Читать книгу The Case of the Burrowing Robot - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: The Sharing of Pain

That left me and Slim standing there alone. Slim’s face had settled into a wad of sour lines. I could see that this was turning into a Sharing the Pain situation, so I switched my tail over to Slow Taps, and even tried to squeeze up a few tears.

I mean, this was a sad time, right? Slim had succeeded in his mission of starting the stubborn machine, yet Loper had . . . to be honest, my attention had wandered and I wasn’t really sure what had happened, but of this I was sure: Slim’s fortunes had taken a dive and he looked unhappy, very unhappy.

Every unhappy master needs an unhappy dog. That’s the whole concept behind the Sharing of Pain. By George, if Slim’s mood had just fallen into the Toilet of Life, the least I could do . . .

By the way, were you aware that we have a song for The Sharing of Pain? We do, and I happen to know it. Here’s how it goes.

The Sharing of Pain

The sharing of pain is always a strain.

It causes a huge emotional drain.

You’ve got to look bleak.

It’s not for the weak.

This little racket pays off even better than gold,

If you’re bold . . . enough.

You start with a face that mirrors the boss.

Then you can add emotional sauce.

You moan when he moans,

You groan when he groans,

Then there’s a bonus that comes if you shed a few tears,

That can smear . . . your face.

The tiniest signs can add good effect:

A quivering lip says, “Life is a wreck.”

Slow Taps on the tail,

A whimpering wail

All tell him your heart is in danger of breaking in two.

And it’s true . . . almost.

The sharing of pain could drive you insane.

You suffer and grieve, and what do you gain?

Just think of the cost

Of pleasing the boss!

But if you’re lucky the payoff will come, and perhaps . . .

Double scraps . . . tonight!

The sharing of pain . . .

Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. Yes sir, great song, and there is no better form of job security than a good convincing Boo Hoo Program, and I went right to work on it. I dimmed the eyes, lowered the head to an angle of about 23 degrees, and set the ears in the Big Droop Position.

Yes, this was a very sad moment for the ranch. Our hearts were broken. Or nearly broken. If not broken, they were certainly cracked and damaged.

I turned my sad eyes on Slim and waited for my next cue.

He . . . huh? He grinned and patted his wallet. “Well, I have to plow the garden, but by grabs, I got five dollars of Loper’s money. Tight as he is, he’ll brood on that for two weeks, and I’ll never tell him the scientific miracle for starting tillers.” He gave me a wink and whispered, “You open the gas valve.”

So . . . we were happy again? We had passed through the Vale of Sorrow and Anger? Yes, it appeared that all was well and life was good again. In a flash, I turned to the control panel of my mind and began throwing switches. off went Big Droop, Slow Taps, Sharing of Pain, Toilet of Life, and Boo Hoo, and on went Joyous Leaps, Wide Grins, and Exuberant Swings on the tail section.

Oh happy day! We had won five bucks in a wager! Our ship had come in, and peace and tranquittery had returned to the ranch!

I was in the midst of this wild celebration, when I realized that Drover had wandered into the scenery and was staring at me. He twisted his head to the side and gave me a puzzled look.

“What’s all the excitement about?”

“It’s about joy, Drover, wild unfettered joy.”

“I’ll be derned. What’s unfeathered joy?”

“It’s the opposite of fettered joy. The un- means ‘not.’”

“I’ll be derned. So an onion’s not really a vegetable?”

“That’s correct. It’s common knowledge that onions cause crying, so an onion is the opposite of joy. Do you see how it all fits together?”

“So . . . an onion is really a feather?”

“Yes, exactly. The only question remaining is, why are you just standing there?” He sat down. “Why are you just sitting there?” He stood up. “Drover, the point I’m trying to make is that Slim and I are in the midst of a wild celebration.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Then why aren’t you celebrating? The whole ranch is filled with joy, yet you’re just standing there.”

“Well . . . what are you celebrating?”

“We’re celebrating . . . it doesn’t matter, Drover. This is Slim’s deal. He won five bucks and gets to plow the garden. It’s not necessary that we understand every detail. What matters is that we’re happy.”

Drover seemed confused. “He’s going to use five deer to plow the garden?”

I interrupted my Leaps of Joy and stomped over to the runt. “He won five dollars in a wager and is going to plow the garden with the tiller. There are no deer.”

“I saw two bucks and a doe this morning, down by the creek. You said there weren’t any deer.”

“I said . . . Drover, forget the deer, forget the dollars. The point here is that we’re in the midst of an important celebration. Slim is happy, and it’s our job as dogs to share in that happiness. Do you suppose you could trouble yourself to show some happiness?”

“Well . . . I guess I could try. What should I do?”

“Jump up and down. Smile. Wag your tail in a vigorous manner.”

“I don’t have a tail.”

“That’s true. Okay, wiggle your stub in a vigorous manner. Give it a shot.”

“Okay, here I go.” He began jumping up and down, grinning, and wiggling his stub tail. Oh, and he started yipping: “Happy, happy, happy! How’m I doing?”

I studied him with a critical eye. “Not bad. Pretty good. I’m impressed, Drover. See what you can do when you put your mind to it?”

“Yeah, I’m really happy now!”

Well, now that I’d gotten Drover going in the right direction, I plunged myself back into Joyous Leaps and . . .

Huh?

Slim wasn’t smiling any more. His face had returned to its previous expression of . . . something. Sourness, darkness, depression. Sadness, heartbreak, woe. He turned toward the tiller and said, “But now I have to run this bucking machine and plow the stinking garden—just what every cowboy loves to do on a pretty spring day. Baloney!”

He cranked up the motor, seized the handles, and started driving the tiller toward the . . .

HUH?

“Out of the road, dogs, or you’ll be sausage! Once I get started, I ain’t slowing down for man nor beets!”

Sure, fine. But he might have at least . . . I shut down all the Joy circuits and yelled, “Drover, we’re out of the Joy Program now!”

“Happy, happy, happy!”

“Drover, the happy is over!”

He didn’t hear me. He kept hopping up and down, grinning like a lunatic, and squeaking, “Happy, happy, happy!”

I had no choice but to give him Growls and Fangs. “Quit hopping around! You look like an idiot.”

He stopped and stared at me. “I was just being happy.”

“I understand that you were being happy, but the happy times are over. We’ve just gotten fresh orders. We’re back to the Sharing of Pain.”

“Pain? I just started being happy.”

“Life has many ups and downs, Drover, and we dogs don’t write the script. Now, get into the Boo Hoo Program and let’s escort Slim down to the garden. He’s going to need lots of help on this deal.”

In a matter of seconds, we reconfigured all switches and circuits and technobobbery, and transformed ourselves into Figures of Gloom. Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. I mean, how many dogs in this world can make those huge adjustments in such a short time? Not many. But we did.

Like black Cadillacs in a funeral procession, we escorted poor Slim down to the cemetery of his garden plot. It was a sad procession. Our eyes were vacant. Our heads hung low. Our ears lay flat and lifeless on our heads. Our tails were in the off position, and mine even dragged the ground. (Drover’s didn’t, for obvious reasons.)

When we reached the garden area, we dogs took up a Mourning Position beneath a big elm tree, and watched.

Slim maneuvered the tiller through the gate and started plowing. Have you ever seen someone operating a garden tiller? If the ground happens to be hard, the tiller bucks and kicks, whilst the operator hangs on to the handlebars and tries to keep the thing in an upright position.

It was hard work. I could see that it was wearing poor Slim down. I mean, he was dripping sweat and muttering hateful things under his breath. Minutes passed. An hour. More minutes passed. The temperature began to rise.

A lot of your ordinary dogs would have quit, abandoned their master, shut off Boo Hoo, and gone somewhere to take a nap. Not us, fellers. We were the elite snorks of the . . . the elite troops of the Slurry Divizzzzzzzzz . . . the elite troops of the Security Division, shall we say, and sleeping wasn’t an option for uzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

. . . wasn’t an option for us. We had a job to do, an important job, and that job required that we stay awhop and alurk . . . awake and alert, that is. Yes, the temptation to drift off into . . . snerk, muff, mork, honky wigglewort . . .

. . . the temptation to drift off into sleep was very powdery, but so was our sniss of loyalburble to our . . . zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.