, and long overdue. After years of taking his trash, I had finally caught him in a careless moment. I was fixing to put his scheming little mind to work for the side of Truth and Justice.

  This was great. In one big game on the Chess­board of Life, I had solved the Bird Problem, the Dog Food Problem, and the Kitty Problem, all in one grand swoop.

  Hee hee. Sorry, I shouldn’t gloat . . . but you know what? I’m going to gloat anyway. Watch this:

  Gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat!

  Hey, this is fun.

  Gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat gloat!

  Hee hee. Whoever said that gloating isn’t good wholesome entertainment has never tried it. Take it from a guy who knows, gloating is good for the body and good for the soul. It’s inexpensive, low in carbo-whatnots, and high in villimuns, and it beats all the alternatives by a mile.

  Boy, what a triumph, but it was time to stop celebrating and get to work. I turned my enormous body around and faced the yard. The bird feeder was waiting.

  Chapter Three: We Launch the Mission

  The bird feeder was waiting, and the Parade of Birds had moved into high gear. I mean, I had never dreamed that we had so many deadbeat moocher-birds on the ranch. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them, even!

  But before I could put my plan into action, I had to make sure that You Know Who wasn’t looking out the kitchen window with her radar eyes. Maybe you’d forgotten about the Sally May Factor, but I hadn’t. This was the one part of the plan over which I had no control. If she was hovering around the window, we would have to cancel the mission.

  See, long-term experience with Sally May had made me cautious. Just when you think she’s not around, she’ll come flying out the door and nail you with that broom. A guy can’t afford to be careless. But our intelligence reports gave us reason to hope. Remember that she was planning on going to town? If she was going to town, she would have to get ready, and if she had to get ready, she wouldn’t be lurking around the kitchen window.

  Pretty shrewd, huh? You bet.

  Before sending troops over the wall, we did a procedure called “casing the joint.” It’s a special technique we use in our work and it means—walking around the area, looking very casual, whist­ling a little tune, and pretending to be doing . . . well, nothing, just taking a stroll and enjoying the morning air.

  When it’s done right, any witnesses on the scenery will think, “Well, there’s a normal dog doing normal things.” No witness would ever think, “That dog is fixing to jump into the yard and burglarize the bird feeder.”

  After casing the joint for five minutes, I came up with the answer I had been looking for. Sally May had left the kitchen, and we had a GO for the mission. The only witnesses to the crime . . . to the, uh, mission would be a bunch of brainless tweetie birds, and who pays attention to them? Nobody.

  The time had come. I squared my enormous shoulders and filled my tanks with a fresh supply of carbon diego. Where I was going, I would need it. I turned toward the east, paced up to the yard fence, went into Deep Crouch, and launched myself over the top.

  Inside the yard, I paused to reconoodle the situation and switched on the microphone of my mind. “Control, this is Righteous. We have boots on the ground. Repeat: we have boots on the ground and no sign of Sally May. Request permission to proceed with the mission, over.”

  The radio crackled, and I heard the voice of Control. “Uh, roger, Righteous, we copy. You have permission to proceed. Good hunting.”

  “Roger that, Control. We’re going in.”

  I crept forward until I came to the post on which the feeder was perched. I rolled my gaze upward and saw five red birds looking down at me with puzzled expressions. I lifted my lips into a snarl and growled, “Take a hike, you slackers!”

  One nice thing about birds is that they’re all chickens. Let me rephrase that. The birds I saw weren’t actually chickens. They were cardinals, but at a deeper level, they were chickenhearted. That was important information, for it meant that when push came to shovel, they would run from a fight.

  And they did. When they saw my fangs gleaming in the morning sun, they wanted none of me and flew away. Okay, they didn’t actually run from a fight (they flew), but the result was the same. We were able to secure the bird feeder without casualties, bloodshed, or the kind of barking, squawking, and flapping that might arouse suspicion inside the house.

  At that point, I activated Pumps One and Two and went into Hydraulic Lift on the hind legs. Making no more noise than a mouse, I rose into the air until I was able to rest my front paws on the metal platform. There, I switched off pumps and began probing the feeder with Noseatory Sensors.

  Sniff, sniff.

  Lines of data flashed across the console of my mind: “Millet, barley, oats, and several unidentified types of grain. High-quality bird food, worth capturing.”

  Well, that’s what we needed to know. I leaned closer and activated our Robot Tongue mechanism, unrolling three inches of tongue, just enough to do the job without getting ourselves overextended. The tongue mechanism moved out, entered the pile of grain, and formed a curl on the end.

  This was a pretty delicate procedure. Imagine a dog operating a robot arm from inside the cabin of a spaceship. You’re sitting there, surrounded by switches and blinking lights, and you have a control lever in each hand. Through the window, you can see the robot arm out there in space, and everything is done with instruments.

  Same deal here, very delicate procedure. See, once you’ve put a curl in the end of the tongue, you have to reverse the hydraulics and bring the tongue back home, dragging a little pile of Product. (In these operations, we don’t describe the material we’re retrieving. We just call it Product. Why? Because . . . I’m not sure. I guess it sounds more official when you call it “Product” instead of “birdseed.”)

  Where were we? Oh yes, very delicate procedure, retrieving Product. Slowly, inch by inch, we maneuvered the Robot Tongue back to the ship and swept the first load into the Receiving Bay (mouth). There, we went to Jaws and Teeth and began processing the seeds.

  Hmmm. They tasted exactly like . . . well, birdseed, but not bad. Pretty good, in fact, better than the petrified pellets that came out of a sack of Cheapo dog food. Okay, we would
go back for another load.

  Out went the Robot Tongue . . . activate curl . . . drawback . . . docking . . . capture . . . process Product . . . over and over. It was slow, tedious, brackbucking work, but well worth the effort. Hey, I’d had no idea that birdseed was so good. Why had we been wasting it on the birds?

  As I recall, we were deep into the mission and had processed, oh, fifteen loads of Product when a problem arose: two shrieking blue jays began dive-bombing the Command Module. Have we discussed blue jays? Maybe not. They are the most obnoxious birds on the ranch. Unlike the cardinals and sparrows and other birds, they will fight over food, and when they swoop down and peck you on the head, you know you’ve been pecked.

  We took two hits right away. I went to the Emer­gency Frequency. “Control, we have a problem, enemy blue jays. They came out of nowhere . . . ouch . . . and they’re not kidding, over.”

  The voice on the radio said, “Sic ’em, boy! Git ’em!”

  Okay, we’d gotten clearance to fire back and we rigged for combat—Laser-Guided Tooth Cannons, VHF radar, the whole nine yards. Those birds were fixing to pay a price for their foolish behavior.

  They swooped up into the air, made a circle, and came back for another bombing run. We had ’em on radar all the way. “Bearing two-five-zero! Range fifteen yards and closing fast! Flood tubes one and three and fire electrically!”

  Here they came! We launched our missiles and . . . well, missed. Somehow the pesky things slipped though and . . . RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT . . . landed a lucky shot . . . or two . . . okay, five or six, right on top of my head.

  Okay, that did it! This was war! Hank the Cowdog does not take trash off a blue jay. Our missiles and torpedoes had failed, so it was time to go to old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat—swords, knives, clubs, you name it. I swiveled myself around . . .

  CRASH!

  Huh?

  Did you hear that? Maybe not, because you weren’t there, but I heard it, a loud crashing sound, almost as though . . . oops. You know, that bird feeder wasn’t bolted down to the platform and somehow, in all the smoke and confusion of combat, I must have . . . uh . . . nudged it off the stand, so to speak.

  And there it lay on the ground, beside a scatter of birdseed.

  Oops.

  Then another sound broke the eerie silence—the sound of a door opening. Gulp. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see this, but, well, we needed to know what sort of crisis we were facing. Slowly, I turned my eyes toward the house and . . .

  Oh no, it was HER!

  There she stood on the porch, half her hair up in curlers and the other half . . . well, looking a lot like a buzzard’s nest. She wore a robe and slippers, and maybe she had just stepped out of the shower. In her right hand, she carried . . . was that a gun? No, only a hairbrush. Whew!

  A wide range of emotions flashed across her face: astonishment, anger, rage, fury . . . but then . . . holy smokes, she started laughing. “Alfred, come quick and bring the camera! You’ve got to see this! Your father’s dog is eating birdseed!”

  You know, sometimes a guy doesn’t know what to do. Run? Hide? Pose for the camera? It was very confusing, but as I always say, when Sally May’s laughing and not swinging her broom, things could be worse.

  Okay, she wanted a picture, so I ignored all my instincts to run and waited for the camera to arrive.

  It was very stressful, being there alone with Sally May. After several moments of laughing, she got control of herself and said, “Hank, what on earth are you doing?”

  Well, that was . . . that was hard to explain. See, her husband had dumped garbage into my dog bowl, and I’d been watching those birds and they were gobbling all of her feed and . . . oh brother, there was no way I could explain it. This was one of those moments when a dog has to hope that his people will, uh, try to understand.

  Little Alfred came flying out the door. When he saw me, he burst out laughing. “He was eating out of the bird feeder?”

  Oh brother.

  Sally May held up the camera and snapped a picture, so now they had a photographic record of Hank the Cowdog in one of his most awkward moments. Great.

  Well, the camera session was over, and what was I supposed to do now? Sally May stood on the porch for a long moment, biting back her smile, rolling her eyes, and shaking her head. Then she looked me straight in the eyes and said . . . this is a direct quote . . . she said, “Hank, you are SO DUMB!”

  Yes ma’am.

  “Now, get out of my yard and don’t come back! Hike, scat!”

  Yes ma’am.

  I swept up the pieces of my shattered dignity, held my head at a proud angle, and marched away from this shameful episode. It almost broke my heart when I heard Little Alfred say, “I can’t wait to tell Dad!”

  Great. Everybody on the ranch would know about it, and I would be hearing about it until the end of time.

  Chapter Four: Healing Waters

  You know, when a dog has passed through a stressful situation, he needs time to recover . . . heal his spirit . . . rebuild his broken self-esteamer.

  A lot of dogs would have slunk away and gone into hiding for days. That’s what Drover would have done. Not me. See, I was lucky enough to have my own Recovery Center, a place I could go to restore my spirit and bodily fluids.

  We called it Emerald Pond because of its emerald green waters, fed by mineral springs that bubbled from deep under the septic tank. Many a time I had entered those healing waters as a broken dog, and had emerged an hour later, refreshed, restored, and ready to carry on my life’s work.

  And there was an added bonus. The same waters that healed a broken spirit also had a powerful effect on the ladies. Those lady dogs just flipped over that deep manly aroma, which was no bad deal. I mean, with the womenfolk, a guy needs all the help he can get.

  I left the yard and ran as fast as I could to Emerald Pond. I paused for a moment on the eastern shore, filled my nostrils with the aroma of herbs and spices, and plunged into the water’s warm embrace. Oh yes! I could feel the tonic rushing through my . . .

  Burp.

  Birdseed. You know, it had tasted good, even delicious, but sometimes a guy gets carried away. I mean, just because one or two bites are good, that doesn’t mean he ought to eat twenty-five pounds of the stuff. Moderation. That’s the rule we should live by, moderation in all . . .

  Bork.

  . . . things, and it was becoming clear that I had sailed right past moderation and had made of a pig of myself. That happens in the best of families and it’s no cause for . . . burp . . . shame, but something had to be done about the stupid birdseed.

  I waded back to the shore and went straight into a Poison Alert, rocked my head back and forth five times, bent my head to the ground, and pulled the Flush lever. In seconds, the whole unpleasant incident was behind me . . . in front of me, actually, on the ground. I found myself staring at this glop of toxic material and wondering . . .

  You know, there are times when a dog searches his mind for answers and, well, he just doesn’t find any. Birdseed? WHY?

  I was lost in these dreary thoughts when something caught my eye. I lifted my head and saw . . . Drover. He was sitting about five feet away, gawking at me and wearing a silly grin.

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Must you stare at me?”

  “Well, I was just . . .”

  I rumbled over to him. “Drover, did you come here to mock and ridicule?”

  “No, I just wondered . . .”

  “If you must know, that is what birdseed looks like after it has entered a dog’s stomach and poisoned his system.”

  He started laughing. “Hee hee. It’s a joke, right? Dogs don’t eat birdseed.”

  “I ate birdseed! There’s the proof on the ground, and I’d be grateful if you would wipe that insolent smirk off your mouth.”

  “Sorry. Hee hee.”

/>   “I heard that!”

  He wiped the smirk off his mouth. “Sorry, but I never heard of a dog eating bird food. You really did?”

  “Yes!”

  He blinked his eyes, and there was a moment of silence. “How come?”

  “Drover, everyone on the ranch is asking that question. I am asking that question.” I stomped a few steps away and stared off into the distance. “All I can say is that, at the time, it struck me as a great idea.”

  “I’ll be derned. Was it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well . . . I’d say maybe not.”

  “Drover, have you ever done anything . . . really ridiculous?”

  “Well, let me think. No, I don’t think so.”

  I whirled around and gave him a scorching glare. “Don’t give me that! You’ve spent half your life being ridiculous. You were born ridiculous.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  “Then try to show some compassion for those of us who . . .” Suddenly I felt overwhelmed and sank to the ground. “I can’t believe I did it! Drover, what kind of dog would put his reputation on the line . . . to rob a bird feeder?”

  Drover drifted over and sat down beside me. “You really did that, no fooling?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes! It was the dumbest stunt I’ve ever pulled.”

  “Huh. You weren’t talking to Pete, were you?”

  I raised my head and stared into the vacuum of his eyes. “Why would you ask a question like that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes when things go to blazes, you find cat tracks.”

  “Cat tracks? What are you saying, Drover, that I might have been dumb enough to be manipulated by the cat? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I wondered.”

  “Well, you can stop wondering because there is absolutely no . . .” I cut my eyes from side to side. “Wait a second. I was talking to the little creep.” I leaped to my feet. “And we were discussing birdseed. Don’t you get it? This explains everything. I got sandbagged by the cat!”