The Case of the Mysterious Voice Page 4

  I tried to sleep through his song, but it turned out to be so bad, I found myself listening to it, just to see if it could get any worse. It did.

  I heaved a sigh and sat up. “All right, that’s all I can stand. Enough.”

  He was grinning, so proud of himself he could hardly sit still. “What do you think? Tell me the truth.”

  “Drover, that is sick. In the first place, throwing up is hardly a proper subject for a song. What if the little children heard it? Do you want to encourage the children to go around throwing up all the time?”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “In the second place, there is no such thing as a ‘bad moodle.’”

  “Yeah, but it rhymed.”

  “It rhymed, but it was a cheating rhyme.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes I have to cheat to get my rhymes to work.”

  “Yes, and look what it’s done to you. You’ve produced a song that not only encourages children to throw up, but also teaches them to cheat. What kind of world do you want these kids to live in?”

  He rolled his eyes around. “Well, I was bored and wanted to sing.”

  “Bored! I’m worn to a frazzle, and you’re bored?”

  “Yeah, I slept most of the day.”

  “Oh brother!” I leaped to my feet, scratched up my gunnysack, circled it three times, and collapsed. “I’m going to sleep. If you want to jabber all night, go right ahead.”

  “Really? Oh good. Let’s see, what can I talk about?”

  “On second thought, hush.”

  “Oh drat.” There was a moment of silence, then, “Hey, did you notice that ‘drat’ almost rhymes with ‘trap’? I wonder if that means anything.”

  “Yes, it means hush your mouth and go to sleep!”

  Whew. At last, I managed to shut off his noise and began driveling off into a purseful sneep . . . honking sassafras vanilla swamp rat . . . zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Perhaps I finally managed to doze off. Yes, I’m sure I did, and it was wonderful sleep, exactly what my poor body needed after an exhausting day of running the ranch. But then . . .

  At first, I thought I’d heard a voice. It said, and this is a direct quote, it said, “Hank, get over here and bark at the moon!”

  Data Control wasn’t functioning too well at that hour of the night, but I managed to get a Confirm/No Confirm. The message from DC said, “False alarm. You’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

  Great. That was exactly what I wanted to . . .

  “Hank, get over here and bark at the moon!”

  I shot straight up in bed. Not only had I heard the voice again, but this time I even recognized to whom it belonged: Loper. I noticed that Drover was awake too—awake, sitting up, and listening with perked ears.

  I whispered, “Did you hear that?”

  “Yeah, and it sounded like Loper. But why would he want you to bark at the moon?”

  “I have no idea. It seems crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, ’cause every time we bark at the moon, he tells us to be quiet.”

  “Exactly. Maybe we both had the same dream at the same time. I mean, that happens sometimes, right?”

  “I’ll bet that was it. Let’s go back to sleep.”

  “Roger that. Good night.”

  I stretched out on my wonderful gunnysack and began drifting away on a cloud of . . .

  “Hank, get over here and bark at the moon!”

  I flew out of my gunnysack and hit the ground with all four feet. “Drover, that wasn’t a dream. We’ve been called into action. Boots on the ground, soldier, let’s move out!”

  And with that, we went streaking through the darkness to begin a mission that would take us to . . . we had no idea what this was all about, but in Security Work, we answer the call and work out the details when we can.

  Chapter Seven: We Bark at the Moon

  It was a short flight down to the yard gate, but I used every second of the trip to work through the details of this case. There were exactly ten details. You want to take a peek at my notes? Okay, I guess we have time.

  Detail Number One: Loper, the owner of the ranch, had gotten out of bed, gone to the back door, and yelled out an order to the Security Division.

  Detail Number Two: Yelling orders at night was something he rarely did, because . . . well, because he usually sleeps at night.

  Detail Number Three: Odder still, he had given us a direct order to bark at the moon.

  Detail Number Four: This was an order he had never given us before. Never.

  Detail Number Seven: Even so, the entire staff of the Security Division had heard the order, loud and clear, delivered three times in a row.

  Detail Number Ten: There was, in fact, a bright half-moon hanging in the sky, right above the roof of the house.

  If we’d had only three or four details on this case, we might have written them off as a coincidence, but you know what they say about ten details. “Ten details are ten times detailer than one.” So there you are. We had ourselves a major case. We just didn’t know where it would take us.

  We arrived at the yard gate at approximately 0100. In other words, it was past midnight. We crept up to the gate on silent paws. There, I halted the column and did a visual scan of the entire house and yard.

  The scan revealed . . . well, not much. I saw a dark house, a couple of trees in silhouette against the moonlit sky, and a sleeping parrot on his perch on the porch. Oh yes, and a bright half-moon suspended in the air above the peak of the roof.

  I turned to Drover and whispered, “I don’t see anything unusual, do you?”

  “Well, it’s kind of dark.”

  “Exactly, but it gets that way at night.”

  “Yeah, but what if there’s a monster out there?”

  “We’ll just have to take our chances.” I took a deep breath of air. “Okay, men, our orders are simple and clear. We’ll do a countdown and bark at the moon.”

  “That moon up there?”

  “That’s correct. Aim your barks at the very center of the moon. That way, if your aim’s off by a few centipedes, you’ll still hit something solid. Ready? Assume your Barking Position.” We spread all four legs and found comfortable firing positions. “Set muzzle elevation at 47 degrees. Open outer doors. Arm the weapon. Stand by. We are in the countdown: three, two, one . . . fire away!”

  Boy, you should have been there to hear us. It was an amazing barrage of barking, blast after blast of huge barks that came from downtown and went all the way up to the moon. Fellers, I wouldn’t have wanted to be the moon on that particular night, because the boys from the Security Division were putting on a show.

  For five solid minutes, we fired off round after round, blast upon blast, until at last I had to give the command to cease firing. I mean, if you don’t give those muzzles a chance to cool down, they’ll melt like . . .

  Did you hear that? It was a man’s voice and it seemed to be coming from inside the house. In fact, our instruments gave us a more precise location. The voice seemed to be coming from somewhere near Loper and Sally May’s bedroom.

  Drover heard it too. “Gosh, that sounded like Loper.”

  “Indeed it did, but why would he be telling us to be quiet? We’re just following his orders.”

  In the silence of the night, we pondered this puzzling turn of events. Then Drover said, “Wait, I’ve got it. He didn’t say, ‘Be quiet.’ He said, ‘Knock it off.’”

  “Yes? So what’s your point?”

  “He doesn’t want us to be quiet, he wants us to knock off the moon.”

  I gave that some thought. “Of course! Don’t you get it? He wants us to bark louder and blast that moon right out of the sky.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure I can bark any louder.”

  “I know, me either, but we have to give i
t our best shot. Failure is not an option for this Security Division. Okay, prepare the weapons for Sequence Two. Reload, take ten deep breaths, and realign muzzles.” We moved back into our firing positions. “Restart clock and resume countdown. We are in the countdown: three, two, one. Fire!”

  I didn’t think we had enough juice to bark any louder, but somehow we did it. Boy, you talk about blasting the moon! We could see sparks and chunks of green cheese flying off the surface. We were well on the way to knocking it completely out of the sky, when . . .

  “Meatheads! Shut up that barking!”

  Huh?

  I gave the signal to cease firing. Our guns fell silent. For a long moment, neither of us could speak. I mean, this was very confusing. Then Drover said, “He called us meatheads.”

  “Do you think he was yelling at us?”

  “Well, we were the only ones barking.”

  “Good point.”

  The little mutt looked so discouraged, I thought he might start crying. “It really hurts my feelings. I tried so hard! And it stirred ub by sidusses.”

  I laid a paw on his shoulder. “You did a great job, son. I’ve never seen you do a better job of barking.” I glanced around and heaved a sigh. “Well, let’s pack our gear and return to base.”

  We formed a line and began the march back to our sleeping quarters beneath the gas tanks. We hadn’t gone more than twenty yards, when Loper screeched at us again. “Meatheads! Get up here and bark at the moon!”

  Drover and I stopped in our tracks and exchanged glances. I said, “What’s going on here? He called us meatheads for barking, now he’s calling us meatheads for not barking.”

  “Yeah, and we’re not even meatheads.”

  “You’re exactly right. Who does he think he’s talking to, a bunch of stray cats?”

  “Yeah, we don’t have to take that.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Actually, Drover, we do. We’re the elite troops of the Security Division. We have to follow orders, even when they don’t make sense. Come on, let’s hit it another lick.”

  Even though we were exhausted from this ordeal (the recoil from those heavy barks will wear you down), we trudged back to the yard gate. But before we could resume our firing positions, I noticed that we had company.

  A cat. Pete.

  He was sitting inside the yard, on the other side of the fence, wearing his usual insolent smirk and purring like a little . . . I don’t know what. Motorboat. Refrigerator. “Hankie, you seem to be having some trouble.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well . . .” He grinned and fluttered his eyelids. “It’s the middle of the night, and everyone is screaming at you.”

  “Not everyone, Pete, just Loper.”

  “But still, it seems odd, doesn’t it? I wonder if there’s more here than meets the eye.”

  I noticed that the lips around my teeth had begun to twitch. I had to struggle to control my savage instincts. “What are you saying, Kitty? And hurry up. We have work to do.”

  He lifted his left paw and began licking it with long strokes of his tongue. “Hankie, I’ve been here all night, watching the whole fiasco from start to finish.”

  “I know nothing about a fiasco.”

  “That’s the point, Hankie.” He stopped licking his paw and stared at me with his yellow cattish eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Hankie, but you’ve been set up.”

  “No, you got it backward which, I might point out, is typical cat logic. We haven’t been set up, Pete, we’ve been upset. We’re upset because we’re getting conflicting orders from the same man.”

  “Well, that’s what you think, Hankie. Actually, it’s a lot more interesting than that. I might give you some helpful advice . . . if you’ll ask nicely.”

  All at once, I couldn’t hold back a rush of laughter. “Ha ha ha. Helpful advice? From you? Hey Pete, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the same guy who tried to tear off my ears this morning?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t stand around and watch when a cat’s about to be pitched into a stock tank. We cause collateral damage.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s a news flash. Number one, I never take advice from cats. Number two, if I ever did, I wouldn’t ask nicely for it. Number three, if you keep standing there, running your mouth, I’ll give you a few lessons on collateral damage.”

  Drover let out a giggle. “Hee hee. Good shot, Hank! You really got him on that one.”

  “And number four, go chase your tail. We have work to do.” I whirled away from the cat and spoke to Drover. “Assume firing positions.”

  Pete shrugged. “You’ll be sorry, Hankie, but I’ll enjoy the show.”

  “You do that, Kitty, and when the moon comes crashing down, I hope it lands right on top of your head.” Imagine the cat trying to give me advice. Ha! What a joke. “Elevate muzzles. Open outer doors. We’re into the countdown sequence: three, two, one. Blast away!”

  You’ll be proud to know that I aimed my first three barks at Pete’s face and gave him Train Horns. Hee hee. You should have seen him. It was hilarious. The little creep never saw it coming. I blew him out of his tracks and sent him back to the iris patch.

  “Hiss, reeeeer!”

  The finest music in this world is the sound of an unhappy cat. I love it!

  But I didn’t have time to enjoy the music. I had to get back to work, firing those huge 250-mm barks. Drover and I found a rhythm and, fellers, we were pumping them out like . . .

  Huh? That was odd. The back door opened and someone came out. I gave Drover the signal to cease firing, and we studied the figure that had come out on the porch. It appeared to be an adult male. I sensed that he was “adult” because he was bigger than a child, don’t you see, and “male” because he wore boxer shorts and cowboy boots—a pretty strange combination that only a man would wear.

  His hair was . . . well, a mess, what else can you say? Some of it hung down over his eyes, some of it stuck up in the back, and several sprigs stuck out on the side. Like I said, it was a mess.

  He stepped off the porch and came down the sidewalk toward us. I narrowed my eyes and took a closer look . . . and suddenly realized that I HAD NEVER SEEN THIS MAN BEFORE!

  Chapter Eight: A Victory for Science

  Boy, you talk about something that will send a shock all the way out to the end of your tail! That’ll do it, seeing a complete stranger walk out of a house that was supposed to be occupied by Loper and Sally May. In the middle of the night.

  Who was that guy and what kind of crinimal mischief was he up to?

  For a moment, I was frozen by . . . I might as well go ahead and say it. I was frozen by fear—pure, unambiguous fear, the kind of raw emotion that makes a dog want to drop everything and head for tall timber.

  No ordinary dog could have resisted the urge to flee, but somehow I did. How? Training and discipline had a lot to do with it. Also, paralyzing fear tends to make your legs useless for a retreat. Bottom line: my legs were too scared to move, so the rest of me had to remain on the job.

  At last I was able to speak in a shaky whisper. “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you, but a stranger just walked out of the house. And there’s more bad news. I don’t think I can run. My legs just quit on me.” I happened to be looking at him and saw a goofy smile form upon his mouth. “Drover, let me repeat: I think I’m disabled, but you’re grinning.”

  “Yeah, ’cause he’s not a stranger.”

  “I beg your pardon? Come back on that.”

  “It’s Loper. Who else would come out of Loper’s house in the middle of the night?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, you little squeakbox! I’m telling you, that man is not . . .”

  Huh?

  Okay, we can relax. Ha ha. It was Loper. I mean, who else would you expect to walk out of L
oper’s house in the middle of the night? Ha ha.

  But, seriously, sometimes the stress of this job will get you down. After you’ve worked an eighteen-hour shift and they call you back out on another case, your mind starts playing tricks on you. No kidding.

  So, yes, it was Loper, the owner of our ranch, coming down the sidewalk toward us, and carrying . . . what was that thing? A plastic pitcher? Yes, he was carrying a plastic pitcher, and anyone could have mistaken him for a total stranger. I mean, he was half-naked in his boxer shorts and his hair looked like a packrat’s nest.

  Hey, in the dark of night, we get faulty information and sometimes we make bad calls. It could have happened to any dog.

  Well, I felt a huge sense of relief. Since he wasn’t screeching at us, I had every reason to suppose that he had taken notice of our work and had come out to . . . I don’t know, bring us fresh water or maybe some lemonade.

  A lot of ranchers will do that for their dogs, bring ’em a pitcher of lemonade when they’ve been putting in a long, hard night. Studies show that long periods of heavy barking will inflame the tissues around the vocational cords, don’t you know, and nothing will soothe inflamed throatalary tissues better than lemonade.

  He walked up to the gate and looked down at us. I switched all circuits over to Humble and Proud, thumped my tail on the ground, and gave him a big cowdog smile. I was so intent on my presentation of Humble and Proud, I hardly noticed that Drover had vanished. I mean, poof, gone.

  Loper spoke. “Well, I guess you’re having a grand old time out here, huh?”

  A grand old time? Well, I wouldn’t have put it exactly that way, but we’d certainly stayed busy, trying to fulfill our mission.

  “What part of ‘stop barking’ don’t you dogs under­stand?”

  Uh . . . I didn’t know how to respond to that. See, we’d been getting these confusing messages . . .

  “Do you need a hearing aid?”

  Oh no, thanks. My ears were fine.

  “Well, I brought you one.”

  Huh?

  What a cheap trick! You know what he did? He poured a pitcher of cold water right on top of my head! And then he screeched, “Now shut up your barking and let me get some sleep! Next time, I’ll bring the shotgun.”