The Case of the Car-Barkaholic Bog Read online

  Spot came up and joined us. “Yeah, and me too.”

  “Well, by George, we’ve got him outnumbered. All right, guys, take the first leg you come to and start chewing. Let’s wade in and see what we can do. Charge, attack, bonzai!”

  I led the charge and delivered a piledriver blow to Rambo’s chest. Imagine, if you will, a piledriver smashing into the side of a mountain of solid granite. That will give you some idea of the damage I inflicted. Not much. In fact, there for a moment or two, we thought we might need to bring up a new piledriver.

  You see, the mountain was not only big and solid, but it also struck back, which sort of scattered our piledriver over half an acre before we could put everything back together and throw it back into action.

  Even though I got myself, uh, diverted there for a minute or two, the boys came in the second wave and started chewing on Rambo’s legs. By that time April and Barbara had come out of hiding and decided to join the crusade, and they came in the third wave. It happened that Rambo had two more legs to chew, and that’s where they went.

  Then Maggie got herself out from under Rambo’s paw, and she jumped up and made the fourth wave. There were many things she had never learned about yard fighting, but she was aroused enough to be about half-dangerous. She chewed for a while and then she hit for a while, and then she went back to chewing.

  I think Mister Rambo was a little surprised by this show of family unity. Those kids weren’t big enough to knock down a fly, but they had sharp little teeth and they were about to eat his legs off. He’d shake one off, but the other three went right on chewing.

  And he was so preoccupied with saving his legs that I was able to mount a second attack. I landed a dandy left hook under his chin. What it did to his chin I can’t say, but it liked to have broke my paw in half. Then I jumped on his back and began gnawing on his ears.

  He didn’t like that! No siree, and that’s probably why he bucked so hard and pitched me into the barbecue pit. Well, I didn’t let a little thing like that slow me down. In a flash, I was back in the middle of things.

  I landed a left to his nose, a right to his chin (ouch!), and another left to his nose. I didn’t want to think about what he might have done to me if Maggie and the kids hadn’t been there, but I didn’t have to think about it, because they were.

  Old Rambo was a slow learner, but after several minutes he began to realize that he was coming out on the short end of this deal. He started edging toward the gate, which was pretty interesting to watch since he had a biting pup attached to all four legs and an angry mother barking in his ear.

  At last he jumped into the air and kicked his legs, and pups went rolling in all directions. Then he made a run for the gate. When he got there, he stopped and turned back to us. His eyes were seething with cold hatred and fury.

  “Okay, you win this round, but you’ll live to regret it. I’ll be back. You won’t know when I’m coming. It might be in the dark of night or the light of day, but I’ll be back. Don’t leave the yard. Don’t sleep. Don’t get careless, ’cause if you do, I’LL GET YOU! And cowdog, you’ll be the first to go.”

  And with that, he whirled around and left in a lope.

  I went to the gate and eased it shut with my nose. Closing the gate was more of a formality than anything else. Rambo had already proved that he could jump up on the other side and pop the latching mechanism any time he wanted. But still, I felt better with the gate shut.

  By this time the kids were cheering and jumping around.

  “We did it! We whipped the bully!”

  “Yeah, we showed him!”

  “Hooray for Uncle Hank! Hooray for the family!”

  It was a joyous occasion, a moment of triumph in the life of a cowdog family. We had worked to­gether and we had won. It seemed a pretty good time to celebrate our victory with a song, and I happened to know one that was just right for the occasion. Here’s how it went.

  Hymn to the Home

  Bless our family, bless our love,

  Make it shine like stars above.

  Bless our parents, keep them strong,

  Let them teach us right from wrong.

  Bless these children, help them learn

  Patience, virtue, and concern.

  Bless this home and bless us all,

  Bless this roof and bless these walls.

  Bless the food our bodies need,

  Bless the hands that us do feed.

  Bless our voices, bless our song,

  Harmony will make us strong.

  Yes sir, it was a great occasion. I turned to Maggie and gave her a wink. “Nice work, Sis. All these years I never knew you had such a talent for alley fighting. By George, you gave old Rambo’s ears quite a chewing.”

  “Thank you, Henry, and I must admit that your rough cowdog ways came in handy. I don’t know what we would have done without you.” She leaned forward and, you won’t believe this, kissed me on the cheek. Then she coughed. “But I wish we could do something about that odor.”

  The kids raised a cheer. “Hooray for Mom! Hooray for Uncle Hank! Hooray for the Cowdog Kids!”

  Our celebration lasted all afternoon. We played Chase the Sock, Hide the Tennis Shoe, Tug the Bone, and Free-for-All Against Uncle Hank. Out­side the yard, we could hear the neighborhood thug barking at cars, but he didn’t bother us.

  He wouldn’t have dared bother us. I mean, we had taught that guy a lesson he wouldn’t forget.

  By George, it was a dandy picnic, and the next thing we knew, it was dark. The pups and I went trooping up to the doghouse, where Maggie had spent the afternoon sunning herself and watching us romp and play. She scolded the pups for getting themselves all covered with dust and grass, but she knew they’d had a good, wholesome afternoon and she didn’t get too serious about the scolding.

  Say, all that romping around with the kids had just about wore me out and I was ready to do some serious sleeping. I found myself a nice comfortable spot in front of the doghouse, scratched around on it, turned three circles, and collapsed.

  The pups followed my example, and before long, all four of them were curled up beside me and we were throwing up long lines of Zs. It was the perfect way to end a perfect day.

  I was in the midst of a wonderful dream about Miss Beulah the Collie when I heard someone calling my name.

  “Henry?”

  “Uh mug womp snork snicklefritz.”

  “Henry, wake up. I hear something.”

  I sat up and studied the dark face before me. “What do you mean, you murgled the skiffering porkchop heard something?”

  “Henry, I don’t want to alarm you, but someone is lurking over by the fence!!”

  Chapter Nine: The Fort Is Surrounded

  It was Maggie, and there was an edge of fear in her voice. It was nice that she didn’t want to alarm me, but she did anyway.

  I leaped to my feet and stepped on a pup or two before I could get my bearings.

  “I’m sorry to wake you up,” she whispered.

  “Oh, no problem, I wasn’t asnork, just resting my porkchops.”

  “Follow me.”

  She went creeping across the yard, and as we approached the south fence, I began picking up the sound myself. It was faint at first, but it grew louder as we approached the fence.

  It was a very spooky sound, and I’ll admit that it raised a strip of hair two inches wide all the way from the back of my neck to the tip of my tail.

  Someone was on the other side of the fence . . . BREATHING!!

  Breathing is normal, right? Everybody does it several times a day and it’s nothing to get excited about, right? I agree with the theory, but let me tell you something. When you wake up from a deep sleep and hear HEAVY BREATHING on the other side of the fence, in the dark of night . . . fellers, that’s about the spookiest sound in the whole entire worl
d.

  Especially if you have reason to suspect that the heavy breather happens to be a huge monster Great Dane dog who’s doctoring a grudge.

  Nursing a grudge.

  Holding a grudge.

  . . . a monster Great Dane who’s holding a grudge and thinking wicked thoughts and plotting revenge in the deep dead dark of the night.

  And take my word for it, that’s scary.

  You know, I don’t enjoy being scared, especially of something I can’t see. I’d rather get the thing out into the open and fight it, even if I get whipped in the process.

  “All right, Rambo, we know you’re there. Are you ready for Round Two?” No answer. “You’re not fooling anybody, and furthermore, we’re not the least bit scared.” Still no answer. “Come on over the fence, Rambo, and we’ll see what you’re made of.”

  Nothing but heavy breathing.

  I gave Maggie the sign and we moved to another part of the yard where we could talk. She looked worried. I expect that I did too, because I was.

  “Henry, I’m frightened. What should we do about this?”

  “Funny that you should ask, Mag. I was just wondering the same thing.”

  “It’s obvious that he’s chosen to torment us, to make us live in a state of constant fear.”

  “Yes, that guy is smarter and deviouser than I ever supposed. This could go on for weeks.”

  “How long did you plan to stay, Henry?”

  “Not for weeks.”

  “Oh dear.”

  I began pacing. My mind seems to work better when I pace, don’t you see. “Maggie, he’s got us over a bucket. We’re trapped in our own yard. All we can do is sit in here like a bunch of rabbits and wait for him to make the next move.”

  “Maybe we could post a guard.”

  “Yes, we could post a guard, but what if he decides to drag it out for days or weeks? Time is on his side. All he has to do is wait. By the time he decides to make his move, we’ll be worn out from worry and lack of sleep. We’ll be fighting amongst ourselves. We’ll lose our spirit of team­work. That’s his strategy, Maggie, divide and conquer.

  “Oh, he’s such a hateful dog! Why did he have to live next door to us?” She heaved a sigh and was quiet for a moment. “Henry, it’s hopeless, I can see that now. I should have given him his stupid kiss and let him take the children’s bones.”

  “No, Mag. Once you cave in to a bully, there’s no end to it.”

  “Well? He’s going to win anyway, and the longer we put it off, the worse it’s going to be.” She stood up. “I’ll go tell him that we surrender.”

  “Whoa, hold on, wait a minute, halt. Hey Maggie, you left the ranch many years ago but you’re still a cowdog, and cowdogs don’t surrender.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Henry. You can leave and go back to your ranch, but we have to stay here. I must think of the children.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m thinking of the children too. I don’t want ’em to grow up cowards, afraid of every bully who happens to be bigger and louder than they are. There’s a very important principle involved here.”

  “Henry, you’re right but you’re wrong.”

  “No, I’m right but I’m right. Before I’d let you surrender to that jerk, I’d go over that fence and challenge him to a fight to the death.”

  “And then where would we be? Getting yourself killed in battle might solve YOUR problem, but it wouldn’t solve mine or the children’s. No, Henry, there’s no other way.”

  “Mag, I can’t stand by and watch you do this. It goes against everything I’ve ever believed in.”

  “Then you should go, Henry. Thank you for trying. I wish it had worked out better.” She started toward the fence but stopped and came back a few steps. “Henry, I really was proud of you today. Just for a few hours, you made us feel like real cowdogs. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Maggie, and good luck.”

  She went to the south fence and I went to the back of the yard. As I crouched down and prepared to spring up on the fence, I heard a burst of wicked laughter. Then:

  “That’s fine, Maggie, that’s real fine. But what does your bumpkin brother think about it?”

  “Oh,” she said in a sad voice, “he left hours ago.”

  “Har, har, har! I knew he was yellow. I just wish I could have had one more chance to sweep the yard with him.”

  All my muscles froze. I listened to the pounding of my heart. I couldn’t stand the thought of running away with my tail between my legs, leaving my sister to be bullied and terrorized by that hoodlum dog.

  I whirled around and started toward the sound of his voice. But then I remembered: Maggie had asked me to leave. She had made her choice, and it didn’t include me.

  Before I could think about it any more, I ran straight for the back fence, leaped high in the air, climbed over the top, hit the ground, and ran south down the alley as hard as I could run.

  Yes, I was running away from everything I believed in. I was running away from myself, my pride, my past, my cowdog heritage, everything that mattered. And what really made me sick was that one part of me was glad to be running away!

  But I couldn’t silence that still, small voice inside my head: “Rambo said you were yellow, Hank, and sure enough, you are. Look at you! You’re leaving your sister and her kids to a bully. Never mind what Maggie said. YOU knew what needed to be done and you didn’t do it. You chose to run and to forget, but you can’t forget. ‘A cowdog never surrenders,’ Hank old boy, but you surrendered.”

  I gritted my teeth and ran harder than ever. I had to get away from there! I had to get out of town, away from that voice inside my head.

  I sprinted down the alley, tripping over weeds and clods of hardened mud. I couldn’t see where I was going but I didn’t care. I had to get out of town.

  Somewhere near the south edge of town, I saw a big yellow tomcat sitting in the moonlight. He was just sitting there in the middle of the alley, minding his own business and licking his front paw.

  Well, maybe I couldn’t whip Rambo but I could sure as thunder beat up a cat and make him the whipping post for all my scapegoats. My anger and frustration came to a point and focused on that cat. I increased speed, took dead aim at him, and . . .

  Most cats will run from a dog, but every once in a great while we find one that will stand his ground and fight. Your tomcats seem to be more prone to that sort of irrational behavior than others, and yes, once in a great while . . .

  As I say, he was a big cat, and the closer I came to him the bigger he looked. I kept waiting for him to hiss and run. By the time I began to suspect that he might NOT run, it was too late to alter course.

  Yikes!

  Yes, he slapped me across the nose with a handful of very sharp claws, and yes, he somehow managed to climb upon my back, and no, I don’t suppose we need to discuss it any more.

  What really matters is that I finally bucked him off and escaped with some excellent research material on the nature of tomcats.

  By the time I had shed that insane tomcat, I had reached the south edge of town. Up ahead, I could see one last mercury-vapor yard light, and beyond that, nothing but darkness and open prairie.

  I ran toward the light and began to realize that I was approaching the Devil’s Island for Dogs—the Twitchell Dog Pound. That was no place for me, so I . . . on the other hand, I knew a guy who lived there, or did at one time.

  His name was Ralph, Dog-Pound Ralph. Not a bad guy, if you could tolerate his slow manner and his dreary basset-hound face.

  And it suddenly occurred to me that Dog-Pound Ralph might have a role to play in a plan that had just taken shape in my mind—a plan that just might provide a solution to the Rambo Problem.

  Chapter Ten: Dog-Pound Ralph

  I slowed to a walk and studied the situation up ahead. I didn’t suppose that the
dogcatcher would be at the pound at that hour of the night, but I didn’t care to take any chances.

  If I had seen his white pickup with the cage in the back, I wouldn’t have risked a visit with Ralph. He was a nice guy and all that, but there were many nice guys in this world, and the nicest of them didn’t hang out with dogcatchers.

  I checked out the place, gave it a thorough going-over with my optical scanners, and came up with no signs of the dogcatcher. At that point, I began to relax and resumed my journey.

  The dog pound had always struck me as kind of a lonesome place, sitting up there on that little hill with no trees anywhere around and with the wind moaning through the mesh of the pens. Why Ralph chose to stay there was a mystery to me. I would have found it depressing.

  Well, I marched up to Cell Number 3, which is where Ralph had stayed last time I’d visited. Sure enough, there he was, stretched out on an old carpet sample that lay on the cement floor. I pushed open the nose with my door and went inside.

  He appeared to be dead asleep, with one paw in the water bowl. I sat down for a moment to rest and gather up my reserves of energy.

  “Ralph? Wake up, Ralph. An old and dear friend has dropped in for a visit.”

  “Skaw, scruff, snort, zzzzz. Can’t swim, zzzzz.”

  “You must be dreaming.”

  “Drowning!”

  “No, dreaming.”

  “Help!”

  “Ralph, are you awake?”

  “No, but I’m fixing to drown!”

  “That’s absurd. Oh, I see. Your paw is in the water bowl, which is sending confusing signals to your sleeping mind. Remove your paw from the water.”

  He rolled over and stared at me. His ears were crooked and so were his eyes. “Did you say that my pa’s in the water and he’s fixing to drown?”

  I smiled. “You just removed it, Ralph. All’s well.”

  “Were you just talking about my pa?”

  “Yes, your paw was in the water.”

  “What about Ma?”