The Case of the Haystack Kitties Page 2

  Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t selling out one hundred percent. The pain and humilification would linger for weeks, and I would find it hard to hide the scars, but . . . well, beef jerky was a pretty good peace offering.

  He tore off a hunk and pitched it into the air. You should have seen me snap that rascal! Snagged it out of thin air and gulped it down.

  Old Slim chuckled at that. “Beats cotton, don’t it?”

  There for a moment I considered . . . oh well. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but beef will ease the pain. Someone on the ranch needed to show some maturity, and I figured it had to be me.

  “You want to ride in the back or up front with the executives?”

  Well, I had always enjoyed riding in the back and letting the wind blow my ears around, but . . . well, considering all the suffering I had endured that morning, maybe riding up front would be better. I leaped up onto the seat and took the Shot­gun Position by the window.

  Much to my surprise and dismay, Slim called Drover, and a moment later he joined me in the cab. I gave him a withering glare.

  “Hi, Hank. Is something wrong?”

  “Don’t speak to me, you weasel. Of course some­thing’s wrong.”

  “Gosh, if I can’t speak to you, how can I find out what’s wrong?”

  “You know what it is, and you were the cause of it. Once again, you have made a mockery of the entire Security Division.”

  “I thought we’d become famous scientists or something.”

  “We became famous idiots, Drover, and do you know why?”

  “Not really.”

  “Because you told me a huge whopper of a lie and lured me into believing that story about cotton­­wood candy.”

  He grinned. “Oh yeah. That was quite a whopper, but I knew you’d never believe it.”

  “Yes, but I did believe it. I made the mistake of trusting you.”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “I just said that, and we don’t need you repeating everything I say.”

  “What?”

  “I said, we don’t need me repeating everything you say.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  “And for telling huge whoppers to the Head of Ranch Security, you will be written up. I’m going to put three Shame-on-You’s into your file.”

  “Oh drat.”

  “Make that four, Drover, since you’ve chosen to use naughty language while on duty. I hope this ruins your day and makes you feel lousy.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, it does.”

  “Then why are you grinning?”

  “Well, let me think here.” He rolled his eyes around. “I deserved it so much, the guilt feels good and makes me grin.”

  “Drover, that’s the dumbest statement you’ve ever made.”

  “No, I said something dumber last week.”

  “What was it?”

  “Well, it was so dumb, I tried to forget it, and now I can’t remember.”

  “Shut up, Drover. Talking with you makes me feel insane.”

  I turned my gaze out the window and moved as far away from him as I could. Just sitting next to him scrambled my brain waves.

  Slim fired up the motor, and we drove around to the stack lot, and in case you don’t know, a stack lot is where we keep our stacks of alfalfa hay over the winter months. It’s fenced off to keep the livestock . . .

  Uh-oh. I saw the problem right away, even before Slim did. A bull had torn down the fence and had invaded the stack lot. No doubt he had been there most of the night, and he had wrecked the southwest corner of the stack.

  Slim saw it too, and his eyes narrowed in anger. “Dadgum bull. Come on, Hank. We’ve got a job to do.”

  He flew out the door and opened the wire gate into the stack lot. I tried to follow him out the pickup door, but Drover was in my way. “Excuse me, but I’ve just been called out on a Code Three.” He stared at me with empty eyes. “Will you please get out of my way?”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When did somebody get in your way?”

  “You’re in my way right now!”

  “Oh my gosh, did something happen?”

  “Yes, something happened. We’re in a Code Three Situation. We’re under Red Alert, and you’re in my way, and I can’t get out. Move!”

  He moved, all right. He started turning circles right there in the seat. “Help, mayday, Red Alert, oh my leg!”

  “Stop squeaking and spinning in circles! Jump out the door and attack that bull!”

  “Bull? Oh my gosh, okay, here we go, out the door . . .”

  At last he jumped out the door, but would you like to guess what he did the very instant his feet hit the ground? Instead of charging after the bull, he ducked under the pickup and hid. I couldn’t believe it. I was so disgusted . . . oh well. I didn’t have time to deal with Drover’s problems.

  I flew out the door and went ripping into the stack lot to give that smart-aleck bull a stiff dose of Ranch Justice. I’d never liked bulls in the first place, and I could hardly wait to tear this guy to shreds.

  Chapter Three: I Discover a Stray Cat in the Haystack

  By the time I reached the Combat Zone, Slim was already there. He’d found a piece of wind­mill rod, and he ran straight at the bull, yelling, waving his arms, and swinging the rod.

  If he’d stopped to think about it, he might have tried a different approach. He got the bull so stirred up that, instead of stepping over the fence he’d already torn down, he tore out another six feet of posts and barbed wire. Then he headed west in a run.

  Slim stopped, threw the windmill rod at him, and yelled, “You dadgum fence-wrecking bull! Get ’im, Hankie, and bite him twice for me!”

  I zoomed past him and headed straight for the villainous bull. I threw all circuits over into Auto­matic and began the Targeting Procedure. Would you like to listen in? Okay, here’s the conversation that was going on in the cockpit of my mind.

  “Range . . . mark! Bearing . . . mark! All ahead two thirds, course two-five-zero! Open outer doors, flood tubes one and three, and plot a solution! We have a solution. Stand by to fire!”

  Pretty impressive, huh? You bet it was. You prob­ably thought we dogs just went out and barked at things. Ha! Far from it. Our Targeting Proce­dures are very precise and very complicated, and we have to . . .

  HUH?

  The bull had been, uh, running, don’t you see, but all at once he stopped and wheeled around and . . . well, more or less turned back in my direction and . . . you must realize that all our calculations and Targeting So-Forths had been based on . . .

  We had to, uh, plot a new solution, is the long and short of it. We went to Full Air Brakes, did a rapid turn to the starboard larboard, reversed directions, hit Full Flames on all engines, and went streaking back to the . . . well . . . to the pickup, you might say.

  We needed some time to retarget, don’t you see, and Data Control felt that Drover might need some help in . . . well, guarding the underside of the . . . we sure couldn’t afford to lose that pickup.

  I scrambled beneath the pickup and cut loose with a withering barrage of barking. Drover was there, his eyes as big as grapesfruit. Grapefruits, that is. “Did you get him?”

  “Oh yeah, no problem. I don’t think we’ll see him again.”

  “Oh good. Boy, he sure was a big old bull.”

  I peeked out and saw that the bull was walking away. “He was nothing but a huge hamburger, Drover, and the bigger they are, the harder they cook.” I noticed that he was staring at me. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Somehow that didn’t make sense.”

  “Of course it made sense. The bigger they are, the . . . just skip it, Drover. I’m sorry I brought it up, and I don’t have time to explain it.
I’ve got work to do.”

  “Okay, I think I’ll just stay here for a while. This derned old leg went out on me again.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” I crawled out and gave the bull a few parting shots. “Let that be a lesson to you, you big galoot! Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

  Pretty tough, huh? You have to be firm with these bulls.

  I noticed that Slim was trying to patch up the fence, and I figured I’d better scoot over there and supervise. On my way across the stack lot, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. It wasn’t much, just a blur of color. Something was over there, and I needed to check it out.

  I altered course and marched over to the spot. I stuck my nose between two bales of hay and . . . my goodness, it was a cat, a smallish, yellowish she-cat. My first instink was to raise all hackles and growl at her, which I did, but then I noticed that she had a more or less pleasant face, and she didn’t hiss at me or yowl. Still, she was a cat, and cats had no business on my outfit.

  I mean, we already had one, and he was one too many. Pete, I mean. I had no use for Pete. He was lazy, hateful, spoiled, and constantly looking for ways of getting me into trouble. Have I mentioned that I don’t like cats? I don’t like cats, period.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  She spoke in a sad little voice. “I’m lost. I’m alone and abandoned. I need a home.”

  “Life is tough, ma’am. We have no homes for cats. This is a cattle ranch, not a cat ranch. You’re occupying my haystack and trespassing on my property. Oh yes, I’m Hank the Cowdog, Head of Ranch Security. You’ll need to move along.”

  “But couldn’t I stay in your haystack for a day or two?”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “Cats always cause trouble. The answer is no, I’m sorry. I’ll be back here this afternoon to check things out. Nothing personal, ma’am, but you’d better be gone. Good luck.”

  I marched away from her. I kind of hated being so . . . hey, once you start boarding stray cats, there’s no end to it. They’ll move in and take over the place.

  I joined Slim. I could see that he was experiencing a period of great darkness. He always does when there is a fence to repair. He doesn’t enjoy fixing fence. I knew that about him and knew that in this hour of despair he needed a friend.

  When I got there, he was standing over the wreckage, muttering to himself. “Of all the bum luck. I’ve got cattle to feed and hay to load, and that bull decides to wreck the stack lot fence.”

  I sat down beside him and struck a pose we call Loyal Friend Sharing Heartache. We save it for special occasions such as this one. Deep down, maybe I didn’t really care all that much. I mean, there are many tragedies in the world that are worse than a trashed fence, but in the Ranch Dog Business, we get no points for bringing them up.

  See, when our cowboys are depressed, they expect us to be depressed. When they’re happy, they want us to be happy. That may sound a little strange, but that’s what we dogs get paid for.

  Slim shook his head and stared at the fence. He heaved a sigh. I followed his lead and did the same. We were both very depressed about this fence deal.

  “I ain’t got time to fix it right, plus I’m a little short on inspiration so I reckon I’ll do a sharecropper patch and hope it’ll turn a bull.”

  We had seen those sharecropper patches many times before. Slim and Loper were famous for their ingenuity in this department. They could take a stretch of old, rusted barbed wire and dinky posts, add some baling wire and a few staples, and make it just as sorry as it had been before.

  Only this time, Slim added a new technique I hadn’t seen before. Where the posts were broken off at the ground, he stood them up and wired in a crutch post on each side, making a kind of A-frame. It held up the fence, didn’t cost the ranch any money in new material, and spared Slim the trouble of digging postholes.

  I thought it was pretty clever. I also thought the bull would wreck it in about ten seconds, but of course I kept that thought to myself. These cowboys don’t want advice from their dogs.

  He spent fifteen minutes on it, and when he was done, he stood back and admired his work. “Well now, that ain’t such a bad job, is it Hank?”

  Uh . . . no. No, it was very nice. Beautiful. A fine piece of work. Too bad we didn’t have a camera.

  “I bet it’ll turn that old bull, and if it don’t, I’ve got a shotgun and some number seven loads that might get his attention. Come on, pooch, we’ve got hay to load and mouths to feed.”

  He crawled into the pickup and backed it up to the stack. You’re probably wondering about Drover and if he got smushed, seeing as how he was still under the pickup, guarding the springs and shocks and U-joints. He didn’t get smushed. He never gets smushed. He waited until the last possible second, then squirted out of danger.

  Whilst Slim loaded the hay and stacked it on the flatbed, I threw myself into the task of ignoring Drover. He came up and started yapping about something or other, nothing that interested me in the least. I walked away in the middle of his so-called conversation and took up a new position. He followed and continued his yapping. At last I got tired of it.

  “Drover, are you bored?”

  “Who me? Well . . . yeah, maybe I am. How’d you know?”

  “I always know when you’re bored, because you start boring me with boring conversation.”

  “I’ll be derned. I didn’t know it was so obvious.”

  “It is. What you need is a little job to keep you busy, so why don’t you walk over there to those two bales of hay—you see those two bales off to themselves? Walk over there, stick your head in between them, and bark as loud as you can.”

  “Okay, let’s see if I can remember: two bales, stick my head, and bark. I think I’ve got it. But how come you want me to bark at the hay?”

  “Just do it, Drover. For once in your life, follow an order and complete a task.”

  “Well . . . there’s not a snake in there, is there?”

  “No, there’s no snake. You have my Cowdog Oath on it. Now go.”

  “Well, I guess . . . okay, here I go.”

  He went skipping over to the two bales of hay. I watched with great interest, heh heh, and had a fairly good idea what might happen. I didn’t wish the dunce any trouble, but he needed some life experiences to occupy his tiny mind and to give him something new to talk about.

  He reached the bales, looked back at me, and waved. I waved back. He stuck his nose in between the bales and did his best imitation of a deep roaring bark. It wasn’t much of a bark, but it proved to be enough. Heh, heh.

  He jumped three feet in the air and squalled, then came highballing it back to me. “Hank, there’s a cat in there!”

  “No kidding? A cat, huh?”

  “Yeah, and I barked, and she slapped my face.”

  “Goodness. What a naughty cat. Why didn’t you beat her up and run her off the ranch?”

  “Well . . . I just couldn’t do it. Who could beat up a cat with kittens?”

  I stared into the huge vacuum of his eyes. “What?”

  “Kittens. She’s got six little baby kittens in there.”

  My eyes rolled back in my head. Oh great! We didn’t have just one stray cat on the ranch. We had SIX! Seven, actually, if you counted the mother.

  And guess who came slithering along at that very moment—speaking of stray and unwanted cats. It was Pete. No doubt he had heard the noise and had come to check it out. Oh, and he had been listening in on our conversation.

  “Hi, Hankie. I hear we’ve got some new cats on the ranch.”

  I whirled around and showed him some fangs. “Get lost, Pete. The cats have to go. They’re not staying on my ranch, and I don’t want to hear what you have to say about it. I already know.”

  “I don’t think y
ou do, Hankie. It might surprise you.”

  “What are you saying, you little sneak? Out with it.”

  He blinked his eyes and grinned. “I think you should . . . order them off the ranch, right now. Throw them out. Make them leave. They don’t belong here.”

  I stared into his cunning cattish eyes. He didn’t know it, but he had just caused a train wreck in my mind. Suddenly I wasn’t sure what kind of scheme he was trying to cook up. With cats, you never know. They say one thing, and it means something else, but you can always be sure they’re up to no good.

  Pete was up to no good, but I didn’t have time to get to the bottom of his barrel. I had work to do, so I whirled around and marched away. But it continued to bother me. Only later did I discover why he had taken my side in the Stray Cat Debate.

  Chapter Four: I Give Momma Cat the Order to Leave

  We had stray cats on the ranch, but we wouldn’t have them for long, not if I had anything to say about it.

  I left Pete and Drover and marched straight over to the two bales of hay. I knocked on Madame Kitty’s door—well, tapped on one of the bales, actually, since she didn’t have a . . . I wanted to alert her to the fact that I was there to serve a warrant.

  “Ma’am? Madame Kitty? Hello?”

  She didn’t answer. I heard only a bunch of little squeaks. I moved closer, so that I could peer into the space between the bales. There she was, stretched out on the ground with six kittens lined up along her belly.

  I looked away. I mean, it didn’t seem quite proper for me to be invading her privacy and staring at her.

  “Hello? I know you’re in there. May I have a word with you?”

  “I’m busy. Could you come back later?”

  “I know you’re busy, and no, I can’t come back later. We have urgent business to discuss.”

  “Well . . . all right. Go ahead and talk. I can hear you. Just don’t get too close.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Well . . . I might have to knock your block off.”

  My ears perked up on that. “Knock my block off? Is that what you said? You, a shrimpy little cat who is breaking the law, might knock my block off? Ha! That’s funny.”