The Case of the Car-Barkaholic Bog Read online

  “Come on, Pooch, I’ve got places to go.”

  There are times when a dog’s loyalty to the ranch is put under a terrible strain.

  “There we go. Come here. Good dog.”

  I sat down at his feet, wagged my tail, and gave him my most wounded look. Perhaps if I . . .

  He wiped his hands on my back. That much came as no surprise. But then he SCRUBBED HIS FINGERNAILS ON MY EARS!

  That really hurt my pride. That was a low blow. I mean, a guy spends hours and hours cleaning himself up and trying to keep up the kind of neat personal appearance that you’d expect in a Head of Ranch . . .

  “Good dog, Hankie.”

  Two pats on the head and good-bye, Charlie.

  In many ways, this is a lousy job, and I made up my mind then and there that if I ever got my paws on Drover . . .

  He climbed into the pickup and started the motor. Slim did, not Drover. Drover had jumped into a hole and pulled in behind him, the dunce, the back-stabbing little . . .

  The pickup pulled away from the gas tanks. I had not a moment to spare, for the moment of truth had arrived.

  In a flash, I switched from Wounded Dog Mode over to Syruptishus Loaderation Mode. I began oozing along behind the pickup and slipped into the blind spot—the spot near the hitch ball, which just happened to be outside the view of the side mirrors, ho ho.

  That’s why we call it the Blind Spot, because the driver can’t see back there, don’t you see.

  As the pickup gathered speed, I initiated the countdown.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Blastoff, liftoff, bonzai, charge!

  As graceful as a deer, I launched myself from the caliche drive in front of the house and landed on silent paws in the back end of the pickup. Don’t know as I had ever done the procedure any better, and Slim never suspected a thing.

  And so it was that I smuggled myself onto the pickup bed and hitched a ride into town. Yes, I did smell of gasoline, and yes, my personal appearance had taken a serious blow.

  But it could have been worse. Consider the wind, for example. It blows all the time.

  Chapter Three: Running the Eighteen-Wheeler Marathon

  I enjoyed the ride into town. Sitting on the spare tire, I closed my eyes and let the wind blow my ears around.

  At last, serenity. Peace and quiet. All the heavy responsibility of running the ranch slipped away as if by magic, and I surrendered myself to the touch of the wind.

  Did I get cold back there? Yes, somewhat. But that was a small price to pay for the peace and quiet and tranquility and so forth.

  I did encounter one test of my willpower on the way to town. We had just left the caliche road and gotten on the main highway, when all at once a big cattle truck came up out of nowhere, blew his horn, and passed us.

  That tested me, sure did. See, I don’t like trucks in the first place, and I like ’em even less when they blow their horns at me and play big shot. And this one was hauling cattle and it’s real hard for me not to bark at cattle.

  The temptation to give that guy a severe barking was almost overpowering, yet I knew in my heart of hearts that if I barked, I would reveal my presence in the back of the pickup. I didn’t know what Slim might do if he discovered me back there, and I wasn’t real keen on finding out, because among his choices was throwing me out and letting me walk home.

  So I ground my teeth together and glared daggers at the truck and let him off without a barking. But I vowed right then and there that if me and that truck ever met again, he would get a double treatment. Or even a triple treatment.

  He’d sure regret blowing his horn at Hank the Cowdog, because Hank the Cowdog does not take trash off a truck, not even a trash truck.

  Well, after a few minutes of breathing his diesel smoke and choking down my anger, I got control of myself and tried to enjoy the rest of the trip.

  Then all at once, the pickup began to slow and the whine of the mudgrips moved into a different key. I looked out and saw that we were stopping at Waterhole 83.

  Slim got out, dusted the alfalfa leaves off the front of his shirt, stomped some mud off of his boots, rearranged his hat so that it rode at a rakish angle, flicked the toast crumbs out of his beard, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt, and went swaggering inside.

  When a cowboy goes to all that trouble to fix himself up, you know it’s a special occasion. Stopping at the Waterhole was pretty special.

  Well, I waited and I waited. You know about me and waiting. I hate it. Some dogs can sit in the back of a pickup for hours and hours, and it doesn’t seem to bother them. Me? I get bored. It’s hard for an active mind . . .

  Wasn’t that the same cattle truck that had passed us out on the highway? Red Kenworth, chrome stacks, a hairy little stuffed monkey hanging from the sun visor. By George yes! Same outfit. And now we knew why he’d been in such a big rush and why he’d been blowing everybody off the road.

  Coffee time at the Waterhole.

  I threw a glance inside and saw Slim sipping on a cup of coffee and talking to another cowboy. He’d be another thirty minutes getting out the door.

  I hopped down to the pavement and sort of casually made my way over toward the truck. Before I made any serious moves, see, I wanted to make sure that the driver had gone inside.

  I circled the rig and, just as I had suspected, the guy had been foolish enough to leave his entire truck unguarded.

  Having established this, I dropped all attempts to disguise my behavior and rushed forward. I reached the left front tire, sniffed it twice, and blasted the center out of that pretty chrome hub. I mean, it was a bull’s eye.

  From there, I moved on down to the driver wheels on the left side, knocked them out, and kept going, gathering speed as I went along. I made the turn at the bottom end of the trailer, knocked out four axles’ worth of tires at the back, and headed for the tandem driver wheels on the right side.

  The procedure couldn’t have gone any smooth­er. I mean, we’re talking about world-class speed. I wasn’t keeping my time on this deal, but I had a feeling that I’d done the entire left side in something like 00:48.5 seconds.

  As I recalled, my uncle Beanie, one of the fastest tire dogs who ever lived, had once run an eighteen-wheeler in 1:58.7, with a first leg of 00:51.3. In other words, I had me a record going here, if I could keep up the pace.

  The toughest part of the Eighteen-Wheeler Marathon comes after you do the trailer tires and sprint for the second set of driver wheels. It’s a long run, and by that time a guy has begun to wear down. It’s a real test of fitness and training and endurance.

  Most dogs can’t handle it. They’ll run out of zip on the straightaway, and a lot of ’em will sit down and rest.

  I was tempted to rest. I mean, I’m only flesh and blood, bones and hair and toenails, two eyes, two ears, and did I ever mention that the womenfolk really do handsprings when they see my nose?

  I’m not one to boast, but some very important authorities on noses have singled out MINE as one of the finest, if not THE finest, noses in the entire Northern Cowdog District of Texas.

  Where was I? Something about . . . kind of got distracted there. Huh. Just lost it.

  Oh yes, the Eighteen-Wheeler Hurdles Mara­thon. It’s a toughie, and as I was saying, your ordinary dog begins to give out after he rounds the curve at the rear of the trailer and hits that long straightaway. Many are tempted to stop and rest, and in fact, most DO stop and rest.

  Me? I was tempted, but I had a feeling that I had me a record-breaker going, if I could just gut it out and keep running. Did I stop and rest? No sir. I ignored the burning lungs, the weakened legs, the terrible dehydration, and all the rest of the physical symptoms of physical exhaustion, and plunged onward to the next set of tires.

  Gasping for breath, I reached the driver wheels on
the right side, came to an abrupt stop, lifted my left leg, and . . .

  “Get away from my truck, you flea bag!”

  EEEEEEEEEEE-YOWW!!

  You ever been buzzed with a hot shot?

  Truck drivers often carry a device called a hot shot, see. It’s a long plastic thing with batteries in the handle and two evil little prongs on the end. They use the hot shot to improve the get-along of cattle when they’re going in and out of a cattle truck.

  Apply that same wicked device to an innocent dog who is minding his own business and you will see an incredible display of gymnastics, acrobatics, and hieroglyphics.

  Okay. This smart-aleck truck driver, this brute, this practical joker must have come out of the Waterhole, and perhaps he had just loaded his hot shot with fresh batteries. Yes, I’m sure he had.

  And he saw me there, minding my own business, hurting no one, making no noise, and causing this world not one bit of trouble or grief. In fact, I was on the point of shattering the World Record in the Eighteen-Wheeler Hurdles Marathon.

  And what did he do? He buzzed me with his hot shot, fresh batteries and all, buzzed me in a moment of weakness and vulnerability, buzzed me for absolutely no reason except that he thought it would be fun to see a poor dog do three and a half flips in the air and come apart at the seams.

  Very funny.

  Just for that, I left his dumb old truck. By George, if he couldn’t act any better than that, I would just win my World Record on somebody’s else’s truck. Hey, there were lots of trucks in the world, and most drivers would have . . .

  He didn’t deserve the honor and glory, and I didn’t like his stupid old . . .

  I left out of there in a big hurry, zoomed around the back side of the Waterhole, and didn’t slow down until I had taken refuge, so to speak, behind the north side.

  There, I caught my breath and tried to lick down the hair on my back, which was sticking up like a stiff-bristle brush. That done, I peeked around the northeast corner of the building and did a visual scan of the parking lot, just to be . . .

  HUH?

  Slim and the pickup were pulling out on the highway. My ranch’s pickup was . . . Slim had . . . how could he . . . but of course he hadn’t known . . .

  He was gone and there was no stopping him.

  I was stranded, fellers. I had been abandoned in town.

  You probably think that my next move was to go back around to the south side of the Waterhole and physically attack that smart-aleck truck driver.

  Good guess. Yes, I thought about it, long and hard. But after thinking about it long and hard, and I mean doing some heavy-duty soul searching of my soul, I came to the realization that the guy should be pitied.

  Tearing off one of his legs wouldn’t make him a better human bean. It would only lead both of us into a spiral of anger and bitterness.

  The measure of a dog lies in his ability to forgive and forget.

  I decided to forgive him for being such an idiot, and not to forget that he still had that hot shot and might use it on me again if I showed myself.

  So, with that weight off my conscience, I hugged the north wall of the Waterhole and waited until I saw his stupid, stinking, rattletrap of a junk-heap truck pull out on the highway.

  Then, and only then, did I step out and give him a withering barage of barking. And like all louts and cowards throughout history, he drove away as fast as he could—utterly shaken by my display of moral superiority.

  Hey, if you’re on the side of Right, you’re on the side of Might and you don’t need to Bite.

  But a little barking never hurts a thing.

  Chapter Four: Chicken Bones Bring New Meaning to Life

  So there I was, stranded in town. That might have bothered me if it hadn’t been for the fact that I had dozens of friends with whom I could . . .

  Several friends. A few. Did I have any friends in Twitchell?

  Okay, maybe I didn’t, but I did have kinfolks—my very favorite sister, Maggie. And if you’ve got kinfolks, who needs friends?

  It had been quite a while since I’d paid a visit to Maggie and her four lovely children, and to be honest about it, I felt a little guilty about that. I mean, a guy can get so wrapped up in his work that he neglects his kinfolks, and I happened to know that Mag had always, well, kind of idolized me.

  I owed her a visit, so I just said, “What the heck, I’ll take the time to check in on Maggie and the kids.” I left the Waterhole, hit Main Street, and followed it into town.

  It was almost dark by the time I reached her neighborhood, and I figgered I had better find her place while there was still enough light to find it.

  I’d only been there once before, you see, and although the chances of me getting into the wrong yard were very remote, in the Security Business we never rule out any possibility, no matter how remote.

  Okay. I pointed myself toward the north and made my way to the end of the street. There, I hung a right turn, trotted some twenty yards to the east, made another right, and found myself in the alley.

  Ah! Immediately I felt more comfortable. I’ve always been more of an alley-guy than a front-street-guy (maybe I’ve already said that but it never hurts to emphasize important points), and I’ve always felt more at home amongst garbage barrels and gas meters than amongst shrubs and pretty lawns.

  Yes, all at once I felt at ease, trotting along in the ruts of the garbage truck, and . . . hmmmm.

  I stopped and lifted my nose and sampled the air. A fresh and exciting aroma was riding the evening breeze, and unless I was badly mistakened, it had something to do with fried chicken.

  Fried chicken bones just happened to be one of my all-time favorite foods.

  I locked in on the scent and followed it ten paces to the northeast and found myself standing in front of a silver garbage barrel. I glanced up and down the alley and, seeing no one, hopped up on my back legs, hooked my front paws over the lip of the barrel, and pulled it over on its side.

  My, my! Delicious aromas came pouring out of the barrel, as well as a few sundry items such as old newspapers, milk cartons, letters, bills, cans, bottles, and so forth.

  I began a Sniffing and Digging Procedure, checking out each item for goodies. Those items that failed to test out positive for goodies, I shoveled outside the barrel. Through hard work and careful examination, I was able to narrow down the material to a single bundle of something wrapped in a newspaper, which had rested near the bottom of the barrel before it had, uh, fallen over, so to speak.

  Yes, this was it! With paws and teeth, I slashed at the outer wrapping of paper, and at last . . . mercy! Fried chicken bones, oh how I love them!

  The leg bones crunch so nicely. The end-portion of the wings and the rib section can often be counted upon to have some crust left on them. And you can almost always find two juicy strips of meat that have been left on either side of the backbone. Have we ever done the Chicken Bone song? Maybe not, but we certainly should. Here goes:

  The Chicken Bone Blues

  Late in the evening, the sun’s gone down

  A country dog finds himself in town,

  Singing a song called the Chicken Bone Blues.

  Walk down the alley, go through the trash,

  Looking for a treasure, and I don’t mean cash.

  Singing a song called the Chicken Bone Blues.

  Sometimes this old world treats you badly.

  It’s filled with sorrow, pain, and strife.

  But then you find a whole new meaning in the alley of life.

  You pick through the garbage and you don’t have to beg,

  Just dig ’til you find a chicken leg.

  I had me a woman, heart was of stone,

  I’m giving my love to a chicken bone.

  Singing a song called the Chicken Bone Blues.

  The women’ll say
they don’t need you,

  A garbage can will always feed you.

  Singing a song called the Chicken Bone Blues.

  I’m not looking for someone’s pity

  But I think I’ll put my heart up on the shelf.

  There’s not much to be gained feeling sorry for myself.

  When it comes to bones, I am Aristotle.

  When it’s time to eat, I can hit the throttle.

  The sun’s gone down, the alley’s dark

  I’m just as happy as a finger-licking lark.

  Singing a song called the Chicken Bone Blues.

  For every woman, there’s a man.

  For every dog, there’s a garbage can.

  Singing a song called the Chicken Bone Blues,

  Oh yeah,

  Singing a song called the Chicken Bone Blues.

  Needless to say, I dived in and had myself an old-fashioned garbage-barrel feast.

  There is an ancient rumor, based on incorrect information, that dogs cannot or should not eat chicken bones, because . . . something foolish, such as that dogs will choke on . . .

  COUGH! WHEEZE! ARG!

  Hmmm. It appeared that something had caught in my throat. Probably a shred of newspaper or perhaps a coffee ground or . . .

  COUGH! WHEEZE! ARG!

  Must have been a shred of newspaper. You see, newspaper will lump up and get caught in the . . .

  It wouldn’t go down, no matter how hard I tried to swallow it. Nor would it come back up.

  One of the dangers of feasting in garbage cans is that a guy runs some risk of ingesting lumps of newspaper which . . .

  COUGH! WHEEZE! ARG! ULP!

  This was no good. Obviously, I had bitten into some tainted lumps of newspaper and my best course of action lay in finding some water to wash them down. Before I strangled.

  Hence, I cancelled the feast, backed out of the garbage barrel, and made my way past all the litter and trash. What a mess! It was shocking to see how little some people cared about the ap­pearance of their alley. Trash was everywhere!