Читать книгу The Christmas Turkey Disaster - John R. Erickson - Страница 6

Chapter One: The Bed Riot

It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. It was the end of November, as I recall. No, wait, it was the middle of December, the day before Christmas, but before we say another word about the Turkey Disaster, I want to make a statement for the record.

Ready? Pay attention.

If they don’t want their dogs getting into the groceries, they should shut the car doors. It wasn’t my fault.

There, now we can get on with the story—which, by the way, is going to be pretty scary. If you’re not prepared for a story that will chill your liver, you’d better find something else to do, because this story is guaranteed to…

You know, I’m not sure we should go on. Maybe you think I’m kidding about this being one of the scariest stories of my whole career, but I’m not. I mean, when I saw that kid thrashing around in a frozen pond…

Tell you what, we’ll go on with the story, but if it gets too heavy, you can just close the book and…I don’t know, go brush your teeth or something. Nobody will say a word about it.

Okay, where were we? Oh yes, Christmas Eve day. After two weeks of nice fall weather, a blue norther had come roaring down from Canada and, fellers, it was cold, seriously cold. The temperature was down around zero, and Drover and I awoke to find ourselves covered with frost. Old Man Winter was knocking on the door, and there we were, shivering on our stinking gunny sack beds in an unheated office.

I’ve never been the kind of dog who craves luxury. Some dogs do, you know. They live in town, sleep inside a warm house, and curl up every night on some kind of store-bought cushion-bed with satin sheets and the smell of perfume.

I’ve never expected such pampering, and wouldn’t want it even if it was offered, but for crying out loud! We were going into winter with the same gunny sack beds we’d been using for months. Years. They were threadbare and cold, and let’s be honest: they stank. Hey, when a ranch dog notices that his bed stinks, you’d better believe that things have gotten out of control.

Sorry, I don’t mean to rave, but when I woke up that morning, covered with frost crystals and inhaling stale fumes that were coming from my own bed, it started my day off on a sour note.

I raised my head and noticed the pile of frost next to me. It was still asleep, but shivering and grunting. “Drover, must you grunt in your sleep?”

“I’m not asleep.”

“Well, you’re grunting in your un-sleep.”

“I’m c-c-cold.”

“So am I, but do you hear me grunting about it?”

“Yeah, you grunted all night long. I thought I was sleeping in a hog pen.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Was too.”

“Was not!”

“Was too, two, three, four, five, six, seven!” He raised his head and gave me a silly grin. “I got you on that one.”

“Oh brother. This is so childish.” I pushed myself up to a standing position and tested my frozen legs. “Let me point out that you didn’t ‘get’ me. What you said was nonsense. It wasn’t an argument based on evidence. It would never stand up in a court of law and I can blow it to pieces with a thoughtful, well-reasoned reply.” I leaned toward him and yelled, “Not, not, pitty-pot, give a dog a bone! There, I rest my case. I was not grunting in my sleep.”

He seemed impressed. “That was pretty good.”

“It wasn’t ‘pretty good.’ It was awesome.”

“I wish I had a bone.”

“Never get into a legal argument with the Head of Ranch Security.”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas.”

“I take no pleasure in crushing you in these debates. You must develop your skills.”

“Maybe she’ll give us some turkey bones.”

“An educated dog should be able to…what did you say?”

He blinked his eyes. “When?”

“Just now, and will you hurry up? I have a ranch to run.”

He rolled his eyes around. “Let me think here. Oh yeah, I said that I’ll have to bone up on my debating skills.”

“You said that?”

“I think that’s what I said.”

I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Drover, I can’t tell you how proud it makes me to hear you say that.”

“How come you can’t tell me?”

“I am telling you, or I was until you butted in.”

“Oh, sorry. Tell me again.”

“Very well, and please pay attention.” I looked off into the distance. “You know, I don’t remember exactly what I was saying. Maybe you could give me a hint.”

“I think it was something about…turkey bones.”

“I was talking about turkey bones?”

“I think so.”

“Hmmm.” I began pacing, as I often do when I’m trying to pull difficult concepts out of the vapors. “Turkeys have many bones, Drover, and the amazing thing is that they all fit together. If the bones didn’t fit together and work in harmony, turkeys wouldn’t be able to walk.”

“Yeah, or play the drums.”

“Drums?”

“Yeah, every turkey has two drumsticks.”

“That’s an interesting point. I’ve heard them cluck and chatter, but I can’t say that I’ve ever heard them drumming.”

“Maybe they do it in the middle of the night, when we’re asleep.”

“I doubt that, son. I seldom sleep through the night. If I’m not out doing patrols, I’m at my desk, trying to catch up on paperwork. When you’re Head of Ranch Security, the work never ends.”

He yawned. “Yeah, and maybe we ought to go back to bed.”

I stopped pacing and studied the runt. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. If we dogs don’t protect ourselves against stress and over-work, who will?” I marched back to my gunny sack, scratched it up, did the Three Turns maneuver, and flopped down. “We’ll regroup at oh-eleven hundred hours. Good night.”

“Nighty night.”

I stretched out my weary body and surrendered myself to the powerful gravitational pull of my gunny sack bed. I lay there for two minutes, then sat up. “Drover, my bed smells so bad, I can’t sleep. How about you?”

“Murgle skiffer porkchop.”

“I agree.” I leaped out of bed. “I’ve had enough of this. By George, if the people on this ranch are too cheap to buy new bedding for the Security Division, maybe it’s time for us to take matters into our own hands.”

“Furry little turnip tops.”

“Unless we rise up in anger, the conditions around here will never improve. Stand by for action, son, we’re fixing to tear this place apart!”

Boy, you should have been there to see it. We had ourselves a riot on the ranch, and we’re talking about some serious ripping and tearing of the bedding. Once the terrible anger had begun to flow, it became a raging river and there was no force on earth that could have stopped it.

Birds quit singing. Rabbits ran for cover. Cattle and horses broke and ran in a wild stampede. Turkeys huddled in their roosting trees and turned their eyes away from the billows of black smoke rising from the ruins of the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex.

It went on for days…or maybe hours. Okay, it went on for ten minutes, until the terrible rage had finally burned itself out. Callous neglect had pushed us over the edge of the brink and we had by George ripped up our stinking beds into piles of rags.

I was panting for air and standing over the ruins of my gunny sack bed, when I heard a voice behind me.

It said, “What are you doing?”

Slowly, I turned my head and saw…Drover. He was staring at the rubble that had once been my bed. “We rioted against injustice and neglect and intolerable conditions, but I thought…” His gunny sack appeared to be undamaged. “You didn’t riot?”

“No, I guess I was asleep, but I wondered what all the noise was about.”

“It was about empowering dogs, Drover, and I can’t believe you slept through such an historic event. This ranch will never be the same again.”

“Yeah, ‘cause now you’re going to be sleeping on a pile of rags.”

“That was the whole point. It was a protest.”

“Yeah, but who was listening?”

That question hung in the air for a long, throbbing moment. When nobody answered, I walked back to my former bed and began sifting through the rubble, a hundred and twenty-seven shreds of burlap and a bunch of loose threads. I scraped them into a pile and sat down on them. They were lumpy and I could feel the cold ground beneath them, and they still stunk. Stank.

“Drover, it’s possible that I acted in haste. Or, to come at it from a slightly different angle, you shouldn’t have allowed me to do this.”

“I was asleep.”

“Exactly, and that’s my whole point. At the very moment when I needed you most, you abandoned me, but I’ll try to forget about it.”

“Thanks.”

“Once we swap beds.”

“Forget that.”

“It’s really the only decent course of action.”

“Nope.”

“I might even throw in a bone to sweeten the deal.”

“No thanks.”

“And one day’s Scrap Rights.”

“Nope.”

“All right, then we’ll have to share your bed.”

“I’d rather not.”

I was trembling with righteous anger. “You mean you’d actually allow the Head of Ranch Security to sleep on rags? Is that the kind of friend you’ve turned out to be?”

He thought about that and grinned. “Yep.”

For a moment, I was speechless. “Then keep your stinking bed and see if I care. I have plenty of friends, and they would be honored to share their beds with me.”

“That’s nice.”

“Traitor!” I whirled around and stormed out of the office.