Читать книгу The Case of the Mysterious Voice - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: Alfred’s Great Idea

Yes, old Slim was in a bad mood, still fuming when Loper drove away in his pickup. He was in such a high snit, we dogs had to activate the Sharing of Pain. Following our procedures, we went into Mournful Eyes, Sad Ears, and Dead Tail.

It seemed to be working, and I think we had him going in the right direction, when Sally May and Baby Molly came out, dressed up for their trip to the grocery store, and Sally May gave him her list of things to do.

It was a long list, and my impression was that Slim didn’t enjoy reading it. Then Sally May said, “Oh, and I think I’ll let Alfred stay with you. There’s nothing for him to do in town, and maybe he can help.”

Slim stared at her. “Oh good.”

Alfred said, “Mom, I wanted to go to town.”

“Nevertheless,” she kissed him on the cheek, “you’ll stay and help Slim.”

Moments later, she drove away, leaving the four of us (me, Drover, Slim, and Alfred) standing in a cloud of dust and a heavy silence. The silence grew heavier by the second and, when nobody spoke, I felt the need to whap my tail on the ground.

It’s a gesture we use in awkward moments, don’t you see, and sometimes it helps to remove some of the explosive vapors from the air.

The boy had Pout written all over his face. “I don’t like working in the dumb old yard.”

Slim grumbled, “It’s genetic, son.”

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind. Come back in ten years and I’ll explain it.” He headed for the machine shed, and we followed. “For now, here’s all you need to know. At Slim’s Day Care Service, we have a short list of rules: Don’t make noise, don’t get in the way, don’t make a mess, and most of all, don’t ask a bunch of questions.”

“My mom says it’s good to ask questions.”

“Yeah, well, your mom ain’t here.”

“Is it okay if I breathe?”

“If you’re quiet, one breath every hour.”

“What if I faint?”

“You’ll get eaten up by red ants.”

“They eat little boys?”

“All the time.”

“Are you teasing?”

“Heck no. Them ants would rather eat a little boy than a bowl of ice cream.”

“Can we have some ice cream?”

“No.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Take your troubles to the Lord. I don’t care.”

We continued walking toward the machine shed. “Hey, Swim?”

“What.”

“Can I throw the cat in the stock tank?”

Slim stopped and looked down at the boy. “Now, why would you want to do that?”

Alfred shrugged. “He needs a bath. And I’m bored.”

“Bored, huh? Well, boredom’s a sure path to knowledge. Most usually, when a cat gets a bath, a boy gets an education.”

“So it’s okay?”

Slim laid a hand on his shoulder. “My advice is, find something else to do. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

Slim trudged on down to the machine shed to fetch the lawn mower. Alfred turned to us with . . . well, you’d have to call it a wicked little grin, and whispered, “Come on, doggies, let’s give Pete a bath!”

Well, you talk about something that will brighten your day! The dark clouds just seemed to roll away and all at once, we had Sunshine Forever. What a great idea! I was surprised that I hadn’t thought of it myself. Hey, when times are hard and troubles are getting you down, happiness is just around the corner.

All you need is an annoying ranch cat and a tank full of water.

Ho ho, hee hee, ha ha.

I loved it!

We headed down to the yard, knowing exactly where we would find Mister Never Sweat: in the iris patch on the north side of the house. That’s where he spent most of his time in the summer, loafing and lounging and lurking in the shade. He came out only for special occasions, such as to mooch my supper scraps or to rub on Sally May’s ankles.

As you might recall, Sally May didn’t allow dogs in her yard, but Pete? He was her Precious Kitty, and the little fraud had free run of the whole ranch. He could go anywhere and do anything and . . .

Have I mentioned that I don’t like cats? I don’t like cats, never have, just don’t get along with ’em at all. Show me a cat and I’ll find a place to park him—up the nearest tree.

Or in the nearest stock tank. Hee hee. Boy, this was going to be great! You know about cats and water, right? They hate water! I was so excited, I was trembling all over.

At last, we arrived at the yard gate. Alfred turned to us dogs and brought a finger to his lips. “Shh. I’ll go find him. Y’all wait right here, ’cause dogs can’t come in the yard.”

Right. It was a silly rule, but there was nothing we could do about it.

We dogs waited outside the yard, while Alfred headed for the iris patch, trying to look as innocent as an ornery little stinkpot could look.

Drover turned to me. “What are we doing now?”

“Don’t you ever listen?”

“Oh . . . sometimes. Did I miss something?”

“Yes. Alfred’s looking for the cat.”

“Oh good. Pete’s a nice kitty.”

“Yes, and we’re going to give him a nice bath.”

Drover’s eyes widened. “A bath? Cats hate water.”

“I doubt that Alfred will ask his opinion.”

“Gosh, you mean . . .” Drover thought about that for a moment, then a silly grin rippled across his mouth. “Oh, I get it now. Hee hee. We’re going to throw the cat into the stock tank?”

“That’s correct. Very good. Now hush and watch the show. This is going to be fun.”

We concentrated on the scene in the yard. Alfred walked along the side of the house, peeking into all the shrubs and flowers and searching for an unemployed cat. No luck. But then he came to the corner of the house and peeked into the iris patch.

His face bloomed into a grin. He’d located our pigeon . . . uh, the cat, let us say, right where I had predicted he would be, loafing in the shade. But then the lad made a mistake. He said, “Hi Pete, nice kitty, come here. Kitty kitty kitty.”

Did you catch his mistake? He forgot to use Backwards Logic. See, any time you want to catch a cat, you should tell him to buzz off or run away, then he’ll come scampering toward you and start rubbing on your legs. You won’t be able to run fast enough to get away from him.

But call him a “nice kitty” and tell him “come here,” and he’ll do just what Pete did, flatten his ears and start oozing away. Alfred had to chase him all the way around to the front of the house and drag him out from under a cedar bush.

But the important thing was that we got him captured, and soon we were heading down to the corrals. Alfred carried him, and I could see that Pete was beginning to smell a rat.

“Where are we going, Hankie?”

“Oh, we thought it might be fun to do some exploring.”

“Hmmm. And what are we going to explore?”

“You never know, Pete. Maybe we’ll climb the haystack or catch turtles.”

His cunning little eyes moved from side to side. “Hmm. Those aren’t things that cats do, Hankie, and I’m wondering why I was invited.”

“Well, I guess Little Alfred got to feeling sorry for you. Let’s face it, Pete. You have no personality and no friends. You need help with your social life.”

“Oh really.”

“Yes, it’s a common trait in cats. Oh, and we’ve noticed that you live an unhealthy lifestyle. You never do anything, Pete, and to be perfectly honest, you’re getting a little overweight. I hate to be the one to tell you, but it’s true. You need some exercise.”

Alfred opened a wooden gate and we entered the corrals. Pete had begun twitching the last inch of his tail, a sure sign that his scheming little mind had kicked into high gear.

“You know, Hankie, I’m not fond of exercise.”

“I know you’re not, but sometimes you need to play with your friends.”

“But Hankie, you said I don’t have any friends.”

“I said that? Ha ha. Well, the truth leaks out, doesn’t it?”

“So . . . I’m going to get some exercise, climbing the haystack?”

We had reached the stock tank. I turned a big smile on Kitty Kitty. “Exactly. Or here’s another idea. Had you ever considered . . . swimming?”

Hee hee. I had just let the cat out of the sandbox. Sandbag.

Out of the bag, let us say. I had just let the cat out of the bag.