The Case of the Vampire Vacuum Sweeper Page 2

  I gave them an easy smile. “You guys ever go up against a shotgun?”

  “Yeah. Lots of times. It ain’t fun. But you know what?” He drilled me in the chest with his paw. “You ain’t got one, jerk. That could be a problem—I mean, with you mouthing off and everything.”

  Muggs was back. “Yeah, jerk, and if you don’t mouth stopping off, I’m gonna . . . if you don’t get that shotgun outa your mouth . . . if you don’t . . .”

  Buster stopped him with a raised paw. “Tink about it, Muggsie. It’ll come to you in a minute.” Back to me. “Me and my boys obsoive that you ain’t got a shotgun, pal.”

  I swallowed hard. What the heck was Slim doing! “It’s . . . it’s up on the porch, Buster, and it’ll be here any minute now. That’s Slim and he’s doubling all the charges.”

  “Is he? But the problem is that he ain’t here, and you are, and he ain’t mouthing off to me and my boys—and you are. Do you see what this means?”

  I laughed in their faces. “Ha, ha. Buster, you don’t really think I’d be stupid enough to walk into the middle of you guys without a secret weapon, do you?”

  He thought about that. “Yeah, I do. I honestly do. I tink you’re that dumb, and I thought so the minute I laid eyes on you. Somehow you just look . . . dumb.”

  “What if I told you that I’ve got a whole division of Rottweilers hiding in those chinaberry trees, just waiting for my signal to attack?”

  He shrugged. “Well, naturally I’d tink you was lying.”

  “Ha, ha, ha! Okay, guys, it’s time for me to reveal that you’ve walked right into my trap.”

  Buster grinned. “Oh gosh, we have walked into his trap. What shall we do?”

  Muggsie popped up. “Hey Boss, we could always run.”

  “Uh-uh. We ain’t gonna run ’cause he ain’t got a trap. He’s all mouth and no brains, Muggsie, and in that respect he reminds me of . . . you.”

  I stiffened my back and tried to hide the quiver in my voice. “I’ll give you to the count of three. At that point, we’ll find out who’s bluffing.”

  Buster nodded his head. “Yeah, we will, only I already know.”

  “ONE!”

  Zoom! I went to Full Flames on all engines and made a wild dash for the house.

  Sure, I knew it wasn’t dignified for the Head of Ranch Security to be chased up on his own porch, but at that moment I didn’t much care about appearances and so forth.

  You’ll be proud to know that I made it. I flew up on the porch, skidded to a stop, and took refuge . . . that is, I established a new command post behind . . . okay, I hid behind Slim’s legs, but the important thing is that I began firing off barks immediately, and I mean big barks, huge barks, barks that would have scared the liver out of a liverwurst sandwich.

  Boy, you should have seen me. First I fired off two barks around Slim’s left leg, then shifted sides (to confuse them, don’t you know) and fired off two more barks around his right leg. Pretty impressive, huh? You bet it was.

  And then—this will impress you even more—I poked my head between his legs and showered those hoodlums with a burst of Fully Automatic Barking. It stopped ’em in their tracks, I mean, those guys were so shocked and terrified, they turned and ran like the cowards they really were.

  Okay, maybe it helped that Slim finally got his shotgun loaded and sent a full chorus of buckshot singing over their heads, but mainly it was my Counter Offensive of deep, manly barking that turned the tide of battle in our favor. As the cowards vanished into the distance, I crept out of my Bunker Position and went charging after them. I went all the way to the edge of the porch, if you can believe that.

  “Let that be a lesson to you, you meanies! And don’t forget that your mommas are twice as ugly as you are!”

  Boy, I got ’em told, huh? You bet I did. I had a feeling we’d never see those guys again. After I’d sent the rascals fleeing for their lives, I turned a sour gaze on Slim.

  He grinned and shrugged. “Derned gun jammed on me.”

  Great. Swell. But wasn’t there a new miracle invention called gun oil? I mean, some guys actually oiled their shotguns once or twice a year, and guess what—their shotguns didn’t jam! And their dogs didn’t get chased up on porches either.

  Oh well, we’d won a huge moral victory over the stray dogs and I had saved the calves from being stampeded all over the county, and maybe I could find it in my heart to forgive Slim for being . . . whatever he was. Lazy, I guess, and just a little careless with his Head of Ranch Security.

  Perhaps you’re wondering what became of Drover in all the excitement. I wondered about that myself, and it took me half an hour to solve the mystery. Actually, it was no mystery at all. It was the biggest non-surprise of the year. In the heat of battle, he had run back to the hay barn and had squeezed himself in between two bales of hay.

  I discovered his hiney sticking out. We needn’t report the full extent of the tongue-lashing I gave him. It was pretty severe, but he promised never to do it again, and this time, I got the feeling that he really meant it.

  And with that, we retired to the house—and yes, to the warmth and comfort of Slim’s woodburning stove.

  Chapter Three: A Phone Call in the Night

  Let me say right here that I don’t totally approve of ranch dogs sleeping inside a house. Have I mentioned that before? Maybe not, but it’s true. Too much warmth and comfort can corrupt a ranch dog.

  I don’t worry about myself, but I worry a lot about Drover. I’ve noticed that he is easily corrupted by luxuries, such as sleeping inside Slim’s house.

  Okay, maybe I sort of enjoy it too, but at least I feel guilty about it. Show me a dog who feels no guilt about sleeping inside a house and I’ll show you a dog who’s on the roan to ruid.

  Road to ruin, I should say. I’ll show you a dog who is being slowly strangled by the velvet glove of luxury. It’s a terrible thing to see.

  Drover curled up on a spot near the stove and within seconds he was totally knocked out—sleeping and making his usual orchestra of weird sounds, such as wheezing and grunting. Me, I couldn’t sleep. Not only was I being distracted by Drover’s noises, but I also began to notice that the floor was getting hard. I moved around and tried to find a comfortable spot, but nothing seemed to help. At last I heaved a weary sigh, jacked myself off the floor, and began a routine which we call Digging and Fluffing.

  See, a lot of times when your bed’s too hard, you can work it around and soften it up. First, we dig up the sleeping area with our front paws, then, second, we circle the softened spot three or four times before collapsing.

  Anyways, I began the Digging and Fluffing Routine, and I knew right away that this was not going to be an easy assignment. Slim’s hardwood floors were covered with carpet, but it was old and thin. I dug and dug and dug. Slim must have heard the sound of my claws scraping across his so-called carpet, because his eyes came up from the livestock paper he was reading.

  “Hank, if I’d wanted a basement in this house, I would have dug it myself.”

  I stopped digging and stared at him. Base­ment. I wasn’t digging a basement, I was merely trying to find a small comfortable spot on his . . . oh, maybe he was trying to be funny. Cowboy humor. They say one thing and mean something else.

  Okay, digging a basement. Very funny.

  I went back to my digging. He reached out his bare foot and kicked me on the tail section. Kind of gave me a jolt. I mean, I was in very deep concentration and . . .

  “Quit tearing up my carpet. I paid fourteen dollars for that thing at a garage sale, and I don’t need you digging holes in it. It ain’t much, but it’s better than you deserve.”

  Okay. Fine. If that’s the way he felt about it, I would just . . . I didn’t know what I was going to do. Sit up all night. Suffer. Deprive myself of much-needed sleep.

  Just then, the silence was sl
ashed by a loud piercing sound. I didn’t know what it was, but I leaped away from it and began barking. At first, it sounded like . . . well, the ringing of some kind of bell or buzzer, perhaps an Early Warning Alarm, and when we dogs get an Early Warning Alarm, our first and most important response is to bark.

  I barked, and since I wasn’t sure where the sound was coming from, I delivered several bursts of Spray Barking and covered the entire north half of the . . .

  Okay, relax. It was just the ringing of the telephone. Slim answered it.

  “Hello. Yes. Not yet. It ain’t nine o’clock. Uh-huh. Readin’ my livestock paper and baby-sittin’ a couple of souphounds. Who is this?” Suddenly, he sat up straight and his eyes popped open. “Viola? I’ll be derned. How have you been? Haven’t seen you in quite a spell. How’s the grass down your way? Uh-huh. Same here. Cows are doing good.”

  I waited to hear something important. I mean, I’m a fairly busy dog and I usually have more important things to do than listen to Slim’s Grass Report. My mind began to wander, is the point, and I found myself thinking of other matters.

  I noticed, for example, the pile of newspapers on the floor near Slim’s bare feet, and it occurred to me that those papers would make good bedding if a guy just took the time to work them around. I advanced toward the papers and shifted into Digging and Fluffing.

  Now this was more like it! Instead of digging into a threadbare carpet, I had something with body and soul and substance. I dug and I dug, and you know, it was kind of satisfying, stirring up all those newspapers. Here was something worth digging, and I could hardly wait to shift into the next two steps in the procedure: Fluff and Circle the Bed.

  I threw myself into the digging. By George, this was fun! It had been months since I had dug into a pile of newspapers this deep. I had ’em flying in all directions and was about ready to shift into the Fluffing Procedure, when I felt Slim’s foot poke me in the ribs.

  He covered the phone with his hand and gave me a hard glare. “Quit diggin’ up my library, you dingbat. I have them papers filed just the way I want ’em and I may want to go back and clip out some articles. You’re making a mess of my house.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. I was . . . ho boy, that was the joke of the century! Me making a mess of his house! Ha. His house was a slum area, and I’d had nothing to do with it.

  He went back to his conversation. “Huh? No, I was talking to Hank. I think he wants to be a badger when he grows up. He’s been trying to dig up my house all evening.”

  Well, there was another insult. For his information, I did not want to be a badger, I was perfectly content being a dog, thank you, but finding a comfortable place to relax in his house just happened to be no can of wax.

  Okay, I stopped digging in his so-called library and moved rapidly into the Fluffing Procedure. With a little luck, I might have a decent place to sleep before midnight. I did some fluffing, then went right into Circle the Bed. I circled it three times, just the way it’s supposed to be done, and then I plopped . . .

  Yee-ow!

  For Pete’s sake, what was that thing I’d plopped down on? It felt like a rock, maybe even a boulder, and what was a boulder doing in the middle of Slim’s living room? I raised myself to a standing position and began sniffing through the pile of papers, and even went to the trouble of activating Smelloradar.

  A lot of dogs wouldn’t have gone to that much trouble, but I did, for the simple reason that I wasn’t too keen on the idea of sleeping on a rock pile.

  Yes, I did have hopes of getting a little sleep, if I could clear away all the rubble and get Slim off the phone.

  I had a boulder lurking in my bed and I had to find it. I activated Smelloradar and set it for Rock Search. Nothing, a total blank for rocks and boul­ders. But then . . . hmmm, I began picking up faint signals that suggested the presence of . . . bone?

  Impossible. I punched in Deep Sniff and did a more thorough analysis. By George, all the instruments kept bringing up the same results: Bone, grade three, fairly old, possibly steak. Well, a guy has to trust his instruments, so I probed deeper into the paper mess with my nose, and . . .

  I’ll be derned. Found a bone at the bottom of the heap.

  My first thought was that some stranger had wandered into Slim’s shack, gotten lost in all the papers and mess, and perished, leaving a few bones behind. But no, on second thought, that theory didn’t make sense. Nobody in his right mind would wander into Slim’s dirty house.

  But what was a bone doing in the middle of the living room?

  I eased my jaws around the bone, lifted it out of the paper mess, laid it on the floor, and studied it with eyes that were well trained in the field of Bonology. The results were shocking. Not only was this not a steak bone, it wasn’t even a beef bone. It was a turkey neck bone!

  What was a turkey neck bone doing in the middle of Slim’s living room floor? I had no idea. All I can tell you is that many strange things end up on his floor.

  Well, I felt pretty proud of myself for solving the Mystery of the Turkey Neck Bone, and it occurred to me that maybe I should celebrate my success by chewing it. That’s just what I did.

  I had just taken it into my mouth and begun to enjoy the nice crunchy texture of this particular bone, and had lost all interest in Slim’s phone conversation with Miss Viola when, suddenly, he hung up the phone and leaped to his feet.

  I stared at him in shock and surprise. I mean, Slim wasn’t much inclined to making sudden move­ments of any kind. Leaping out of a chair was something you might expect him to do if the house was on fire and burning boards were falling all around him, but here and now?

  I noticed that his eyes were wide with . . . some­thing. Fear. Terror. Something bad had happened. Something was terribly wrong. The bone rolled out of my mouth and I went straight into Heavy-Duty Barking.

  “Good honk,” he yelled over the sound of my barking, “Viola’s folks are out of coffee. She’s coming over here to borrow some. She’ll be here in thirty minutes and this house looks like a train wreck. And Hank, shut up your barking!”

  HUH?

  Shut up my . . . okay, sure, fine. I could shut up my barking. I’d just been trying . . . I mean, he’d been the one who’d flowed out of the chair, right? Floed. Flewed. Flowned.

  Leaped. He’d been the one who had leaped out of his chair, right? When people start leaping out of chairs and windows, screeching and rolling their eyes, we dogs are trained to bark. But if he didn’t want his house to be protected and alerted by a highly trained, highly decorated Head of Ranch Security, that was just fine with me.

  I had better things to do than bark, such as crunching that turkey neck bone.

  Now, where was that bone? I poked my nose into the piles of paper and was in the process of . . .

  “Out of the way, dogs, we’ve got to get this place cleaned up!”

  Here he came, lumbering and thundering right over the top of me. Fortunately, I saw him coming and was able to scramble out of the way. His big bare foot missed smashing my nose by a matter of inches. Too bad his big bare foot didn’t miss the bone.

  Let’s get something straight right here. I refuse to take responsibility for what happened next. Remember, I was just minding my own business. Remember also that the bone had been in that same room, on that same floor, in that same mess of papers for months.

  Okay, maybe my chewing had sharpened some of the ends and edges, but don’t forget that turkey neck bones, even those that haven’t been chewed, are pretty jagged, nothing you’d want to pounce on with a bare foot.

  That’s what he did. He pounced on the bone, the jagged, sharp turkey vertebra, with his bare foot, and that began a very strange chain of events.

  Chapter Four: Attacked by— Something Awful . . .

  As near as I can figure, he stepped on the bone pretty hard, which probably hurt. Of course it did, which ex
plains his howl of pain. But that wasn’t the worst part. He also twisted his ankle and went crashing to the floor.

  The crash brought Drover out of his stuporous state. He leaped to his feet, staggered around, and began squeaking. “Help, murder, mayday! The pork­chops are coming! Oh my leg!”

  In a flash, he was gone. I heard his claws scratching on the floor as he crawled beneath the bed in the back room.

  Slim grabbed his ankle (his own ankle, not Drover’s) and let out a groan. I rushed to his side and began administering Emergency Licks to his face and ear—for the second time that evening, I might add. I mean, this was clearly a serious sit­uation, him falling to the floor, and I was willing to forget his hateful remarks about my barking and put the past behind us.

  Do you suppose he was grateful? Oh no. He turned to me with wild eyes and clenched teeth and screeched, “Get away from me, you meathead, I think I’ve broke my ankle!”

  Fine. By George, if he thought he could cure his broken ankle without Emergency Licks, that was sure okay with me.

  I was just trying to help.

  Sometimes I wonder what it takes to please these people.

  I retired to the northeast corner of the room, sat down, and began beaming him Hurtful Looks and Brooding Glares.

  He clenched his teeth against the pain and struggled to his feet, using a chair for support. He tested the ankle several times before putting his weight on it, and that brought another grimace of pain. Then he tried walking on it—or hopping might be a better word for it, because he sure was packing it around. But he managed to walk a few steps before he hoisted ’er up and stopped for a rest.

  “Well, I don’t think she’s busted. I hope not, ’cause a broke leg don’t fit into my plans right now.”

  Was he talking to me? Too bad, because I wasn’t listening. I no longer cared, and to prove it, I turned my eyes away from him.