Читать книгу The Case of the Raging Rottweiler - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: Bruiser, the Raging Rottweiler

Joe let down the tailgate of the pickup, just as Drover and I arrived to begin our investigation of this new dog.

Have we discussed the ranch’s position on visiting dogs? Maybe not. We always check ’em out pretty carefully, and for very good reason. Some of those town dogs will try to chase cattle, and that’s a major No-No. A huge No-No. In ranch country, dogs who chase cattle are very unpopular, and they don’t last long.

Yes, we would have to speak with this mutt and get a few things . . .

HUH?

I saw him. There he was.

That wasn’t a dog. It was a BEAR, a huge, enormous grizzly bear!

I, uh, did a sudden about-face and found my steps leading to the underside of Joe’s, uh, pickup, so to speak. There, to my surprise, I found Drover cowering in the dust.

“What are you doing under here? You’re supposed to be interrogating that dog.”

“Not me. I saw him, and he looks like a gorilla. I never interrogate gorillas.”

“Oh, rubbish. He’s just a dog. He puts on his pants the same way we do.”

“His pants would make a tent for me. You go. I’ll wait here.”

Well, I couldn’t allow Drover to know . . . to think, let us say, that I was . . . well . . . nervous or uneasy about this new dog on the ranch. I mean, that would have ruined him—Drover, that is. Part of my job on this outfit is setting a good example for all the employees of the Security Division. For Drover, actually. Someone from the Security Divi­sion had to check it out, and it appeared that it would be me.

I gave the runt a withering glare. “All right, I’ll go, but I must warn you, Drover. This will have to go into my report.”

“Fine with me.”

“What?”

“I said . . . oh darn. Drat.”

“I’m sorry, but the regulations are very clear on this. You will get three Chicken Marks.”

With that, I whirled away from Drover and marched . . . okay, maybe I didn’t march out from under the pickup. I scooted and crawled, but the important thing was that I put in an appearance. I was there to show the flag for the Security Divi­sion, and to let this mutt know . . .

He saw me and started growling.

. . . to let this fella know how happy we were to, uh, have visitors on the ranch. We don’t get many visitors, don’t you know, and it was always nice . . .

I worked up a friendly smile and waved a paw in greeting. “Hi there.”

He glared and growled. Gad, what an ugly dog! What had they called him? A “rottenwiler”? He looked rotten, all right, rotten and enormous. I mean, the guy must have weighed a hundred pounds.

A rottweiler, that’s what they called him.

Anyways, we were sure proud to have him visiting the ranch. I sat very still and listened.

Joe sat on the tailgate and called the dog to him. “Come here, Bruiser. Be still. Those dogs won’t hurt you.”

Slim took a toothpick out of his hatband and ran it through his teeth. “That’s a mighty big dog. I’d say there ain’t much chance that Hank and Drover would hurt him. I’ve heard stories about them rottweilers. Some of ’em have a bad attitude.”

Joe nodded. “He is a big dog, and he ought to be able to whip his weight in wildcats. But you know, he’s as silly as a goose. Most of the time he goes around acting like King Kong, but he’s scared to death of my wife’s cat.”

“Aw heck. Scared of a cat?”

“Yes sir. And the other day, he saw himself in a mirror and spent three hours hiding in the closet. To tell you the truth, I think he’s a little bit . . .” Joe’s finger drew circles in the air beside his head. “I’ll be glad when my brother gets back home.”

Just then, Bruiser’s head shot up. He’d seen our doe and fawn down by the creek. A growl sprang from his throat. He started barking and made a lunge. Joe grabbed one of his legs and tried to hang on, but Bruiser tore away from him, dived out of the pickup, and headed straight for the deer.

“Bruiser, come back here! Bruiser!”

Well, I was just sitting there, observing and minding my own business. Next thing I knew, Slim was standing over me. “Hank, go get ’im. Stop that dog before he kills the fawn.”

I stared into his face. What? Stop the dog? Was he crazy? That dog, for his information, gave every appearance of being a hundred-and-fifty-pound wrecking machine, and if Slim thought . . .

He grabbed my tail and hoisted me up. “I hate to ask you to do this, but I’m asking. Get him stopped and I’ll be right behind you. Now go!”

I swallowed a lump in my throat and looked toward the creek. Well, if Bruiser was afraid of cats, maybe . . .

When the mother deer saw that big lunk of a dog heading her way, she flashed her white tail and sprinted off to the east. That was the good part. The bad part was that the fawn tried to follow but tripped over some weeds. He was pretty young, see, and had spindly legs, and he fell down.

Bruiser was headed straight for him. Oh, did I mention that Bruiser ran like a fat duck? No kidding, he did. He couldn’t run worth a dern.

He plowed through the shallow water, leaped up on the east bank of the creek, and lunged right at the fawn and pinned it with his massive paws.

Gulp. Well, it was clear what I had to do. I didn’t want to, but when you’re Head of Ranch Security, you answer the calls and hope for the . . . gulp . . . best.

I hit Sirens and Lights and went straight into a Code Three. The second one of the day, in case you’re counting. Using my incredible speed, I was able to close the distance between myself and the rottweiler. I roared up to the crime scene and went right to work.

“Halt in the name of the law! Come out with your hands up. You’re under arrest!”

Standing over the fawn, Bruiser heard my com­mand and turned his ugly eyes on me. “What did you say?”

I tried to hide the quivering of my voice. “I said, why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

He lumbered over to me. That wasn’t such great news, but it allowed the fawn to jump up and run away. Bruiser glared at me. “My own size? How about you?”

“Me? Well, I . . . you’re quite a bit bigger than me, actually, and I’m sure you’ll agree . . .”

“Shut up, moron. You messed up my fun, and now I’m fixing to . . .”

“Bruiser! Bruiser! Down, boy.”

Whew! The men arrived just in time. Joe clipped a chain around Bruiser’s neck and pulled him off before he was able to get me skinned and gutted.

Joe was panting for breath. “Sorry about that, Slim. I never thought about him chasing deer. Boy, he’s stout, ain’t he?”

“Uh-huh, and I’m thinking he just had one of his King Kong moments.” Slim came over to me, knelt down, and took my head in his hands. “How you doing, pardner?”

Still in one piece—barely.

“Nice work, pooch. You probably saved my fawn, so I guess that makes you a hero—as incredible as that may seem.”

No kidding? Me, a hero? Gee, from where I was watching, it hadn’t seemed all that great. I mean, let’s face it: the dog had been one step away from trashing me. But if Slim insisted that I was a hero . . . well, maybe I was.

I held my head at a proud angle and listened to the cheers of the crowd. A marching band was playing—drums and fifes and blaring trumpets. Lady dogs from all over Texas pushed their way to the front and tossed flowers in my direction.

And there, in front of the whole multitude, Sally May fought her way through the crowd, and when her gaze fell upon my battered body, a cry of anguish leapt from her anguished throat, and in an anguished voice, she cried, “Oh, Hank, my beloved Hank, what hath they done to you?” And then she ungulfed me in the embrace of her loving arms and—you won’t believe this part—she kissed me on the cheek.

Pretty swell, huh?

With the cheers of the crowd still ringing in my ears, I gave myself a good shake and saw . . . Drover.

“Oh my gosh, Hank, what happened?”

“I gave the bully a sound thrashing. What did you expect?”

His eyes grew as wide as plates. “No fooling? Gosh, I never thought . . .”

“I only wish the men had given me another minute. One more minute and I would have whipped the stuffings out of the big lug.”

The men had started back toward the pickups, leading the beaten, humiliated rottenweiler. Drover and I fell in behind them.

“You mean, you really whipped him? You’re not just making it up?”

“How many times should I say it, Drover? Yes, yes, and yes. I’m shocked that you show so little confidence in my combat techniques.”

“Yeah, but he’s so big . . .”

I gave a careless chuckle. “Son, never forget that it isn’t the size of the dog in the fight that matters. It’s the size of the fog in the dog. He’s big, Drover, but also slow and dumb, very dumb. Oh, and we happen to know that he’s scared of cats.”

The pitiful, beaten, humiliated Bruiser heard this. His head shot up and he glared back at me. “What did you just say?”

Drover let out a gasp. “Hank, shhh, he’s listening.”

“Relax, son, I’ll handle this.” I raised my voice so that the little wimp of a rottweiler could hear. “I said you’re slow and dumb. I said you’re nothing but a scaredy cat who’s scared of cats. I said you walk like a fat duck. What do you think of that?”

He lunged against the chain and exposed a mouthful of . . . my goodness, for a spineless little weenie, he had some huge teeth. “Why, I oughta break your neck!”

I gave him a pleasant smile. “Yes, but you had your chance and you didn’t get it done. Do you know why? Because . . .”

Drover was about to have a stroke. “Hank, shhhhh!”

“Because you fight like a fat duck. Oh, you’re pretty tough when it comes to beating up baby deer, but put you in the ring with the Head of Ranch Security and you stink.”

He lunged at me again, and this time I could feel his hot breath on my face. I ignored him and went right on. “In fact, you stink twice—once for fighting like a fat duck and once for your breath, which smells like garbage.”

Drover was moaning and rolling his eyes. “Hank, don’t do this!”

Bruiser’s eyes were flaming now. “Listen, stupid, if I ever get off this chain, I’m gonna finish what I started.”

“Oh yeah? Well, bring a sack lunch, fatso, ’cause it’s liable to take you a couple of days. See you around, and don’t ever set foot on my ranch again.”

Joe and Mister Big Talker got into the cab of the pickup and drove off. As they pulled away from the house, Bruiser was glaring at me with eyes filled with meanness and hatred.

I turned to Drover. “Well, one riot, one cowdog. Too bad you were hiding under the pickup. You missed all the fun.”

He was shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “I don’t think you should have said all those things.”

“Why? Hey, it served him right, and besides, we’ll never see him again.”

Those turned out to be famous last words.