Читать книгу The Case of the Car-Barkaholic Bog - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: Syruptishus Loaderation

In the Security Business, we have special techniques for special jobs. Your ordinary dogs know nothing of these special techniques because it takes a special kind of dog to apply special techniques. Ordinary dogs use ordinary techniques.

And to no one’s surprise, they usually fail.

We have special techniques for catching mice in the cake house. We have special techniques for dealing with chickens. We have special techniques for humbling cats, and special techniques for dodging the rocks that ranch wives, upon hearing their cats being humbled, tend to throw at dogs.

And we have special techniques for hitching rides into town. The technical term for this procedure is “Syruptishus Loaderation.” Quite a term, huh? I get a kick out of using heavyweight terms every now and then. Course, I don’t expect everyone to remember them, and I won’t take the time to . . .

Oh, what the heck? We might as well take a short break and have ourselves a little lesson in words, their origins, and their many shades of meaning.

After all, language is pretty important. Without language, we’d all be at a loss for words.

Okay. “Syrup-tish-us Load-er-a-tion.” It means, “A secret and rather technical procedure for climbing aboard a pickup that is heading for town, when the driver of the alleged pickup would be less than thrilled if he knew that he was hauling dogs.”

You’ll notice that the root of the first word is “syrup.” Perhaps you’ve observed the way that syrup moves. It doesn’t run or fall or hop or splash. It oozes along its course, which is a sneaky and stealthy way of moving.

Things that ooze, such as snakes and snails, are usually up to no good, and by simple logic it follows that most of your syrups are up to no good. Hence, from the root “syrup,” we build a new and exciting word that means “sneaky and stealthy.”

The root of the second word is “load.” If you’ve ever loaded roots, you know that they can be very heavy, especially if they’re packed in gunnysacks and if they have to be lifted from ground level up to the bed of a pickup.

Hence, from the second load we find that roots are a major cause of back injury and . . .

I seem to have lost my train of thought. Some­thing about roots. Or trees. Tree roots?

Oh well, you get the picture. “Syruptishus Load­­eration.” You might want to jot that one down.

Okay. Now we’ll give our new term a practical application from Real Life. Loper went on about his business, and Slim headed for the pickup, which was parked directly in front of our bedroom under the gas tanks.

I gave Drover a secret sign which meant “Switch to Stealthy Crouch Mode and follow Slim.” Because of the highly secret nature of the secret sign, I’m not at liberty to reveal it at this time.

Nothing personal. It’s just that there are parts of this job that are too sensitive to be revealed to the general public. If our codes were ever broken . . . well, I’m not at liberty even to suggest what might happen if our codes fell into the wrong hands.

We switched over to Stealthy Crouch Mode, fell into formation behind Slim, and began secretly and stalkingly stealthing him. At the same time, my Data Control began loading the Syruptishus Loaderation program, and I began going through my checklist of procedures and routines.

I know it sounds complicated. It sounds complicated because it IS complicated. And now you understand that being a ranch dog is no ball of wax.

Slim walked up to the pickup and stopped. Taking our cues from the visual readout of his movement, we stopped too. Or, to be more precise, I stopped and Drover ran into me.

“Ooops, ’scuse me.”

“Shhh, quiet! Pay attention to your business.”

“Sorry.”

“Shhhhh!”

“Sorry.”

“SHHHHHHHHH!”

“’Scuse me.”

“Will you shut your little trap!”

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“SHUT IT!”

“Okay.” At last, silence. But then, “I’m sorry.”

I could have . . . but wringing his stupid neck at that particular moment would have only created more of a stir, and that was precisely what we didn’t need.

“We’re in Stealthy Crouch Mode, you little dunce, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

“Okay.”

“That’s better.”

I turned my attention back to Slim. Hmmm. He appeared to be removing the lid from the pickup’s gas tank and placing the nozzle of the gas tank hose into the gas tank. In other words, he appeared to be . . . yes. Filling the pickup with . . . well, gas.

Or, to be more precise, gasoline. There are many types of gas floating around in our atmosphere, but only one type of gasoline: regular and unleaded. That’s two, actually.

And gasoline doesn’t float. It moves from one tank to another through a hose and a nozzle and so forth.

I hadn’t expected this turn of events. It takes your average cowboy several minutes to fill the gas tank of his pickup, and I don’t need to tell you how difficult it is for a dog to maintain Stealthy Crouch Mode over a period of several minutes.

It’s tough. It wears you out. Your ordinary dogs will break discipline at this point. Your better dogs will maintain S.C.M., whatever the cost.

Slim was tapping his toe and singing a song, as he waited for the tank to fill.

Doe dee doe doe doe,

Dee dee deedle dum

Doe dee doe doe

Diddle diddle diddle dum.

Ho fiddly diddly dum

Hey diddle riddly rum

Diddly riddly fiddly fum

Doe dee dee, dee diddly dum.

Pretty boring song, if you ask me. I could have come up with a better one—blindfolded and with one paw tied behind my back.

Well, Mr. Songbird got so involved in singing his masterpiece that he forgot that he was filling the pickup with gas. And you can guess what happened. The tank filled up and gasoline went flying in all directions.

That woke him up. “DAD-gum gas tank! Now look what you’ve done. Stupid pickup.”

He hung the nozzle back on its special patented baling wire hook and scowled at his hands. For a moment he stood there muttering to himself. It appeared that he considered wiping them on his jeans but changed his mind.

It was then that his gaze fell upon me.

“Hank, come here, boy. Good dog. Come on, boy.”

HUH?

I, uh, tried to blend in with my surroundings, so to speak, in hopes that he might . . .

“Hank, come here!” The softer tone of his first call had disappeared, replaced by a certain sharp quality. “Come here!”

“Drover,” I whispered, “you’re being called for special duty. Slim needs you.”

There was no answer. I turned around and . . . I don’t know how that little dope always manages to . . .

“HANK, GET OVER HERE!”

I swallowed and pushed myself up to the Full Erect Position.

“Come on, hurry up!”

I began the slow walk toward the pickup. There are some parts of this job that I have never learned to enjoy.

“Come on, atta boy.”

I hate the smell of gasoline, always have.

“Come on, Pooch, I’ve got places to go.”

There are times when a dog’s loyalty to the ranch is put under a terrible strain.

“There we go. Come here. Good dog.”

I sat down at his feet, wagged my tail, and gave him my most wounded look. Perhaps if I . . .

He wiped his hands on my back. That much came as no surprise. But then he SCRUBBED HIS FINGERNAILS ON MY EARS!

That really hurt my pride. That was a low blow. I mean, a guy spends hours and hours cleaning himself up and trying to keep up the kind of neat personal appearance that you’d expect in a Head of Ranch . . .

“Good dog, Hankie.”

Two pats on the head and good-bye, Charlie.

In many ways, this is a lousy job, and I made up my mind then and there that if I ever got my paws on Drover . . .

He climbed into the pickup and started the motor. Slim did, not Drover. Drover had jumped into a hole and pulled in behind him, the dunce, the back-stabbing little . . .

The pickup pulled away from the gas tanks. I had not a moment to spare, for the moment of truth had arrived.

In a flash, I switched from Wounded Dog Mode over to Syruptishus Loaderation Mode. I began oozing along behind the pickup and slipped into the blind spot—the spot near the hitch ball, which just happened to be outside the view of the side mirrors, ho ho.

That’s why we call it the Blind Spot, because the driver can’t see back there, don’t you see.

As the pickup gathered speed, I initiated the countdown.

Three.

Two.

One.

Blastoff, liftoff, bonzai, charge!

As graceful as a deer, I launched myself from the caliche drive in front of the house and landed on silent paws in the back end of the pickup. Don’t know as I had ever done the procedure any better, and Slim never suspected a thing.

And so it was that I smuggled myself onto the pickup bed and hitched a ride into town. Yes, I did smell of gasoline, and yes, my personal appearance had taken a serious blow.

But it could have been worse. Consider the wind, for example. It blows all the time.