Faded Love Page 7

  But Plato is kind to me.

  We sang the last verse together. Beulah sang the part in the parentheses.

  Beulah, I pledge my heart (We can be friends)

  To you this day (Very good friends)

  I’ll never leave you now (Plato is dear)

  I’ve come to stay (Plato is near)

  It’s not just sorcery

  Beulah, my dove

  I’m not just dreaming now (You’re only dreaming, Hank)

  I’m sure I’m in love (You think you’re in love).

  Beulah took a deep breath and looked off in the distance for a long time. “Hank, that was a very nice song. I only wish things had worked out differently for us.”

  It was pretty clear at this point that the song had worked. I had made a small error in judgment, rolling on the danged skunk, but I had made up lost ground with the singing.

  “Oh, we mustn’t mourn over what-might-have-been. One nice thing about the past is that it’s past. Now,” I scootched over closer to her, “how about a little kiss for your favorite troubadour?”

  “Oh, I guess . . . just a little one.” She closed her eyes and leaned over. I waited to be touched by the branding iron of love. But all at once her eyes popped open and she made a terrible face. “Oh Hank, I can’t kiss you when you smell like that!” She moved several steps away from me. “And I shouldn’t be kissing you anyway. There’s no sense in pretending.”

  “Huh? Well, hey listen, I can take a bath, if that’s all you’re worried about.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s more than that. Don’t you understand? Hank, you’re a fine dog. I admire you very much . . . in certain ways, and in another time and place . . . Hank, I’m pledged to another.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another dog.”

  I felt I had just been hit over the head with a post. “I see. And I suppose that means Plato?” She nodded. “How could you choose a bird dog over a cowdog?”

  She shrugged. “It just turned out that way. We don’t always control the way we feel.”

  “Would it help at all if I challenged him to a fight to the death?”

  “No, that would be childish, and it wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “It’s all coming clear now. I wasted my time, I wasted your time, I wasted my very best song. It’s time for me to shove off and find something to fill this crater in my heart.”

  She looked away. When she turned back to me, there was a tear sliding down her long collie nose. “But Hank, you’ll always be a special friend.”

  I got up to leave. “Thanks, Beulah. Since I plan to commit suicide, I probably won’t be needing a friend, but I appreciate the offer.”

  “Oh Hank, don’t be silly!”

  I started walking away. “It’ll be quick and painless, don’t worry. I’ll die with your face on my mind, and then you won’t have old smelly Hank to worry about any more. Good-bye, Beulah, good-bye forever.”

  I called to Drover and he came at a run. Plato saw me leaving. “Leaving so soon, Hank? I thought you might stay for supper.”

  “Plato, old buddy,” I called out, “what I’d really like to do is have you for supper, but I guess that’ll have to wait.”

  He nodded and waved. “Thanks, Hank, any time.”

  Drover caught up with me. “Where we going?”

  “I’m going to join my ancestors, Drover.”

  “Oh. A family reunion?”

  “Not exactly.”

  We headed up toward the house. I was going to cut through the yard and then strike out across country, but just then a pickup pulled up in front of the house and stopped. A man got out and went up to the door and knocked. He was carrying some radishes and onions.

  It was the same Baxter fellow we had seen at the low-water crossing two nights ago, the guy who lived on the next ranch down the creek. And I had a suspicion that he might be hauling something interesting in the back of his pickup.

  While he was talking to the lady at the house, Drover and I went over and sniffed out the pickup. Then we marked all four tires, just in case we might need to run a check on it later on.

  I had just finished the back left tire when a freckled nose appeared above me. Directly above the nose, located at right angles perpendicular to the line of the nose, were two big brown eyes, one on each side.

  They were pretty brown eyes, nestled below two long feathery lashes. “Hello again, big boy.”

  “Well blow me down, I believe it’s Miss Scamper. Imagine meeting you twice in the same week!”

  “This is your lucky day, you big old hairy thing,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “What you got planned for the rest of the day?”

  “Oh, I’d thought I might get run over by a truck, but, uh, I might could be talked out of that.”

  “Really? What would it take?”

  I cleared my throat. “To be perfectly honest about it, Miss Scamper, not much.”

  “Well, just jump your big bad self up here and we’ll go for a little ride, hmm?”

  Drover had come around the back of the pickup by this time and heard some of the conversation. “Hank,” he whispered, “you better not. Beulah might see you.”

  I looked off toward the elm tree. Beulah was watching. “Yes, she might, Drover, but that’s a chance I’ll have to take. Stand back, son, I’m fixing to load up.”

  I coiled my legs and gave a mighty leap, clearing the tailgate and landing right on Miss Scamper.

  “Oops, sorry, ma’am. Hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  She batted her lashes and grinned. “You’re such a big old boy. And you jump so high. And I love your smell!”

  “Yeah? I can already tell you have good taste.”

  She rubbed up against me. “What is it, if you don’t mind telling?”

  “It’s a secret formula, ma’am, but I guess I can tell you.”

  “I guess you can.”

  “Dead skunk, specially aged and very rare.”

  “Oooo! I love it.”

  Drover was still on the ground. “Hank, can I go?”

  “No. Get lost. Go climb a tree.”

  I could hear his claws hitting the tailgate as he tried to jump in. Then he got a hold with his front paws and scratched and clawed his way into the pickup. “I made it, Hank, you proud of me?”

  I was all prepared to order him out, but then I heard Baxter walking back to the pickup. I figgered it would be best to lay low or he’d throw me out again. I laid low. He got into the cab, kicked off the motor, and started up the hill.

  I went back to the tailgate and waved good-bye to Beulah. She had seen the whole thing, and when I waved she stamped her feet and yelled, “I don’t care! Just go on with your little strumpet, because I don’t . . . ohhhh!” She burst into tears.

  “Well, I don’t care either, so that makes us even!” I yelled back. “You had your golden opportunity and you messed up!”

  Well, I’d gotten the last word on Beulah, but in the process of barking this message to her, I clean forgot about exposing myself to the driver. We’d just topped that big hill there in front of the house and crossed the cattleguard, when Baxter laid a heavy foot on the brakes. We came to a screeching stop.

  He jumped out of the cab and looked in the back. “You dadgum dogs, get out of my pickup and go home! Hyah! Sooey!”

  I glanced at Miss Scamper. She shrugged. “We have trouble staying together, don’t we, big boy?”

  I was fixing to answer when I got hit in the ribs with a bundle of bailing wire. Drover had already abandoned ship, and I figgered I’d better do the same before the storm got any worse.

  “See you around, Miss Scamper.”

  “Come see me sometime,” she said, waving good-bye.

  Chapter Twelve: The Return of the Giant Rattlesnake

  I
headed west at a good clip and it took Drover a while to catch up with me. “Where we going, Hank?”

  “Back to the ranch, where do you think?”

  “How can we do that when we swore an oath never to return?”

  “Look, Drover, there are several different kinds of oaths: long term, short term, forever, and temporary. What we swore was your basic two-day oath.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

  “And it’s just about expired, so we need to get back to work.”

  “Well, that worked out about right, didn’t it?”

  “I try to figger things pretty close, son.”

  “But what about your family reunion?”

  “I’ve decided there’s no sense in joining my ancestors at this point, Drover. Why should I deprive my ranch and the world of one of its most valuable natural resources?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  We loped on down the creek, past the low-water crossing, and followed the caliche road on west. I was hoping we wouldn’t meet up with Rufus and the coyotes, and sure enough, we didn’t.

  “Well, Drover, how did the suffering go? Did you work on your character development?”

  “Sure did, Hank. Well, I tried, but you know what? While you were over there talking to Beulah, I got the feeling she was trying to make eyes at me. I kind of think she likes me, Hank.”

  I studied the runt to see if he was joking. He wasn’t. “I guess in some ways it’s a comfort to go through life with below-normal intelligence.”

  “Could be, Hank. We ought to ask her about it some time.”

  I decided to drop the subject. I mean, there’s no sense in beating a dead horse with a sow’s ear.

  It was around four o’clock in the afternoon when we topped the last hill and looked down at ranch headquarters. Everything was just where we’d left it: the house, the yard, the machine shed, the gas tanks, the corrals, the saddle shed.

  Made me feel good to see the old place again, in spite of the heavy responsibility that had already begun to settle upon my massive shoulders. Good or bad, it was my ranch.

  “Well, Drover, there it is. The women may come and the women may go, but the ranch will always be the ranch. And look, there’s Little Alfred out in the yard, playing with his trucks. And Sally May has just walked out the door to check on him and . . .”

  All at once, the peace and tranquility of the afternoon was shattered by a scream.

  “What was that?”

  Drover looked around. “Well, it sounded a lot like a scream.”

  Sally May was standing on the sidewalk, looking toward Little Alfred and holding her hands up to her face. Pete the Barncat came creeping out of the flowerbed. He appeared to be stalking something, then suddenly he jumped back.

  There was another scream. By this time I had traced it to Sally May.

  “Drover, it appears that we arrived just in time. Something’s wrong down there and we’d better find out what it is. Come on.”

  We went flying down the hill. In situations like this, I go to DefCon Five and turn on maximum speed, which means that I become a blur of motion streaking across the pasture. Anything unfortunate enough to get in my way is broken, knocked aside, and sometimes even burned.

  When I had reached the driveway in front of the house, I met Pete. He had just shot through the fence and was looking for a tree to climb.

  “That rattlesnake is back again,” said Pete, “and he’s mad enough to bite.”

  “What about the child?”

  Pete was backing away. “He bites too, but it’s the snake that worries me. You’d better do something, Hankie.”

  The word “snake” sent cold shivers down my back. Then I heard that awful buzz and saw the snake slithering into a coil, not more than five feet from Little Alfred. The poor kid was grinning and cooing, just didn’t understand what was going on.

  He took a step toward the snake. It struck at his hand but missed. Sally May stood nearby, too terrified to move.

  The snake began to reload, drawing himself into another deadly coil. He buzzed, he flicked out his tongue, he glided into his coils.

  Little Alfred made a happy sound and took a step toward the snake. Behind me, I heard Drover’s voice. “Hank, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, Drover, but I’m terrified of snakes.”

  He gasped. “Oh no, you can’t be, Hank, not at a time like this, somebody’s got to do something!”

  “I know, I know, but I just can’t. That buzz . . . it does something to me, I can’t move. You go, Drover. This is your opportunity.”

  “I would, Hank, but . . . well, my leg just went out on me and . . .”

  The snake was coiled. He raised his head and cocked it back. Little Alfred giggled and took another step.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I exploded and flew over the fence and started barking. The snake turned to me with his wicked eyes and flicked out his tongue. Little Alfred reached down to pick him up.

  I had no choice.

  I took two big leaps and landed right in the middle of the coils. That terrible buzzing filled my ears but I tried to shut it out. I pawed and I snapped and at last I got the snake in my jaws and gave it a shake. I felt something sting my right ear, but I tried not to think about it.

  I knew I’d been bit and injected with a fatal dose of poison. I knew I had maybe five minutes left to live.

  Sally May rushed over and swooped up the baby in her arms and carried him away. “Oh Alfred, my baby, thank God you’re safe!”

  The fight didn’t last long, once I got the snake in my jaws and started slinging him around. I mean, we’re talking about jaws that can crush rocks and snap fence posts in half, so a snake, even a big one, doesn’t stand much of a chance.

  It was a glorious moment of triumph. Sally May rushed over and hugged my neck. She cried and said I was the bravest dog in the world and apologized for all the tacky things she’d said about me.

  I enjoyed it, even as the poison rushed through my body and my eyes grew dim. This was the way I’d always wanted it to end. It took the poison only a couple of minutes to reach my heart, and then

  (EDITOR’S NOTE: On April 14, at ap­prox­imately 5:32 Central Standard Time, Hank the Cowdog lost consciousness, went into convulsions, and slipped into a deep coma. Death followed shortly. Cause of death was determined to be a massive dose of poison from a six-foot diamondback rattlesnake.

  One of the bravest dogs ever to come out of the Texas Panhandle, Hank was loved and admired by everyone who knew him. At his funeral, Beulah the Collie collapsed in a paroxysm of grief and had to be carried from the scene. Miss Scamper the Beagle, another of Hank’s female admirers, threw herself upon the body and asked to be buried with him.

  Her request was denied on the grounds that if the authorities allowed her to be buried with the Hero, hundreds of other lady dogs in Texas would demand the same honor.

  Burial was at the ranch, under the direction of Slim and High Loper. After the funeral, all livestock was driven from the 640-acre home pasture where the Hero was laid to rest. The home pasture has been dedicated as the Hank the Cowdog Memorial Park and will never be used to pasture livestock again.

  “Taking a section of grass out of production was the least we could do in this situation,” Loper remarked at the dedication of the new park. “What really hurts is that our Hank is gone.”)

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  All right, I wrote that stuff about the funeral and all, and maybe I exaggerated a little bit. But it could have happened that way, very easily. No ordinary dog could have survived that rattlesnake bite. But I did.

  I was all prepared to die, don’t you see, but it just didn’t happen that way. I guess cheating death had become such a habit with me that, even with a quart of deadly rattlesnake ven
om rushing through my veins, I couldn’t die.

  The part about convulsions and slipping into a coma, that was all true. I passed out and when I regained consciousness, I was lying on the kitchen table—in Sally May’s house, if you can believe that.

  Slim and High Loper were standing over me. Sally May stood off to one side, holding Little Alfred in her arms.

  “I believe the old dog’s going to make it,” said Loper. “Good job, Hank.”

  I wagged my tail. It took considerable effort. You can’t imagine what a bad effect two quarts of rattlesnake venom has on your tail muscles.

  Slim bent down and studied my right ear. “Loper, it appears to me that the snake struck him on the tip of his ear and the fangs went all the way through. Look, you can see the fang marks.”

  Loper leaned over and looked at my ear. “Yup, sure looks that way.”

  Slim pushed his hat to the back of my head. “I don’t believe the old rascal got a drop of poison.”

  Huh? Well, that was easy for him to say, since he wasn’t the one who was lying there on the table, fighting for his life against half a gallon of deadly venom.

  “Why do you reckon he passed out?”

  Slim shrugged. “Probably fainted.”

  Loper looked over at Sally May. “Hun, he’s all right. You want me to go ahead and give him the full treatment?”

  She came over and stroked my head. “Let’s do. He was so brave out there, he deserves it.”

  That sounded more like it. Sympathy is a wonderful medicine. And it just seems to be better when it comes from an admiring woman.

  I didn’t know what “the full treatment” was, but I had reason to suspect that it was going to be pretty good—warm milk over toast, eggs and milk, maybe even a big juicy steak.

  Loper picked me up and carried me into another room. I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the ride. I could almost taste that steak.

  You know what “the full treatment” was? A DADGUM BATH! They throwed me into the bathtub and lathered me up with stinking perfumy soap. They picked fleas off my belly. They pulled ticks off my ears. They pulled cockleburs out of my tail. They pulled sandburs off my back.