Читать книгу The Return of the Charlie Monsters - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: A Turkey Alert

I marched over to Drover and gave him a stern glare. “All right, let’s go over the details of your report. You said something about seagulls, but if this ranch doesn’t have an ocean, they couldn’t be seagulls.”

“Yeah, they were turkeys.”

“Maybe they were turkeys.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Make up your mind and stick with the facts. Why are you rolling your eyes?”

“I don’t know. I need some exercise.”

“Then why don’t you walk or run, jog, jump, or chase a ball? You never DO anything, Drover, except sit on your duff and snap at flies.”

“I take naps.”

“Yes, and look what it’s done to you. Is this why your mother scrimped and saved and sacrificed? So you could become a stub-tailed little hypocardiac who rolls his eyes all the time?”

He grinned. “Good old Mom. I wonder what she’s doing today.”

“Never mind. Finish your story about the seagulls and quit rolling your eyes. I’m a very busy dog.” I began pacing, as I often do when I’m trying to extract information from a rewitless luctant.

A reluctant witness, let us say. I began pacing, while Drover knotted his face into an expression of deep concentration. “Well, let’s see. Once upon a time there was a seagull and his name was Sparky, but everyone called him Barky ‘cause he had a bad cough, and he lived near the ocean and one day he saw a submarine…”

“Wait. Stop.” I paced back over to him. “If you saw turkeys, why are you talking about seagulls?”

“I thought you wanted to hear a story about seagulls.”

“I did NOT want to hear a story about seagulls. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on around here, and do you know what I think?”

“No, what?”

I moved my mouth closer to his ear. “I think someone in this department is losing his marbles. Now tell me about the turkeys.”

He pointed his left paw toward a flat patch of grass south of the house. “There’s seven of ‘em.”

“Yes, I see the turkeys. Big deal.”

Have we discussed wild turkeys? Sally May enjoyed watching them. She put out feed for them and encouraged them to come up close to the house, where she could observe them through her kitchen window. In other words, those turkeys brought joy and pleasure into the life of our Beloved Ranch Wife.

What was so special about watching turkeys? Frankly, I don’t get it. My take on turkeys is that they’re unusually large birds that spend an unusually large amount of time looking ridiculous. If you ask me, they live hollow, boring little turkey lives, and watching them would be a waste of time.

But that’s just a dog’s perspectum. Sally May doesn’t feel that way. She thinks they’re beautiful. That strikes me as a little weird, but I would be the last dog in the world to say a critical word about the Lady of the House. By George, if she enjoys watching the turkeys, our Security Division will do everything in its power to chase them.

Let me rephrase that. The Security Division will do everything in its power to protect them. We protect them from coyotes and cannibals, from raccoons and monsters of the night, and we do it for Sally May.

Back to my conversation with the runt. “Drover, I’m finally seeing a pattern here. They must be turkeys, not seagulls.”

“Yeah, and the cat’s chasing them.”

“What!”

“Look.”

I did a quick sweep with field glasses and saw…holy smokes, seven turkeys, and they were being stalked by a cat—a scheming, sulking, spoiled little ranch cat named Pete.

Boy, you talk about righteous anger! I was almost overwhooped by righteous anger, and whirled back to my assistant. “Those birds are being harassed by the local cat. Why wasn’t I informed?”

“I tried to tell you.”

“Stand by. We’re fixing to launch all dogs.”

His eyes grew wide and a wicked little grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Gosh, you mean…”

“Exactly. We have a free pass to mug the cat. Lock and load, we’re going in.”

Suddenly the stillness of morning was shattered by the roar and scream of our P-37 rocket engines, and away we went—down the hill, through that grove of elm trees, past Emerald Pond, and skimming right over the top of the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex. Oh, you should have been there to see us!

“Oat Bran, this is Corn Flakes. We are approaching the target. Repeat: we are targeting the approach. Pick an open spot and spot an opening. Let’s set these buggies on the ground.”

Is this exciting or what? Your ordinary ranch mutts know nothing about this side of life—the danger, the excitement, the roar of the engines, the smell of rocket fumes in the air. Wow, what an adventure.

We landed the aircraft on a level stretch of grass just south of headquarters, leaped out of the pitcocks, and changed into our assault gear. At the same time, I was keeping an eye on Target One, the cat. Pete. Mister Never Sweat. Mister Kitty Moocher. And suddenly I picked up on an interesting detail.

I had launched this mission with the intention of doing some damage to the cat, but what I saw unfolding before my eyes made me have second thoughts. What I saw was a comedy, a display of silliness on a massive scale.

Here’s the deal. It appeared that Pete had ventured away from the yard with the idea of playing Leo the Lion, King of the Jungle, and there he was, creeping along on his belly, twitching the last inch of his tail, and stalking the turkeys. After stalking and creeping, he sprang at the birds. That was the funny part. The turkeys just clucked and hopped out of the way.

I mean, they didn’t run or fly. They were no more afraid of that cat than they were afraid of a bug, and I could see anger and frustration all over Kitty’s face and body. His ears lay flat on his head and the last three inches of his tail were slashing the air, and even at a distance I could hear that unhappy yowl of his, the one that sounds like a police siren.

It’s music to a dog’s ears. Show me an unhappy cat, and I’ll show you a happy dog.

Hee hee. Well, this wasn’t what I had expected to find on this mission. It was ten times better. I turned to Drover. “All right, men, stand down.”

“Sit down?”

“Stand down.”

“Stand up?”

“STAND DOWN!”

He wilted like…I don’t know what. Like a weed that had been sprayed with poison, I suppose, and beamed me a Look of Tragedy. “You don’t need to yell at me. I hate being yelled at in the morning.”

“Well, come back after lunch and we’ll try it again.”

“It makes me feel like such a failure.”

I heaved a sigh and searched for patience. “Drover, what is so difficult about following a simple order?”

“I don’t know how to stand down. You never explain anything. All you ever do is yell and screech.”

“I didn’t screech.”

“Did too. You screeched right in my left ear.”

“Which ear?”

“The right one, and now it’s ringing.”

“I don’t hear any ringing.”

“What?”

“I said, I don’t hear anything.”

He shook his head and stared at the ground. “I can’t hear anything. I think you blew out my eardrum.”

“I didn’t blow out your eardrum, but if it will make you feel better, I’m sorry if I screeched.”

His face bloomed into a smile. “No fooling? You’re not just saying that?”

“I thought you couldn’t hear.”

His eyes darted around. “It’s better now.”

“Oh brother. Are we finished with this?”

“Yeah, but I still don’t know how to ‘stand down.’”

“All right, let me explain, and please pay attention.” There was a long moment of silence. “On second thought, we’ve run out of time for questions. Let’s skip it and move along with our business.”

“Oh goodie! We’re going to chase the cat?”

“Not so fast. Our mission has changed. Watch this.”

Don’t leave. You’ll want to hear this next part. Hee hee!