The Case of the Raging Rottweiler Page 3

  Yikes. He was standing in front of us. Slim was, not Drover. Drover suddenly ducked his head and went slithering over to the woodpile and took cover. That left me all alone to, uh, face the . . . the music, the charges, the whatever might be . . .

  Slim didn’t look real happy. I could see it in his face. We dogs are very perceptive, you know, and . . . let’s go straight to the point. He was mad about something. But what? Surely not my gentle scratching on his screen. I mean, I had been very, VERY careful not to leave ugly scratch marks on his, uh, screen.

  Actually, it had been more of a rubbing action than a scratching action. Honest. I had hardly used my claws at all.

  Maybe he had . . . cut off one of his toes. Yes, that was it. He had been trimming his toenails, see, and in a careless moment he had lost concentration and had . . . well, lopped off one of his toes. That would make a guy mad, wouldn’t it? Sure it would. If you only had four toes, you couldn’t do “This Little Piggy Went to Market.”

  Well, I guess you could do some of it, but when you came to the “wee, wee, wee” part, you’d be out of toes. That would be lousy. “Wee, wee, wee” is the best part, right? It’s the punch line, so to speak, and if you . . .

  Slim loomed above me like a huge tree. Through the screen door, his face had a ghostly haze about it, and all at once he resembled a . . . well, a ghost. An angry ghost.

  At last he spoke. “You know what happened to the last dog that scratched up my door?”

  I . . . uh . . . no. I had no idea. But I hadn’t actually scratched the door, see. It had been more of a . . .

  “I sold him to a dogsled driver for two dollars and fifty cents, and now he’s pulling logs in Siberia.”

  Siberia? Gee, that’s a pretty cold place.

  “Don’t scratch on my door.”

  Well, sure, yes. I, uh, knew that, but I . . . that is, Drover and I had felt an urgent need to . . .

  “You mutts are shedding hair in this heat, and I don’t need dog hair all over my house.”

  No, of course not, but maybe if we concentrated extra hard on . . .

  “And furthermore, I just found a tick crawling on the back of my neck.”

  A tick? We knew nothing about ticks. Honest. He must have gotten it from . . . well, from a chicken. Or from a passing rabbit.

  No, he’d gotten it from Bruiser, the fleabag rott­weiler. That was it.

  “I can’t think of any reason why you dogs need to be in my nice clean house.”

  Nice clean . . . oh brother! That was the joke of the century. His house was a mess. He knew it, I knew it, everybody knew it. The truth of the matter was that most dogs wouldn’t have set foot in the place, for fear of being eaten by mice or dying of dust pneumonia. So if he didn’t want us in his house, by George, that was fine with me.

  We glared at each other through the screen. Then the hinges squeaked and . . . he opened the door? What was the deal? He’d just gone through this long sermon about . . .

  “I’ll let y’all in for one reason, and one reason only. It ain’t because you deserve to come in, ’cause you don’t. It’s because a house with me in it is so boring, I can’t hardly stand it. Now, get in here, and don’t be scratching on my screen door.”

  Yes sir, you bet! No more screen-scratching for me.

  I shot through the door before he could change his mind. Drover was right behind me. The little noodle had ventured out of his hiding place in the woodpile—after I had taken all the heat and the tongue-lashings and the snaky looks—and in a flash, he was curled up on the floor.

  I didn’t hit the floor at once. Instead, I went into the Digging and Fluffing procedure, the aim of which was to soften up the old threadbare carpet on Slim’s . . .

  “And don’t be digging holes in my new carpet.”

  New carpet? It was old and ugly. But what the heck, it was probably soft enough, so I did three quick turns and flopped down. Gag! It was as hard as a gravel road.

  I turned a glare on my nincompoop assistant. “Well, I hope you’re happy. I got us into the house, and what did you do? You hid in the woodpile!”

  “No, I saw a mouse.”

  “You did not see a mouse.”

  “Well, I thought I saw a mouse, but maybe it was a cricket.”

  “You didn’t see a mouse or a cricket. You were fleeing from reality. You were hiding from Life Itself. What kind of dog are you?”

  “Well . . . Mom always said we were Heinz 57, but I’m not sure what that means.”

  “It means that you can find 57 ways of saving your hiney and putting mine in harm’s way. It means that you can find 57 ways of dodging responsibility. Are you ashamed of yourself?”

  “Well . . . let me think here.”

  “If you have to think about it, you’re not ashamed.”

  “Okay, I’m ashamed.”

  “Are you just saying that or do you really mean it?”

  “I really mean it, from my heart. I’m so ashamed, I can hardly stand myself, but I don’t know where else to go.”

  I studied the runt. He seemed sincere about this. “Okay, if you really mean it, we’ll let it slide this time. But those five Chicken Marks will have to stay on your record.”

  “Oh drat.”

  “Make it six. One more for naughty language.”

  I hated to pile on the Chicken Marks, but when you’re Head of Ranch Security, you have to be firm with the underlings.

  Well, after straightening out Drover, I began thinking seriously about turning in for the night. It had been a long, hard day in the broiling heat of summer and I was ready to send up a few Zs. But before I could get that deal started, Slim came walking into the room.

  I lifted my head and looked at him. He had stripped down to his boxer shorts, perhaps because of the heat . . . yes, I’m sure it was the heat. Slim wasn’t the kind of guy who went around half-naked without a good reason.

  The reason was that his house was as hot as an oven. He didn’t have an air commissioner, so there he was, half-naked, with his skinny mayonnaise legs sticking out of his boxer shorts.

  I guess he didn’t mind exposing his legs to us dogs. Perhaps he knew that we were accustomed to keeping deep dark secrets about our masters, such as how ridiculous they looked running around the house in their undershorts.

  Anyways, he came into the living room, and guess what he was carrying in his right hand: a forked stick with . . . what were those things? Long strips of inner tube? And a piece of leather tied to their ends? Hmmm. That was odd.

  “Y’all ready to hunt some mice? They’re about to take this place over, and by grabs, I’ve decided to fight back. Made myself a slingshot.”

  Oh, so that was it. Yes, of course. Forked stick, strips of inner-tube rubber, piece of leather. The pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. By George, we were fixing to go on a big mouse safari! And yes, I was ready to contribute my part to the effort.

  I turned to Drover. “Well, this is going to be more exciting than I . . .” He had vanished. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slinking down the hall. A moment later, I heard him crawling under Slim’s bed. Oh well, we would do better without him.

  He’s scared of mice, you know. And loud noises.

  And so it was that Slim and I opened hunting season on the local mice. Here’s how we did it. Slim moved his big stuffed chair into the kitchen, so that he not only had a comfortable seat but also had a good view of the part of his kitchen that contained the most . . . well, mouse bait, I guess you would say.

  We’re talking about bread crumbs, cracker crumbs, jelly spills, bits of tuna fish, canned mackerel, and Vienna sausage that had ended up on the floor. Slim had studied the behavioral patterns of the local mouse population, don’t you see, and had made some important discoveries.

  First off, the mice hid out during the day­light hours. Second, th
ey tended to come out and show themselves after dark. Third, when they showed themselves, they went straight into the kitchen, where they began gorging themselves on the various food groups on the floor.

  Slim had made note of their feeding patterns and had devised a hunting stragedy. Strategy. He would lounge in the chair until a mouse showed himself. At that point, he would load four or five BBs into the slingshot, pull ’er back, and let fly with the buckshot. (He used four or five BBs because he was a lousy shot. We dogs know these secrets about our human friends.)

  Pretty slick, huh? You bet it was. And you talk about FUN. Fellers, this promised to be good, whole­some family entertainment, fun with a higher social purpose (ridding the house of nasty mice). I’m sure it would have been loads of fun and there’s no telling how many mice we might have gotten if . . .

  See, Slim fired off his first shot. He missed the mouse and BBs went flying everywhere. There was a crashing sound. A tinkle. A clatter.

  The grin on Slim’s face wilted. “Oops. I believe I just shot out a winder glass.”

  Sure enough, several of the BBs had bounced off the floor and blown holes in two panes in the back window. Slim pushed himself out of the easy chair and walked over to examine the evidence. Naturally, I went with him.

  As you may know, we dogs recognize that the Sharing of Pain is a very important part of our job. When our masters make bonehead mistakes, they need a loyal dog at their side to . . . well, to give them Looks of Greatest Sympathy, to wag our tails, and to assure them that, hey, anyone could have, uh, shot holes in a window. In his own house. With a slingshot. While hunting mice.

  Sometimes it’s hard to pull off Looks of Greatest Sympathy, because it’s hard to keep from laughing. This was one of those deals. At such times, we have to impose Iron Discipline upon our laughing instincts.

  Well, I wasn’t laughing. Not me. I had been through all this before—maybe not a broken window, but things just as weird—and I didn’t even crack a smile. I matched my expression to Slim’s expression, and together our expressions expressed Deep Sorrow and Regret.

  Yes, this was a sad evening for the ranch. Slim would have to stuff paper or chewing gum into the holes to keep out the rain.

  But before he had the chance to do anything about it, the phone rang.

  Chapter Five: A Mysterious Phone Call in the Night

  So there we were, Slim and I, in the midst of a sorrowful inspection of the damaged windowpanes, when the phone rang.

  Slim scowled. “Who could that be, calling in the middle of the dadgum night?”

  He glanced down at me. What was I supposed to say? I didn’t know who was calling. And it wasn’t the middle of the night. It was maybe nine o’clock.

  Slim headed for the phone in that slow walk of his. Oh, and he was muttering under his breath.

  “Sometimes I think the world was better off when we didn’t have any phones. A man could spend a quiet evening without all the . . . that’s fine, ring all you want, I ain’t going to walk one bit faster.”

  At last he found the phone and put the receiver to his ear. “Hello. Yes. Yes. Who is this? Oh, Joe. Didn’t recognize your voice. Nothing much, just . . . doing a little house cleaning, me and the dogs.” He gave me a wink. “What’s up? Oh? That’s not so good. Uh-huh. Yalp. Well, we’ll keep an eye open for him. If he comes around, I’ll try to pen him up. See you in the morning.”

  He hung up the receiver and stared at the floor. “I told him that big dog was going to be big trouble.” His eyes came up. “That rottweiler jumped out of the pickup on the way home and Joe couldn’t find him in the dark. Joe’s coming back down tomorrow to look for him.”

  Was that a big deal? Not to me. I mean, I had gotten my point across to the mutt and I was pretty sure we would never see his face around our ranch again. Time and time again, history has proved that the best way to prevent trouble with strange dogs is to be firm with ’em the first time they show up. That’s just what I had done, and I was so unconcerned and unworried about Bruiser that I sat down in the middle of the floor and began hacking at a flea just behind my left ear.

  Hack, hack, hack.

  Have we discussed the Hacking Procedure? We dogs use it on unruly fleas who are silly enough to bite us in sensitive spots, such as behind the ears. As you may know, fleas not only bite but they also steal blood. Some dogs put up with it because . . . I don’t know why they put up with it. Because they’re too lazy to take Flea Counter­measures, I suppose, but I don’t put up with it, not for a minute.

  Hack, hack, hack.

  We have several Flea Countermeasures, and the one I use most often is the Hacking Procedure. In this procedure, the bitten dog drops his bottom side on the ground, or on the floor if he happens to be inside the house, which I was. Once he has achieved the Hacking Position, he selects one of his two hind legs for the job.

  I know this may sound complicated, but bear with me.

  He selects one of his two hind legs for the job. You’re probably wondering why we use hind legs instead of front legs. Good question. The reason we use hind legs for this procedure is that front legs are just not capable of delivering a good, robust hack. Front paws are okay for your rubbing or scratching procedures, but fleas seldom respond to rubs or scratches.

  They have to be hacked, and that’s a job for a huge, muscular hind leg, of which I had two. See, your hind legs are hinged in the middle, which means that with the proper training, an experi­enced dog can get just the right angle for his hack.

  Hack, hack, hack.

  I chose the left hind leg for the job. You’re probably wondering, Why the left and not the right? Great question, and here’s the scooby on that. In making our Hack Calculations, we follow a simple equation. (You might want to make a note of this.)

  Left ear, left hind leg. Right ear, right hind leg.

  That makes sense, doesn’t it? If I had selected the right leg instead of the left, I would have found it difficult—maybe even impossible—to direct a lethal force of claws to the target area, because . . . I’m not sure why, actually, but it has something to do with some very complicated laws of physics and we don’t have time for that.

  Just take my word for it: you can’t hack a left ear with a right leg.

  Okay, now let’s put this all together and see how it works.

  Hack, hack, hack. Hack, hack, hack.

  Did you notice that I increased the velocity of my hack? I did, and you’re probably wondering . . .

  Huh?

  Slim was standing over me, glaring down with stern eyes. All at once I became aware of several . . . quite a few . . . were those dog hairs floating in the atmosphere of the, uh, living room?

  “Hank, I told you not to shed hair all over my pretty house.”

  Well, yes, sure, but there was a reason for the, uh, hairs. See, when you hack a flea, you just naturally hack up a few . . . well, hairs, dog hairs. And what’s a hair to do once it has been hacked up and released into the atomsphere? It floats around. It’s a natural, organic process, part of nature’s plan for the . . .

  He nudged me with his toe and shot a bony finger toward the door. “That’s it, bozo, outside. You can shed hair on the porch.”

  What? Wait, I could explain . . . what did he expect me to do, sit there and let the stupid flea bite my ear off and drain my entire body of bodily fluids? Hey, that was my blood, and I wasn’t going to let some sniveling little flea . . .

  He nudged me again with his foot, this time quite a bit harder. “Out.”

  Fine. I could take a hint. If he didn’t care any more about his dogs than that, if he expected us to sit around like ninnies and be devoured by biting hypodermiac fleas . . . fine.

  I would just march myself outside and spend the night on his broken-down, two-bit porch. And I would never come back into his slummy old house again. Never. Come winter, when the north wind howle
d and groaned, he would want a friend to share his fire, but it wouldn’t be me, Charlie.

  I would be out on the porch, suffering in silence and hacking all the fleas I wanted to hack.

  And the next time he wanted a loyal dog to join him on a mouse hunt, I would be busy. When he called my name and begged me to share his boring life, I would give him a heartless stare and say, “No thanks. I’m hacking fleas and I’m sure you wouldn’t approve.”

  Holding my head at a proud angle, I marched myself to the front door, then beamed him a killer look that said, “Is it possible that you’re really doing this?”

  Our eyes met. “Well, pooch, I’m sure going to miss you tonight—all the dog hairs and bad smells. Y’all have a sweet dream, hear? And don’t even think about barking all night, ’cause come morning, I won’t be my usual charming self.”

  Usual charming self? Ha. That was a laugh. But he didn’t need to worry about me barking in the night. Dogs who bark at night are on the job, and I had no intention of working the night shift after being thrown out of house and home over something as silly as a few dog hairs.

  No sir, I intended to sleep, and if the monsters came up around the house in the dead of night, Slim could bark at them himself.

  With that, I turned my nose toward the door. Slim pushed it open and I marched outside. He would be sorry, of course, but he had done this to himself. I couldn’t be blamed.

  Once out on the porch, I turned around, sat down, and stared at him through the screen. I beamed him Looks of Deepest Tragedy and Betrayal. He noticed.

  “Are you going to sit there all night, staring at me through the screen door?”

  I might, yes, I sure might.

  “Well, enjoy yourself, ’cause I’m going to bed. Oh, and don’t worry. Stub Tail will be joining you just as soon as I flush him out from under my bed. Nighty-night.”

  He left. Two minutes later, he returned with Stub Tail and tossed him out with me in the creel cool world. Cold cruel world, I should say, although it wasn’t actually cold, this being . . . never mind.