The Case of the Car-Barkaholic Bog Page 4

  More dust. Well, I had a heck of a time finishing my story, but I’m no quitter and I got ’er done. By that time the kids were so caught up in story-telling that they begged—and we’re talking about INSISTED and DEMANDED—that I tell another one.

  So, what the heck, I launched into one about the time I saved the lovely Miss Beulah from a villain named Rufus.

  It was then that, suddenly, without any warning whatever, my sister swooned and fell over on the ground.

  Had an attack of something.

  Fainted.

  Well, you know me. I rushed to her side. “Maggie, speak to me! What’s happened to you?”

  “Ohhhh, it’s these spells again, Henry.”

  “Holy smokes, you had one of these attacks the last time I was here.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Is the old head hurting you again?”

  “Ohhh, terrible headache!”

  “And probably an upset stomach to go along with it?”

  “Ohhh, terrible upset stomach!”

  “And how about dizziness? Are you experiencing any dizziness?”

  “Ohhh, terrible dizziness!”

  “It must be all this dust, Maggie. It was starting to bother me too.”

  Her voice was very weak and trembly. “No, not the dust. The spells seem to be triggered by nerves. Tension.”

  “Nerves, tension, yes, I get the picture.”

  “And too much company.”

  “Okay, yes, I’m beginning to see a pattern here.” I turned to the pups. “Kids, your mother’s head­aches are brought on by nerves and tension and tensionous nerves. I’m putting her to bed for the rest of the day.”

  “Yes,” she moaned, “and no company.”

  “Right. I was getting to that.” I turned back to the kids. “If anybody shows up around here, tell ’em your ma is sick in bed and can’t be bothered.”

  “Thank you, Henry. You’ve been so kind.”

  “No problem, glad to do it.”

  “And do come back some other time.”

  “Hey, I’ll do better than that.”

  “Good-bye, Henry.”

  “I’m staying until you get back on your feet.”

  “Ohhhhhh!”

  “Is it getting worse, Mag”’

  “It’s getting REAL.”

  “Yes, and that’s the worst kind. Real pain is really painful.”

  She struggled to her feet and looked at me with . . . hummm, that was a pretty ferocious look she pointed at me, although I sure understood how those headaches could put you in a bad mood.

  “Here, Mag, let me help you.”

  “Haven’t you done enough already?”

  “Hey, it was nothing, really.”

  “You’ll regret this, Henry.”

  “Not at all, Sis. It’s the least I could do.” She staggered into the doghouse. “And don’t worry about the kids. Uncle Hank is in charge of everything.”

  “Ohhhhhh!”

  When she was gone, I turned to the pups. “I’m sure worried about your ma. Does she have these spells often?”

  “Only once before,” said April. “The last time you were here.”

  “Boy, that’s a piece of good luck. I mean, if she’s going to have spells, better that she has them when I’m around to help.”

  “The last time, she said she had bad allergies to certain characters.”

  “Yes, those allergies can cause a lot of misery. Well, kids, what should we do now? You want to have some more storytime? Take a nap? Dig a hole? What do you think?”

  Little Roscoe held up his paw. “Last time, you took us on a garbage patrol. Boy, that was fun!”

  “Yes, I remember it well, and by George, if that’s what . . .”

  BAM, BAM, BAM!

  Someone or something was banging on the front gate. Little Barbara went scampering over to answer it. I reminded her that Maggie was too sick to be bothered with company.

  When she came back, I knew something was wrong. Her eyes were big and she looked scared.

  “Uncle Hank, it’s the dog next door. He wants to see Mother.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. He can’t. You go back and tell him that your Uncle Hank told him to go chase his tail.”

  Spot spoke up then. “Be careful, Uncle Hank. He’s BIG and he’s MEAN!”

  I chuckled at that. “Son, I’ve already told you what I do to the cannibals out at the ranch. Big and mean is nothing new to me.”

  “Yeah, but he’s REAL big and mean. And he’s a bully. He comes into our yard and steals our bones.”

  That got my attention. “Oh yeah? Steals bones from my nieces and nephews?”

  “And our dog food too.”

  “Huh. What does your ma think of this?”

  Roscoe pushed forward. “She hates him but she’s scared of him. He says he’ll beat us all up if we don’t give him what he wants.”

  By that time I was on my feet, limbering up my shoulder muscles. “You know, kids, I haven’t met this guy, but already I have a feeling that I’m not going to like him.”

  “You’ll hate him too, Uncle Hank,” said Barbara. “He barks at cars all the time.”

  “Yeah,” said April, “and he’s beat up every dog in the neighborhood, and he steals and cheats and talks naughty.”

  “Talks naughty, huh? Not in front of you kids, I hope.” They nodded their heads, all four of them. “Well, that settles it. Any dog that steals bones and talks naughty in front of my little kinfolks is looking for trouble. And kids,” I gave them a wink, “I think he came to the right place to find it.”

  They clapped their paws and cheered. “Yea Uncle Hank!”

  With their cheering and applause ringing in my ears, I swaggered over to the gate and prepared to clean house on the neighborhood thug.

  Chapter Seven: Uh-oh

  I marched up to the gate. I could hear heavy breathing on the other side, which gave me my first clue in the case: the neighborhood thug had sinus trouble. I salted that information away for future use.

  “You are hearing the voice of Hank the Cowdog, Head of Ranch Security. This yard is closed to traffic for the rest of the afternoon. My sister has been put to bed due to health problems. We appreciate your concern, and good-bye.”

  Heavy breathing.

  “In other words, go away.”

  More heavy breathing.

  “Hey buddy, you’ll never sneak up on anyone with that sinus problem. Your breathing sounds like a diesel truck. In other words, I know you’re still there.”

  Heavier breathing.

  “See? I told you you were still there. You can’t fool me. Well, go ahead and breathe all you want, it’s a free country, but you absolutely are not coming into this yard.”

  Still heavier breathing.

  I turned back to the kids and gave ’em a wink. “And let me tell you something else, pal. The next time you get the urge to steal a bone, I’d advise you to try some other yard, because this yard is now under the jurisdiction of Hank . . .”

  BAM!

  All at once the gate flew open and I found myself more or less smashed between the gate and the fence. When the stars and checkers cleared from my head, I looked up and . . . HUH? My good­ness, that was a pretty big dog.

  Real big dog.

  A small horse?

  Looked a whole lot like a Great Dane.

  Had I met this guy before?

  Uh-oh.

  Rambo.

  The pups ran for cover when he came bursting through the gate. I didn’t, for obvious reasons. He ran his eyes over the yard, and then he spoke in a voice that matched up with the heavy breathing I had noted before. A big, heavy voice, in other words.

  “Where is this loud-mouthed cowdog?”

  I stood perfect
ly still against the fence, hoping that he might think I was a shrub or something. You never know. But he didn’t. His huge, ugly, bloodshot eyes swung around and locked on me.

  “What are you doing back there?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. I ain’t talking to the gate.”

  “I knew that. You struck me as the kind of dog who wouldn’t go around talking to gates.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Okay, fine, sure. That’s easy enough. What am I doing back here?”

  “Yeah? That’s the question. What’s the answer?”

  “Oh, you wanted the answer?” I laughed. “I thought you wanted to hear the question again.” I laughed. “I’m a little heard of harding.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I’m a little hard of hearing.”

  “Oh. Too bad.”

  “What?”

  “I said, too bad!”

  “Well, two’s better than one.”

  He lumbered over to me and popped me on the chin so that my jaws snapped shut. “You know what? I don’t like your looks and I don’t like dogs who don’t listen when I talk. Maybe you’d like to start listening better.”

  “I was about to suggest that.”

  “Good. Do you know who I am?”

  “Uh, let’s see. Your name wouldn’t be Trigger, would it?” He popped me on the chin again. “Or Rambo, how about Rambo?”

  He gave me a smirk. “Now you’ve got it. I’m Rambo and I own this town.”

  “It’s a great little town, I’ve always liked it.”

  “Good for you. Where’s the cowdog?”

  I found myself coughing. “Cowdog? Whatever made you think there might be a cowdog around here?”

  He brought his nose right up to my face. “You know what I think? I think you look like a cowdog.”

  “Me, a cowdog? Ha, ha, ha. Oh no, not me. I’m a hogdog, Harry the Hogdog. There’s a huge difference between hogdogs and cowdogs.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, you have your hogs and you have your cows, and they’re very different. Your, uh, hogs say ‘Oink,’ and your cows say ‘Moo,’ and that’s a pretty huge difference right there. No hog has ever said ‘Moo.’”

  He popped my chin again.

  “Except on very rare occasions, that is.”

  He did it again.

  “You keep popping me on the chin.”

  “You keep talking stupid. Do I need you to tell me that no hog has ever said ‘Moo’?”

  “Maybe not.” He popped me again. “In other words, NO.”

  “That’s better. Now, tell me something else.”

  “Sure, anything at all, just ask.”

  He leaned forward and drilled me with those ugly eyes. “Have we met before?”

  All at once I had trouble breathing. “You know, I was just asking myself that same question, and the answer is no. No, we haven’t met before. Never. Never ever. Honest.”

  “Your face looks familiar.”

  “You won’t believe this, but I hear that all the time. Almost every day some dog comes up to me and says, ‘Your face looks familiar to me.’ I’ve just got a familiar face, that’s all.”

  “I think we’ve met. It was in the middle of the night.”

  “No, wrong dog. I was out of town that night.”

  “Which night?”

  “The, uh, night we didn’t meet in the middle of the night. I was gone. Out of town. Miles away. No kidding.”

  “I think we’ve met, and . . .” All at once his ears shot up and he turned his head towards the street. “I hear a car coming. Stay right where you are. Don’t move a hair.”

  And with that, he loped out the gate and began barking at a car in the street.

  While he was gone, I concentrated hard on not moving a hair. It wasn’t as simple as you might suppose. I have many hairs on my body and they’re all easily moved.

  I was standing there against the fence when I heard the voice of Little Roscoe. He came creeping out from behind a lawn chair. “Uncle Hank? Did you run him off?”

  “Not yet, son, we’re, uh, still negotiating a few points. This may take a little longer than I thought.”

  “Are you going to beat him up, like you said?”

  I laughed. “Ha, ha, ha. You know, son, nothing in this old world is more violent than violence, and violence is a terrible thing.”

  “Yeah, but you sure used it on those coyotes, didn’t you?”

  “Son, it’s possible that you misquoted me. I’ve always favored the path of reason and compromise.”

  “You mean you’re scared?”

  “I, uh, I’m finding more and more things to admire about Mister Rambo as we, uh, continue our . . . you’d better hide, son, he’s coming back.”

  Rambo returned to the yard in that long trot of his. He had a big smile plastered across his jowels. “Did you see me bark at that car?”

  “Oh yes, very impressive, I’ve never . . .”

  CLUNK!

  He bopped me on the chin again. “Then you moved a hair. When I tell you not to move a hair, Harry, I mean don’t move a hair. You got that?”

  “Yes. Sir. Yes sir, sir.”

  “But it was impressive, wasn’t it? I love barking at cars. It’s my passion. It’s my vice. It’s my greatest strength and my greatest weakness.” He stuck his nose right in my face. “I’m a Car-Barkaholic, did you know that?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I can’t leave ’em alone. Every time I see a car coming down the street, I get this terrible urge to tear off his wheels and eat his doors.” He threw a glance to the left. “Where’s Maggie?”

  “She’s, uh, sick. Ill. Unable to speak or walk. We think she’s come down with Terminal Rutabaga.”

  “I never heard of it.”

  “That’s because everyone who’s ever heard of it has died a miserable death. It’s that contagious. If I were you, I’d leave right now.”

  “You would, huh? If Maggie’s so sick, how come she just came out of her doghouse?”

  I glanced over in that direction and, sure enough, she had just stepped out. “I think I can explain everything if you . . .”

  “Shat up. And don’t move a hair until I tell you.” He left me there against the fence and swaggered over in Maggie’s direction.

  When she saw him, her face showed fear, then anger. “So it’s you again. You’re back.”

  “Yeah, I’m back. I want your bones. I want your dog food. And I want a big kiss, Maggie.”

  She stomped over to him, drew back her paw, and whacked him across the face. “There’s the only kiss you’ll get from me, you heartless bully!”

  An ugly laugh came boiling out of his throat. “That’s no way to treat the best car-barking dog in Texas. I was expecting something better.”

  “All right, then here’s something better.” She drew back and hit him another lick, this one even harder than the first one. And it had just about the same effect. Nothing.

  With one rapid motion, Rambo threw her to the ground and held her down with one paw. “You’ll stay on the ground, Maggie, until you’re ready to give me a kiss.”

  At that point I stepped out of the shadows and faced him. “Hey Rambo, I’m Hank the Cowdog and that’s my sister. Get out of the yard while you still have four legs to carry you.”

  Chapter Eight: A Terrible Fight

  All at once the pups appeared from behind bushes and lawn chairs and raised a cheer. I needed a cheer because my legs were shaking so badly I could hardly stand up.

  “Yea Uncle Hank! That’s telling him! Go get him, Uncle Hank! Beat him up!”

  Rambo’s gaze drifted from me to the kids and back to me. A sneer wiggled across his mouth and he nodded his head. “I remember no
w. You’re the jerk that woke me up in the middle of the night.”

  “That’s ram, Rightbo, and I’m the jerk that’s fixing to wake you up again.”

  He laughed. “Say, pooch, do you remember what happened to you last night?”

  “Sure. You landed one lucky punch. So what?”

  “I swept my yard with your carcass and then I threw you against the fence, and then I threw you OVER the fence, is what I did.”

  “That’s right, one lucky punch, but you won’t be so lucky this time, Rambo. Now, for the last time, get your paws off my sister and get out of this yard.”

  He laid his ears flat against his head and leaned his ugly face in my direction. “Make me.”

  “One more smart remark like that, Rambo, and I’ll be forced to make you.”

  “Make me.”

  “Keep saying that, Rambo, and just see what happens.”

  I was stalling for time, see, because I wasn’t optimistic about my chances of making that monster-dog do anything. We stood there glaring each other, when all at once Roscoe marched up beside me.

  “Come on, Uncle Hank, I’ll help you. We’re cowdogs and we’re not scared of any old Great Dane, are we, Uncle Hank?”

  You know, up to that moment I had been, well, not exactly scared but . . . a little uneasy, let us say. Nervous. Anxious. A wee bit unsure of myself. But when I looked down at that little cowdog pup and saw that determined gleam in his eyes, hey, all at once I remembered who I was and where I’d come from.

  Yes, we were cowdogs, and that was something special. I took a step toward the bully. “This could be your last chance, Rambo. Leave the yard and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

  He was grinning. “And if I don’t? What’ll we do then, Mister Cowdog?” He looked down at my sister. “Come on, Maggie, give me one little kiss before I take care of your brother.”

  “Don’t touch me, let me up this very minute, and don’t you dare lay a paw on Henry, or so help me I’ll . . .”

  “Har, har, har! This is almost as much fun as barking at cars.” His eyes drifted up to me. “What are you going to do now, cowdog? The suspension is killing me.”

  Roscoe was jumping up and down. “Let’s jump him, Uncle Hank! I’ll be right beside you.”