It's a Dog's Life Page 3
Not only that but Sally May had been negligent in leaving the steaks unguarded. So there you are.
Well, the noon hour came and went. I heard the vigilantes out looking for me but I laid low and they didn’t find me. Finally they went back to work. I’m sure that broke their hearts, having to do a little work for a change.
When things quieted down, I heard Drover creeping around outside. “Hank? You down here? You can come out now.”
I stuck my head through the crack in the door, checked in all directions, and slithered out.
“Oh, there you are,” he said. “Boy, you sure got ’em mad up at the house. What did you do this time?”
“What do you mean, ‘this time’? This ain’t something I do every day just for sport.”
“No, I guess not. What did you do this time?”
I told him the story. “And as you can see, I was just doing my job and they’ve got no right to be sore at me.”
“I see what you mean,” said Drover. “Let’s see. You knocked over the cactus. You pulled the steak dish off the table. You busted the dish. You got blood all over the kitchen. And then you ate the steaks and knocked off the jelly jar. Well . . . what was Sally May so mad about?”
“See? That’s my point right there. I mean, your first reaction was the same as mine. I don’t know, I just don’t know. Maybe she and Loper had a fight this morning. Maybe the moon was in the wrong place.”
“Maybe she was worried about the end of the world.”
“Which brings us back to our investigation, Drover, and another little matter which you won’t enjoy hearing about.”
“Uh oh.”
“That’s a good way to put it.” I cleared my throat. “Drover, I’m afraid I must point out that you left your post in a combat situation, ran to the machine shed, abandoned your superior when he was trapped in the house with a frenzied, dangerous, possibly crazy woman, and otherwise behaved in a disgraceful, chicken-hearted manner.”
Drover looked at his feet. “Well, I was scared, Hank, and . . .”
“Spare me the details. Ordinarily this kind of cowardly behavior would have to be written up and put into your dossier. But I’m willing to forget the whole thing if you’ll give me one small piece of information.”
His face brightened and he started wagging his stub tail. “Sure Hank, anything you want to know, just ask me anything!”
I smiled, bent down to his ear, and whispered, “Who first told you that the world was going to end tomorrow at three o’clock?”
“Well, let’s see.” He scratched his head. “Was it you?”
“No. Think a little harder.”
“Well . . . gosh, I can’t remember, Hank.”
“Here’s a little hint: was it by any chance a cat?”
“A cat, a cat. Let’s see now. You were asleep and I was up by the yard gate this morning and . . . do you reckon it could have been Pete?”
I glanced off to the east and saw Pete basking in the sun beside the garden gate. He was purring and washing himself, which means that he was spitting in his paw and wiping the spit over his face. That’s the way a cat takes a bath.
I take tremendous pride in my personal appearance. I cultivate a rich, manly smell. I bathe regularly, in the sewer.
Now, let’s look at Pete. He takes spit-baths. Has anyone ever seen him in the sewer? No sir. But has Sally May ever referred to him as a stinking cat? No sir. So there you are, and that’s one of two dozen reasons why I hate cats and Pete in particular.
I had to get that off my chest. Now, where was I?
“Well, Drover, we’ve broken the case.”
“You mean the world’s not going to end tomorrow?”
“That’s correct.”
“Oh, what a relief! I tried not to show it, Hank, but I was mighty scared. But . . . are you sure we’re safe?”
“I saw the calendar. It didn’t say ‘End of the World.’ It said ‘End of the month clearance sale.’”
“Oh, that’s just wonderful!”
“Is it?”
“Well, maybe it’s not.”
“It may be good, Drover, but it’s not wonderful.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“It can’t be wonderful because we were duped by the cat.”
“You mean . . .”
“Yes, exactly. We broke the case but consider the price.”
He cocked his head to the side. “You mean . . . at the clearance sale?”
“No, that’s not what I mean, Drover, not at all. I did a flawless penetration of the house, conducted a near-perfect investigation, broke the case wide open. But my position as Head of Ranch Security has been compromised. How can I carry on my work when everyone on this ranch is mad at me?”
“Huh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, it’s time you thought about it, son, because I have no choice but to take a leave of absence until this thing blows over.”
“You mean . . .”
“Exactly. I’m leaving the ranch today and I’m liable to stay gone for a week—unless, of course, I’m offered a better position somewhere else, and then I may never come back.”
“Oh. Oh. Then that means . . .”
“Exactly. You’re in charge of security until I come back.”
Drover’s jaw dropped. “But Hank, I wouldn’t live on any ranch that would have me in charge of security.”
“Nor would I, but that’s the way this particular cookie has crumbled. So long, Drover, I’m hitting the road. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks—maybe.”
“No . . . wait a minute, Hank. Where you going? What if I need some help?”
“I’m going to town to visit my sister and maybe a couple of other women. If you get into a bind, if you need any help, if there’s an emergency of any kind, don’t hesitate to take care of it yourself.”
“But Hank . . .”
“So long, Drover, see you around.”
And with that, I marched through the sick pen, through the back lot, out the corrals, and headed north toward town.
Chapter Five: A Singing Buzzard, as Incredible as That Might Seem
It was a fine afternoon for a walk. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, a nice soft breeze was blowing, and I was walking away from all the cares and responsibilities of the ranch.
Yes, it was a wonderful afternoon for a walk. But as the hours passed, I began to realize that it wasn’t such a fine afternoon for a twenty-five mile trip across the country. That’s how far it was to town, and if I’d remembered how far it was, I might not have been so quick to leave the ranch.
To get to town, see, I had to pass through that rough canyon country north of headquarters. Ordinarily I could have hit a lope and made it through the rough country before dark and spent the night up on the flats, but don’t forget that I had cactus spines in my feet. And that country was rough and rocky.
It slowed me down, and dadburn it, at sundown I found myself right in the middle of one of them deep canyons. And you know what that meant. This was hostile country, home of the biggest, meanest, ferociousest coyotes in Ochiltree County.
I didn’t dare travel at night, so when the sun settled down on the canyon rim, I started looking for a place to hole up. In my travels and research I’ve discovered that one of the best places to hole up for the night is in a hole, so I started hunting for a hole.
I hadn’t been looking very long when I spotted a shallow cave up on the side of a limestone cliff. That looked good to me, so I made my way up a steep incline that no ordinary dog could have climbed. I got there on sheer strength and determination.
At last I dragged myself over the rim and lay there catching my breath. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the cave was already occupied.
I got the first clue when I heard—not voices, as yo
u might expect, but music. Banjo music. I know that sounds strange, banjo music coming from a cave in a wild and remote canyon, but if there’s anything I’ve learned in my years of security work, it’s that this is a very strange world we live in.
And what I heard was banjo music, I don’t care what you say.
Well, it had taken me fifteen minutes and a considerable investment in energy to climb up to that cave and I wasn’t about to leave just because the place was occupied. I’ve gotten into some terrible fights over less important things.
I followed the sound of the music and crept toward the mouth of the cave. And that’s when I heard the singing.
Every time I go to town,
The boys keep kicking my dog around.
Makes no difference if he is a hound.
They got to quit kicking my dog around.
Then on the chorus, the singer tried to imitate a dog howling. Well, that was enough to convince me that he wasn’t a dog. No sir, it was a second-rate imitation. I mean, Hank the Cowdog will never make an opera singer, but I do know a few things about howling.
I peeked around the corner, and do you want to guess the identity of the mysterious cave musician? Here’s a few hints: big black bird, skinny neck, pot belly, ugly as twenty-three varieties of sin.
If you guessed Madame Moonshine, the witchy owl, you’re wrong. If you guessed Junior the Buzzard, you win the grand prize. Yes sir, I had by George stumbled into the cliff-side home of Wallace and Junior.
I could see Junior squatting on the floor, surrounded by a bunch of rabbit bones, and he had a little old banjo on his knee. Wallace came waddling out of the back end of the cave.
“Junior! Will you quit making all that dad-ratted noise?”
“But P-P-Pa . . .”
“And here you are, a big strong boy, and I’m still having to bring home your dinner.”
“But P-P-Pa . . .”
“All these years I’ve tried to school you.”
“But P-P-Pa . . .”
“I taught you to fly. I taught you to ride the updrafts and soar in the sky. I taught you how to spot a dead rabbit on the highway, half a mile in the air.”
“But P-P-Pa . . .”
“And here you are, a big strong boy, and I’m still having to bring home your dinner.”
“But P-P-Pa . . .”
“Son, you’re never gonna amount to Shinola as long as you play a dadgum banjo.”
“B-b-but Pa, I want to b-be a s-singer when I ga-ga-grow up.”
“You hush up! Don’t you say that word.”
“Y-you mean ‘s-s-singer’?”
“Yes sir, that’s what I mean. It’s a filthy word, and no self-respecting buzzard ever wanted to be a singer.”
“P-p-pa . . . y-you said a fa-fa-fa-filthy word.”
“And furthermore . . .” Just then, Wallace saw me at the mouth of the cave. “What is that?”
“What’s whu-whu-whu-what, P-Pa?”
“That thang there.”
Junior turned to me and grinned. “Oh b-boy, it’s our d-d-doggie friend! Hi, D-D-Doggie.”
“How’s it going?” I said.
Old Wallace took a couple of steps toward me, stuck out his neck, and stared at me. “Is he dead? Will he eat? Son, this could be tomorrow’s dinner!”
“He ain’t d-dead, Pa, and he n-never has b-b-b-been.”
Wallace squinted at me. “You’re right, son. Go on, dog, shoo, git outa here! This here’s private property!”
I walked toward the old man and showed him some teeth. “I’m staying for the night, buzzard, and if you don’t like it, I’ll private your property.”
Old Wallace shrank back. “Junior! Did you hear that? Are you gonna let a dog talk that way to your own daddy?”
“I su-su-su-suspect I w-will, Pa, cause h-he might b-b-b-bite me, bite me.”
“And I guess that’s more important to you than showin’ respect for your own flesh and blood, your poor old daddy who’s worked and slaved and scrimped and saved so’s you could make something out of yourself.”
“Y-y-yup, I r-r-reckon so.”
The old man shook his head and went off to the back of the cave, muttering under his breath. “Well I never . . . dang kids . . . no morals, no responsibility . . . life’s just one big party . . . music, bah!”
Junior looked at me and grinned. “I w-w-want to b-be a su-su-singer when I g-g-grow up, grow up, but P-Pa don’t think I’ll ever am-m-m-m-m, amount to anything.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said, “but you’ll never go to the top with that song you were singing. You don’t howl right. You’re using the wrong technique. Hand me that banjo and I’ll give you a few pointers on howling.”
“Oh g-gosh, w-w-would you?”
He handed me the banjo and I tuned it up.
As you might suspect, buzzards have a pretty poor ear for music. The banjo was badly out of tune. I got her fine-tuned and whipped out the song.
Every time I go to town,
The boys keep kickin’ my dog around.
Makes no difference if he is a hound,
They got to quit kickin’ my dog around.
On the chorus I showed him how the howling should be done. Then I suggested we sing it together. On the chorus, he sang the melody with the words “Arf arf, woof woof, bark bark, bow wow,” and I harmonized with one heck of a fine job of howling.
Junior was just tickled to death with our performance. “Oh g-g-gosh that was g-g-good! You s-sure know how to h-h-howl, D-Doggie.”
“Well, that’s one of the many things you have to do well if you’re going to make a career in the security business. I guess you buzzards don’t get too many opportunities to howl.”
“N-n-no. P-pa never t-taught me to h-h-h-howl.”
Just then I heard a howl. I looked at Junior. “Was that you?”
“N-n-no, it w-wasn’t m-me.”
“Well, it wasn’t me either.”
“And it w-w-wasn’t P-Pa.”
“If it wasn’t me, if it wasn’t you, and if it wasn’t your old man, that means it wasn’t any of us.”
“Y-you’re r-r-right.”
“And that means,” I lowered my voice to a whisper, “it came from someone else.” We listened. There it was again. “And I think I know where it came from—a couple of drunken coyote brothers named Rip and Snort.”
“Oh g-g-g-gosh, I’m s-s-s-scared of c-c-c-c-c . . . wolfs!”
“Wait right here, I’ll check this out.” I crept over to the ledge in front of the cave and looked down. Sure ’nuff, there sat Rip and Snort down below. “Evening, fellers, what can I do for you?”
They whispered to themselves and then Snort said, “Hunk? That you, Hunk? We hear singing, oh boy. We want sing too. We berry good to sing, have wonderful voice.”
Well, I certainly didn’t want to antagonize Rip and Snort, since the last time we’d met I had convinced them that the moon was made of chopped chicken liver and . . . it’s too outrageous to explain. I wanted to stay on their good side.
“All right, fellers, we’ll do the song again and you boys can come in on the chorus and do your stuff. But if you want to sing with us, you’ve got to go by the house rules.”
“Coyote not like rules. Coyote wild and happy, have berry much fun break rules, cause trouble, oh boy.”
“I know that, Snort, but you can’t sing with us unless you follow the rules. House rules say we’ve got to shut down at ten o’clock and let folks sleep. We can’t carry on all night.”
The brothers talked it over. Then Snort said, “Those chicken rules. Coyote not like chicken rules. But we follow.”
I motioned Junior over to the ledge. He seemed a little scared but he came. “Fellers, this here’s Junior. Junior, down there sits Rip and Snort, couple of buddies fr
om my wilder days. All right boys, here we go. One, two, three, four.”
I cranked up the banjo and me and Junior did the song again. Since Rip and Snort didn’t know the words and weren’t smart enough to learn them, they kind of grumbled along until we got to the chorus. Then they joined in.
Boy, did they howl! They cut loose and howled up a storm. It was their kind of song—no words to memorize.
If you ask me, it was a special moment in Texas Panhandle history. I mean, the Panhandle ain’t famous for its cultural achievements, but this could very well have been the by-George high point of Panhandle culture, and I’m talking about forever.
But you can’t expect a buzzard to appreciate art and culture and music and such stuff, so it was no big surprise when old man Wallace came waddling out of the cave.
“What is all this noise? Junior, you quiet that racket this very minute, how can a body sleep with all that dad-ratted, ding-busted, pig-nosed, frazzlin’, horrifyin’ noise!”
“But P-Pa . . .”
“You put that banjo up and take yourself to bed, it’s past your bedtime, you’ve got to get up early in the morning and go find us something dead to eat, and I don’t want to hear one more word out of you tonight, GOOD NIGHT!”
Junior looked at me and shrugged, “G-g-good n-night.”
“That’s two words, Junior, and you’re in deep trouble now, but go on to bed and maybe I’ll forget about it.” Junior waddled off to bed. The old man shot me a glare and went over to the ledge and looked down at Rip and Snort.
“Y’all have to go home now, we ain’t runnin’ a pool hall, go on now, scat!”
Old man Wallace might have swung some weight in the bird world but Rip and Snort didn’t pay the slightest attention to him. Instead, they tuned up and started singing the only song they’d ever memorized, the Coyote Sacred Hymn and National Anthem:
Me just a worthless coyote,
Me howling at the moon.
Me like to sing and holler,
Me crazy as a loon.
Me not want job or duties,
No church or Sunday school.