Читать книгу The Case of the Dinosaur Birds - John R. Erickson - Страница 6

Chapter One: We Assemble for a Scrap Event

It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. They were creatures like we’d never seen before. I had no idea who they were, where they’d come from, or what they were doing on my ranch; but I knew right away that they didn’t belong to this world.

I also had reason to believe . . . Wait, hold everything, stop, halt. I’m not sure I should go public with this next piece of information. I mean, a guy should never put too much scary stuff at the first part of the story.

Why? The little children. You know where I stand on that issue. I don’t mind giving the kids some excitement or even a little scare now and then, but I’ve got problems jumping into deep, scary stuff right away.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You think you can handle the scary stuff because you’ve survived stories about the Silver Monster Bird, the Phantom in the Mirror, the Halloween Ghost, the Vampire Cat, and all the other monsters and goblins we’ve encountered on this ranch. Well, maybe you survived those deals, but don’t let it cloud your judgment.

The truth is, you don’t know what’s coming in this story but I do, and I’m not ready to reveal any information about Prehistoric Dinosaur Birds, so don’t even ask. In the first place, you wouldn’t believe me; and in the second place, if you believed me, you’d be too scared to read the rest of the story.

So there’s Ground Rule Number One: no mention of . . . Wait a second. Did I already . . . Okay, here’s Ground Rule Number Two: In the event that I already flubbed up and broke Ground Rule Number One, you will disregard anything I might have said. You heard nothing about any kind of Unmentionable Something or Other.

That should take care of it, and now we’re ready to mush on with the story.

It all began one morning. No, wait. It all began one evening; yes, I’m sure it was evening . . . or was it in the middle of the day? You know, I can’t remember when it began and I don’t care, because it began sometime and that’s all we need to know. If it hadn’t begun, we wouldn’t be talking about it.

Now . . . what were we talking about? Hmmm. I know it was important, and it was right on the tip of my tock . . . the tip of my tongue, let us say. That’s usually the best place to leave things, on the tick of your tock, because you can always come back later and find it. I mean, how can you lose something on the tang of your tongue?

It’s impossible. On the other hand . . . you know, this is really embarrassing. All at once I’ve just . . . uh . . . drawn a blank. I have no idea what we were talking about, yet I have this feeling that it was very, very important.

I know what’s causing this. Years of working around Drover has caused deposits of plaque to form around my brain cells. You know what plaque does to your teeth, right? Bad stuff. It causes tooth decay and root rot, so you can imagine what it does to brain cells. It causes us to babble and wander, so don’t forget to brush those teeth twice a day and use dental floss.

And don’t swallow the floss. Floss is string, and nobody needs dental string in his gizzard. Ask a guy who knows. I once swallowed a piece of string that had a fishhook tied to it and . . .

How did we get on the subject of string and fishhooks? This is crazy. You know, before I began working with Drover, I had no trouble carrying on a normal conversation or following a train of thought, but now . . .

Wait! I just remembered. Forget about fishhooks. It was morning on the ranch, and you know what big event happens around here in the morning. Here’s a hint. It begins with “Scrap” and ends with “Time.”

Scrap Time. Did you get the right answer? Good. Yes, in this outfit a normal day begins around eight o’clock when our Beloved Ranch Wife, Sally May, comes out the back door with a plate of luscious breakfast scraps.

Even on a bad day, Scrap Time brings meaning and focus into a dog’s life. It gives us a break from the crushing routine of running the ranch’s Security Division twenty-four hours a day, and we’re talking about crinimal investigations, bark­ing at the mailman, Chicken House Patrol, Monster Watch, and all the other things we do around here.

Heavy responsibility, and it’s very important that we have a few precious moments every morning to, you know, keep ourselves pumped and excited about Life, work, and all the so-forth.

At an ordinary Scrap Event, we can expect a few morsels of scrambled eggs and several pieces of burned toast. But on a good day, we’ll get egg scraps, burned toast, plus five or six fatty, juicy ends of bacon.

You know where I stand on the Issue of Bacon. I love the stuff, absolutely love it, and that’s why Drover and I always try to arrive early for Scrap Events. We want to be first in line so that we can protect our bacon scraps from the local cat.

Have we discussed cats? Maybe not. I don’t like ’em, and I especially don’t like the one we’re stuck with on this ranch. Pete. He’s a sneak and a slacker, and he spends all his waking hours lusting for fatty, juicy ends of bacon.

So do I, but it’s different when a dog does it. Cats are pure gluttons, see, whereas your higher rank of dogs are more refined. We play by the Rules of Good Behavior. We wait our turn in line. Cats don’t even know that rules exist, and given the slightest opportunity, they will cheat every time.

Show me a cat and I’ll show you a cheater.

That’s why it’s so important that we dogs arrive early at our Scrap Events. It gives us an opportunity to set the proper tone: rules and manners; no scuffling, hissing, pushing, shoving, or bickering over the scraps.

Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. I mean, food is important, but we can’t allow it to rule our lives. If a guy wins all the scraps but loses his poise in the process . . . well, what’s the point? He’s no better than your average cat.

And speaking of cats, when Drover and I arrived at the yard gate—five minutes early, mind you—we found that the cat was already there, sitting with his tail wrapped around his backside, beaming a gluttonous look toward the house, and purring like a little . . . something. Like a greedy little motorboat.

When he heard us coming, he turned and flashed his usual smirk. “My, my, it’s Hankie the Wonder Dog . . . and you’re late.”

I thundered up to him. “We’re not late, Kitty. We came five minutes early so that we could be first in line.”

“Well, darn the luck. I guess it didn’t work.”

I stuck my nose in his face. “I guess it did work, you little pestilence.”

“No, no, Hankie. As you can see, I’m first in line.” He batted his eyes and snickered. “And you’re not.”

“Oh yeah? Well, here’s some bad news. The line you started was the Cheater’s Line. We’re starting a new line, the Line of Good Behavior. Go to the back of the line.”

“But Hankie, I won fair and square by coming earlier than you. Tee hee.”

“Right, and that’s cheating.”

“That’s the way the game is played, Hankie.”

“That’s the way the cheater’s game is played. This is a new game, and we’re going to play by the rules.”

He licked his paw with a long stroke of his tongue. “Oh, really? What rules are we talking about?”

“The Rules of Justice, Pete, and Rule Number One is that cats always go last. Go to the rear. Move!”

His gaze drifted around. “You know, Hankie, this won’t work. It never works because . . .” He fluttered his eyelids. “. . . Sally May brings the scraps, and I’m her special pet. You know what will happen if you make a scene.”

I heard a growl rumbling in the darkness of my throat. “Pete, you’re despicable.”

“I know, and sometimes it really bothers me. But not today. Tee hee.”

For a moment of heartbeats, my finger twitched on the Launch Button. It would have been so easy to dive right into the middle of the little snot and give him the thrashing he so richly deserved. But at the last second, I canceled the launch and took a step backward. I mean, one of us had to show some maturity, right?

“Okay, Pete, just this once I’m going to let it slide.”

“I thought you’d see it that way.”

“And I hope you get indigestion.”

At that very moment, the back door opened and out stepped . . . holy smokes, I couldn’t believe my good fortune . . . out stepped my very best pal in the whole world.

Little Alfred!

Do you see the meaning of this? Heh heh. I did, and so did Kitty-Kitty.