Читать книгу The Case of Twisted Kitty - John R. Erickson - Страница 6

Chapter One: Drover’s Violent Fantasies

It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The mystery began in the depths of Panhandle winter, as I recall. Yes, January to be exact, the darkest, coldest month of the year. It was in the cold, dark month of January that I delivered Pete the Barncat his most crushing defeat . . . ever.

Remember Pete? He’s your typical cat: arrogant, selfish, and not so smart. Keeping him humble and off balance is one of my most important jobs on this outfit, and I’m proud to report . . . well, you’ll see.

I’ll say only that the Cause of Justice was served. Pete got exactly what I deserved.

Where were we? Oh yes, January. In January, the ordinary routine of the Security Division is interrupted by snow, howling winds, and frigid tem­peratures, as we dogs struggle just to get through the day. It isn’t a month when we complete many investigations or invent new techniques for protecting our ranch. However . . .

You’ll be amazed by this. Would you believe that during this particular January, I succeeded in inventing a revolutionary new technique for escorting vehicles off the ranch? It’s true, and here’s the very first news bulletin on how that happened.

Okay, let’s back up a little bit and set the stage. A cold morning in January. Four inches of snow on the ground. Roads slippery and hazardous. All the trees and sagebrush were covered with a layer of frost.

Some dogs might have said it was a pretty winter scene. Not me. What’s pretty when your gunnysack bed is frozen stiff? What’s pretty when you have to tramp around in the snow, just to keep your gizzard from freezing solid?

That’s what we were doing, Drover and I, the Elite Troops of the Security Division. We were tramping through ranch headquarters, trying to keep from being frozen into solid blocks of doggie protoplasm, following frozen dog trails that had been previously pressed into the snow by our feet.

As you might expect, Drover was moaning and whining every step of the way. “Oh Hank, I’m so cold! I’m not sure I can walk another step. My paws are freezing.”

“Then sit down in the snow and see how you like that.”

“No, ’cause then my paws would feel better but my tail would be cold.”

“I guess you’ll have to choose: cold paws or cold tail.”

“I’d rather choose between warm paws and warm tail.”

“Fine, Drover. It’s your life. Choose anything you want, but quit moaning and complaining.”

“I think I’ll choose . . . warm paws.”

“Great.”

We continued our march through headquarters. My paws were freezing, but did I moan and groan and make a spectacle of myself? No sir. When a guy has risen through the ranks and has taken over the job of Head of Ranch Security, he leaves the pampered life behind and learns to endure every sort of pain and discomfort. It goes with the job. We take the very worst that the weather can throw at us and . . .

Boy, my feet were frigid! I quickened my pace and tried to ignore the misery. It was then that I suddenly realized . . . Drover had stopped moaning and whining. I tossed a glance over my shoulder and was shocked to see that he was wearing a silly grin.

I halted the column. “Halt! Drover, we are conducting a march over frozen snow and brutal terrain, yet I notice that you’re wearing a silly grin on your face. Would you care to explain yourself?”

His eyes came into focus. “Oh, hi. Were you talking to me?”

“Of course I was talking to you. To who or whom else would I be speaking?”

“Well . . .”

“Hurry up, I’m freezing. Answer the question.”

“Well . . . I don’t remember the question.”

I searched for patience. “All right, one more time, and please pay attention.”

“I’m all ears.”

I narrowed my eyes and studied the little mutt. “What? You ‘maul ears’? Is that what you just said?”

“No, I said, I’m all ears.”

“Right. That’s what I said you said.”

“No, you said I maul ears, but I said I’m all ears.”

“Exactly. And is it true?”

“Well . . . I guess so . . . sure. I’m all ears.”

“Ah! There it is again.” This was something new and puzzling. I began pacing, as I often do when my mind has been activated to a higher level of performance. “Tell this court exactly what you mean when you say, ‘I maul ears.’ What types of ears are we talking about?”

“Well, let’s see.” He rolled his eyes around. “Just plain old ears. Dog ears.”

“Aha! Dog ears. I’m beginning to see a pattern here.”

“Yeah, ’cause ears hear. And we’re dogs.”

“Exactly. The clues are beginning to pile up.” I stopped pacing and whirled around to face him. “Drover, has it occurred to you that mauling suggests brawling?”

“No, but they rhyme.”

“They rhyme, but never mind.”

“That rhymes too. Almost.”

“Please stop talking about rhymes and listen carefully to my analysis of your problem.”

“Gosh, I didn’t know I had a problem.”

“Of course you have problem, a very serious one.” I marched over to him and looked deeply into his eyes. “Don’t you get it? Mauling and brawling suggest an alarming shift toward aggressive behavior. Could it be that a little rebellious streak has suddenly burst out into the open?”

“Well . . .”

“Don’t argue with me. Just look at the clues and follow the evidence. Yesterday, you were a happy little mutt. Today, you’re talking about getting into fights and tearing the ears off your fellow dogs. What’s happened, Drover? What has brought on this plunge into fantasies of violence?”

He stared at me for a moment, then grinned. “You know, I think you misunderstood what I said.”

“Oh, so that’s it. Now you’re blaming me, huh? You’re in the Nile, Drover, and you’re in water over your head. For once in your life, face the truth.”

“I said I was ALL EARS. That’s all I said, honest.”

“Huh? You said . . .” I marched a few steps away and tried to absorb this latest piece of news. “Let me get this straight. You said you were all ears?”

“Yep, that’s what I said. I was ready to hear your question.”

“You said nothing about brawling or fighting or tearing the ears off your fellow dogs?”

“Nope. You know me. I’m scared of fights.”

“So . . . I might have . . . well, misunderstood your words?”

“I guess so.”

I took a big gulp of air and let it hiss slowly out of my lungs. “So . . . this whole conversation has been more or less . . . pointless?”

“Looks that way to me.”

I eased over to him and laid a paw on his shoulder. “Drover, I think it would be wise for us to keep this conversation . . . well, a secret between the two of us. Don’t you agree?”

“Well . . .”

“Good. I mean, we must do everything possible to protect the good name of the Security Division. If word ever leaked out that we were carrying on a loony conversation, it would do our cause no good. I’m sure you agree.”

“Well . . .”

“Thanks, soldier. There just might be a little promotion in this.”

“Oh goodie! A promotion! When?”

“Later. Now let’s get out of here.”

And with that, we re-formed our column and resumed our march through ranch headquarters, holding our heads and tails at proud angles. Once again, we had overcome the forces of . . .

I came to a sudden stop and turned to Drover. “Wait a second. You said you were ‘all ears’ and waiting to hear my question. What was the question?”

“Well . . . I don’t remember, ’cause you didn’t ask it.”

“Hmmm. Good point.” I furrowed my brow and probed the depths of my memory. Suddenly it came to me. “Ah, yes. We were marching along on frozen feet. I glanced back and saw that you were wearing a silly grin. The question is, Drover, when it’s so cold and miserable out here, why were you grinning?”

The silly grin returned. “Oh yeah. See, you said I had to choose between having cold feet and a cold tail, but I gave myself a third choice.”

“This isn’t making sense. Hurry up.”

“I gave myself the choice of having warm feet, and that’s the one I chose. Now I feel warm and happy. Are you proud of me?”

I gazed into the abyss of his eyes and found myself wondering . . . never mind. There’s no future in wondering about Drover. He’s . . . odd. Oh well. If he wanted to believe he had warm feet, if that brought a ray of happiness into his boring little life, that was fine with me.

We resumed our march through ranch headquarters. My feet had turned into blocks of ice but I didn’t dare mention it or complain. Drover had ruined that option with his . . . never mind.

That’s a weird little mutt.

We haven’t come to the good part yet, my new technique for escorting vehicles out of ranch head­quarters, but it’s coming right up. Just be patient.