The Case of the Double Bumblebee Sting Page 2

  “I guess so. Did you see something?”

  “Affirmative. I saw something, but it wasn’t a snake.”

  “Oh good! What was it?”

  “A cottontail rabbit. He jumped into that fourinch pipe over there. In other words . . .”

  Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. I shot a glance down to the yard gate. Sally May was there in her housecoat, scraping my morning scraps off a plate and giving them all to . . .

  “Drover, we’ve been duped.”

  “We have?”

  “Yes, we have. We’ve been duped by the cat who sent us up here on a fool’s errand.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Exactly. He sent us up here to look for a snake that doesn’t exist.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad!”

  “But you won’t be so glad, Drover, that Pete is getting all the breakfast scraps, including the juicy fatty ends of bacon we’re so fond of.”

  “Oh darn. I’m not so glad about that.”

  “Just as I predicted. Well, we have no choice but to go streaking back to the yard gate and give Kitty-Kitty the pounding he so richly deserves. Are you ready for that kind of combat?”

  “Well, let me think here.” He rolled his eyes and studied the clouds. “I’m so glad the snake turned out to be a rabbit that I can’t feel sad or mad.”

  “Pete lied, Drover, that’s why we’re mad.”

  “Yeah, but that was the best lie I ever heard.”

  “All lies are bad, especially when they cost us our breakfast scraps. You should be outraged.”

  He grinned at me. “Yeah, but I’m not. I’m the happiest dog in the whole world.”

  “In that case, I have no choice but to pull rank, slap an injunction on you, and force you to shut up.” I slapped him on the bohunkus. “There’s the injunction.”

  “Thanks, Hank. I can stand the junk as long as there’s not a snake in it.”

  “The junk is in your brain, Drover.”

  “No, it’s right over there in the weeds.”

  “An injunction has nothing to do with junk. It has to do with . . . you’ve got me so confused, I don’t know what we’re talking about.”

  “Rabbits.”

  “Yes, of course. Rabbits are an excellent source of entertainment for ranch dogs and they never bite. Any more questions about rabbits?”

  “Yeah, just one. How come Pete got all the scraps?”

  I blinked my eyes, cut them from side to side, and tried to shake the vapors out of my head. “Drover, have you ever felt that you might be going insane?”

  “No, but I sure wonder about the rest of the world. It’s a pretty crazy world.”

  “Yes, and you account for 90 percent of it. Now hush, don’t say one more word!”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s better. Let’s move out.”

  And with that, we went streaking down to the yard gate to claim our true and rightful share of the scraps.

  Chapter Three: Pete’s a Cheat

  The lightning dash down to the yard gate went a long way toward clearing my head. Talking with Drover had just about wrecked my mind. He has this incredible ability to take a normal conversation and turn it into mush and confusion.

  I never met anyone just like him. Thank goodness. Two Drovers in the same world at the same time would . . . I don’t know what it would do, but it would be crazy.

  Trees would start growing upside down.

  Birds would fly backward.

  I’d be counting the number of pink elephants dancing on the head of a pin.

  Drover is a weird little dog, and I don’t know how he keeps drawing me into meaningless conversations.

  Where was I? My brains were scrambled, is where I was. Oh yes, the lightning dash down to the yard gate. It saved me from the Black Hole of Drover’s meaningless conversation.

  When I reached the gate, Pete had his tail stuck straight up in the air. He was purring and chewing on a juicy fatty end of bacon. He turned his head ever so slightly and grinned at me.

  The entire left side of my lips snurled into a carl, exposing huge fangs that were ready to . . . on the other hand, Sally May was standing on the other side of the fence. Her arms were crossed. She held a big wooden spoon in her right hand. Her eyes were pointed at me like . . . I don’t know, two cannonballs.

  Laser beams.

  Rifle bullets.

  I, uh, wagged my tail and gave her a friendly smile, as if to say, “Oh . . . well, good morning, Sally May. What a pleasant surprise, meeting you here with the, uh, cat. Your kitty.”

  The sounds of Pete slurping over the juicy fatty ends of bacon reached my ears. They leaped up to Full Alert Position—my ears did, not the juicy fatty ends of bacon. My ears leaped upward and my eyes darted to the stupid, greedy cat.

  A growl began to rumble in the deepest caverns of my throat, which sort of exposed my true thoughts on the subject of Kitty-Kitty. Up until that moment, I think I had fooled Sally May into believing that I had merely come to observe.

  And, of course, to wish her a good morning. Which was true. I had, in fact, wanted to wish her the very best and most sincere good morning, because . . . well, she’s a fine lady and she’s often in charge of distributing scraps and . . . well, being kind and thoughtful in the morning is right and proper.

  But then that growl came ripping out of my . . . hey, I didn’t intend to growl. It just slipped out, honest, and gosh, I guess she took it all wrong, thought that I had come to beat up her snotty little . . .

  A joke, that’s all it was, just a harmless joke. I mean, Pete and I joked around all the time. That growl meant nothing, almost nothing at all.

  Pete’s smacking filled my ears and I could see him grinning up at me. He was doing it just to inflame me. I knew that, and because I understood his shabby little game, I . . . the growl grew even louder and I found my guidance systems locking onto Target Kitty.

  He would pay for this!

  Sally May spoke. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you even think what you’re thinking.”

  What . . . I . . . but . . . how had she known what I was thinking, read my most private thoughts? Oh yes, the growl. That had blown my cover.

  Okay, so I stopped growling, wagged my tail, and turned my sweetest, most innocent face toward her. Here was your basic, carefree ranch dog, happy to be alive and just delighted to see his master’s wife.

  It took so little to bring meaning into my life, just a little love and affection, a smile, a kind word here and there, a few tiny morsels of breakfast bacon, and—I found my gaze pulled back to her greedy glutton of a stupid cat and . . .

  Oh boy, there was that growl again. It seemed to have a mind of its own and I couldn’t control it. There I was, doing Sincere Dog, and that growl just wrecked it.

  “I’m sorry, Hank, but you weren’t here when I put out the scraps.”

  What! I’d been . . . Pete had . . .

  “If you want scraps, you have to be here.”

  Yeah, but . . . hey, her sniveling, scheming cat had . . .

  “Pete was waiting here at the gate like a good kitty.”

  Oh yeah, right! And he’d lied and cheated, and then he’d cheated and lied!

  I turned back to the cat. “Wipe that grin off your face, Pete, or I’ll wipe you all over this ranch!”

  He grinned. “The bacon’s delicious, Hankie.”

  “I’m sure it is, but you lied about the snake.”

  “No, he was there, Hankie, honest. I saw him with my own two eyes, and he even buzzed at me.”

  “It was a rabbit, Pete, and you know it.”

  “Whatever you want to think, Hankie, but the bacon is wonderful. I just hope I can hold it all.”

  The growl returned again, even louder this time, and I was about to drop a b
omb right in the middle of . . .

  “Hank, stop that! Leave the cat alone.”

  Leave the cat . . . but he . . . I . . .

  “Now go on. Next time, if you want some scraps, come when I call.” She leaned forward and looked directly into my eyes. “And maybe, if you’re a good dog, I’ll give you some. Maybe. Now scat.”

  Okay, fine. I could take a hint. I could scat. A few measly scraps meant nothing to me, and just to prove how mature I could be about such a trivial matter, I turned to leave and whispered to the cat, “You’ll pay for this.”

  You know what he did? He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes! I paused for a moment, hoping that Sally May had seen it and would understand at last that Pete had been the cause of the entire misunderstanding.

  But no. Her gaze was still locked on me. Her eyes were always locked on ME. She never saw anything Mister Perfect Kitty did wrong, but there was plenty of it and . . . phooey.

  I didn’t care. At least I had won a moral victory and had proved once again that . . . something. I had proved something very important and I had won a moral victory, and I marched back up to the machine shed with my held head high.

  Head held high.

  Drover followed me. “It’s too bad we missed the scraps.”

  “Yes, Drover, but it’s too badder that Pete had to cheat to get them. At least we’re not cheaters.”

  “Yeah, and we still have a rabbit to chase.”

  I stopped and stared at him. “You know, you’re right. We do have a rabbit to chase.”

  “I was just fixing to say that.”

  “And don’t you see what this means, Drover? Chasing rabbits is much more wholesome and meaningful than sitting around and eating fatty bacon. Ha! Let Pete get fat eating bacon. We’ll go chase rabbits and contribute something to this world.”

  “Yeah, and I hope there’s not a snake around.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling. “Don’t worry, son. That snake business was just a filament of Pete’s imagination, another of his sneaky tricks. I can assure you that if anything bites us this morning, it will be a rabbit, not a snake.”

  “Oh good.”

  “Come on. Let’s loosen up and have some fun, forget about Pete and scraps and injustice, and just experience the savage joy of being a dog.”

  “Yeah, it’s wonderful.”

  “It truly is. Now, study your lessons on how to flush a rabbit out of a piece of pipe.” I marched over to the joint of six-inch casing where I had last observed the alleged rabbit. “Pay close attention, Drover. The first thing we do is . . .”

  “That’s the wrong pipe.”

  “What?”

  “The rabbit went in that pipe over there. I think.”

  “No, he went into this pipe here. I saw him. This is the correct pipe. We always begin with the correct pipe, otherwise . . . what? What would happen if we began with the wrong pipe?”

  “Well . . .” He rolled his eyes around. “. . . let’s see. There might be a rattlesnake inside it?”

  “Ha, ha. No, Drover. That’s close, but not quite right. If we chose the wrong pipe, it would be empty, in the sense that it would contain nothing.”

  “I’ll be derned. Did that pipe just buzz?”

  “This one? No, not at all. You see, this pipe contains a cottontail rabbit, Drover. These little creatures have been known to squeak on a few rare occasions, but mostly they are silent. And no, rabbits do not buzz.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Rattlesnakes buzz. Rabbits do not.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “And this pipe contains a rabbit. Therefore, by simple logic, we see that it did not buzz.”

  “I thought I heard a buzz.”

  “It’s probably coming from inside your head, Drover. Empty space sometimes generates a buzz­ing sound.”

  “I guess that’s what it was.”

  “Now, observe and take note. The first thing we do to flush out a rabbit is to stick our nose inside the pipe, like this.” I crouched down and stuck my nose into the pipe. “Then we . . .”

  HISS, BUZZ, WHOOSH!!

  Huh?

  Something had . . . suddenly I felt a . . .

  It was probably just a bumblebee.

  They live in pipes, you know.

  And they sting.

  Chapter Four: A Severe Double Bumblebee Sting

  I went to Full Reverse on all engines and backed my nose out of the pipe. It was beginning to sting and burn.

  My nose, not the pipe. Pipes don’t burn.

  “Drover, I need to ask you a personal question.”

  “Oh, okay. Ask me anything. I just hope I know the answer.”

  I glanced over both shoulders and lowered my voice. “This conversation must be held in strictest confidence. I don’t want it to be blabbed all over the ranch, in other words.”

  “Sure, Hank. I’m no blabber.”

  “Great. I was hoping you’d say that. Drover, do you see anything on my nose—such as a single red mark that might indicate the sting of a bumblebee?”

  He twisted his head and studied the soft leathery portion of my nose. “Well, let’s see here. Nope, I sure don’t.”

  “Hmmm. That’s odd. I could have sworn that something stung me on the nose. In fact, I’m pretty sure something did, which would account for this burning sensation. But you don’t see a red mark?”

  “Nope, no red mark.”

  “That’s strange, even odd. Because you see, Drover, I feel a pulse pounding inside my nose, almost as though it were beginning to swell up.”

  “I’ll be derned. I don’t feel a thing.”

  “Yes, well, you wouldn’t feel a thing, Drover. You see, if my nose were stung by a bumblebee, you wouldn’t feel it.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “I would feel it, but you wouldn’t.”

  “I’ve got it now.”

  “And you don’t see a red mark on my nose? Are you sure?”

  He squinted at my nose. “No, I sure don’t see a red mark.”

  “Hmmmm. That’s very strange, Drover, be­cause . . . something is happening to my nose.”

  “No, I see two red marks, but not one.”

  I stared at him. “What did you just say?”

  “Me? I said . . . well, let me think here. I can’t remember.”

  “Did you say something about two red marks on the end of my nose?”

  “Well, let’s see. Yes, I might have said that, sure might, but that’s not what we were looking for, so I didn’t want to bring it up, I guess.” All at once his eyes widened. His ears jumped and his mouth fell open. “Two red marks! Oh my gosh, Hank, you don’t reckon you were . . .”

  “Hush! I know what you’re fixing to say, and don’t say it.” I cut my eyes from side to side. My data banks whirred and clicked. My nose throbbed. “Two red marks, Drover? Are you sure? Count them again.”

  “Okay. Let’s see. One. Two.”

  “One more time, Drover, just to be sure. You might be seeing double. You might have miscounted. It happens all the time. And let me remind you that we’re looking for the telltale signs of a bumblebee sting, which would be one red mark on the nose.”

  “Okay, here I go. One . . . oh my gosh, Hank, there’s another one . . . two! There’s two little drops of blood on your nose, and you don’t suppose . . .”

  “Hush! We’re not looking for drops of blood, you moron! Bumblebee stings don’t draw blood. We’re looking for one small inflamed red area, that’s all. For the last time, do you see it?”

  “Well, let me check it again . . . no, I don’t see it.”

  “Fine. Great. That means I was mistaken and nuffing hes heppened to may nothe.”

  He stared at me and twisted his head around. “Gosh, you’re sure talking fun
ny all of a sudden.”

  “Mo, you wong, Bovuh. I’m mot talking fummy. Thomething must be wong wiff you ee-uhs.”

  “My what?”

  “You ee-uhs.”

  “My what?”

  I put my nose in his face and raised my voice. “YOU EE-UHS! Those things om you het dat you use to heeuh wiff!”

  “Oh my gosh, Hank, all at once I can’t understand what you’re saying, and I think your face is swelling up, and maybe that’s why you’re talking funny. And Hank, do you know what this might mean?”

  “Yeth, of cose I thoo. It meanth that I wath sthung on the nothe by two bimblebeeth, not one.”

  He rolled his eyes around. “Well, that’s not what I was thinking.”

  “I don watt to heeuh what you are tinkink, Bovuh, because there wath not a rittlesnake in the pipe. It wath two bimblebeeth, pewiod!”

  “Well, okay, whatever you think. I can live with that if you can.”

  “I wiss you wooden pudd it dat way.”

  “What?”

  “I thed, I wiss . . . I tink I bettuh go thee Thally May. Thumping’s wong wiff my nothe.”

  All at once I was feeling very strange—lightheaded, faint, woozy. That pounding pulse in my nose was getting stronger by the minute. And yes, Drover had been correct in thinking that my nose was beginning to swell just a bit.

  Quite a lot, actually.

  All at once I was seeing parts of my face that I’d never noticed before, and I seemed to be looking at them with eyes that were growing smaller and smaller, almost as though they were . . . well, swelling shut, so to speak.

  The sting of a bumblebee will do that, cause a guy’s face to swell up, and two stings in the same general area will increase the swelling by two or three times.

  Yes sir, we had definitely taken two direct hits on the nose by an angry bumble . . . and yes, I had a strong feeling that Sally May should be informed that her Head of Ranch Security had . . .

  See, some dogs are allergic to the sting of a bumblebee and that can cause even more swelling of the injured part than . . . obviously, I had a slight allergy to bumblebee poison and . . .