Читать книгу The Case of the Most Ancient Bone - John R. Erickson - Страница 8

Chapter Three: Sally May’s Oasis

I left him lying in the shade. Just imagine, a dog that didn’t care about the lady of the house, the very lady who fed us scraps! What was the world coming to?

Oh well. I tried to forget the sorry state of the world and made my way down the dusty dog trail to the yard gate. I could feel the sun baking the hairs on my back. My mouth was parched and dry.

But in spite of it all, I marched to the gate, sat down in front of Sally May, and launched myself into the Howdy Program—switched the tail circuits over to Broad Caring Sweeps, went to Bright Lights on the eyes, and squeezed up a smile of Utter Sincerity.

“Why, Sally May! I see you’ve come out of the house and you’re watering your shrubberies. I haven’t seen you in several hours and I just wanted you to know how deeply I care about . . .”

What a pack of lies! I couldn’t go on with it. I flopped down on the ground. The Caring Wags came to a sudden stop. The Bright Lights went out in my eyes, and I found myself staring at the dusty ground.

Who could care about anything in this heat? I had thought that I could pull it off, that all my years of training and discipline would get me through the routine, but the awful heat had dragged me down.

I turned a pair of glazed eyes toward Sally May. She saw me and smiled. “Hello, Hank. It’s hot, isn’t it?”

Yes ma’am, it was hot. Furthermore, I didn’t give a rip about . . .

I noticed a cool breeze blowing across the yard and into my face. It felt good . . . wonderful. At last, something cool and refreshing! It was the water, see, the wind blowing across the spray of Sally May’s water. And then I noticed that everything inside the fence was GREEN—as green and refreshing as green refreshing greenery.

Wow!

I mean, the whole world was baked to a crisp and shriveled up in the heat, but that little oasis in Sally May’s yard . . .

Hmmmm.

I, uh, returned to the control room of my mind and began reprogramming the program: up on all-fours, Broad Caring Wags, Bright Lights in the eyes, big cowdog smile . . .

I stood up and smiled. “Why, Sally May, how nice to see you again! I’m here to deliver a very special message and to let you know that, well, I care DEEPLY about your life. No kidding. How are the children? How’s your day been going?”

At this point, I hooked my front paws over the top of the fence and mushed on with my presentation. “Oh, and by the way, I was just noticing your yard—admiring it, actually. It’s so . . . well, cool and damp and fresh, and I was wondering . . .”

You might find this part hard to believe, but here goes. I slithered myself over the fence and oozed down into the cool, green refreshingness of the grass. Pretty amazing, huh? You bet. And even more amazing was that I did it with Maximum Stealth, so quietly and cunningly that she didn’t even notice.

Heh heh.

Which meant that . . . well, she would probably think that I’d been there all the time. No invasion of her precious yard by dogs, no big deal. We were just there, she and I, chatting and laughing about our various lives and sharing precious moments of . . . something. Preciousness.

And caring about each other. That was the most impointant pork. We cared deeply about each other’s lives.

Once inside the yard, I resumed my presentation. “Sally May, I can hardly express how deeply and sincerely I admire you for . . . well, for all the things you do. There are so many things a dog can admire in you that I’m . . . well, ha ha, who could list them all?”

Was it selling? I studied her carefully. It was hard to tell. Slowly, very slowly, her gaze swung around and locked on me. I swallowed hard. The moment of truth had arrived.

She said, “You’re in my yard.”

Uh...yes, that was true.

I waited for more, but that’s all she said. Her gaze returned to the flower beds, and I was left to desiphon the meaning of her words. See, I knew she had some strong opinions about Dogs in the Yard (she didn’t allow it), yet there I was in her yard and . . . well, she hadn’t screeched or chased me with a broom or anything.

This seemed pretty strong proof that my program was working. Her heart was beginning to soften and I needed to press on with my presentation. I had already picked out the spot where I wanted to . . . well, spend some time: the iris patch on the north side of the house, which appeared to be the very coolest spot on the ranch—out of the sun, out of the dusty wind, great location.

Oh, and it also happened to be the favorite loafing spot of Pete the Barncat, which made it even more inviting. (Of course, Pete would have to vacate the property when I took it over.)

But I didn’t dare make my move to the iris patch, not yet. That would be too sudden, too abrupt. Before I moved into the iris patch, so to speak, I needed to do a little more . . . how can I say this? A little more “diplomatic work” with Sally May.

Charm her. Win her heart. Convince her that I belonged in her yard.

I switched all systems over to Heavy Charm and went back to work. Here’s the message I beamed to her:

“Sally May, words and tail wags can hardly express my deep and sincere admiration for the fine work you’ve done in your yard. Did you, uh, do all this landscraping yourself? You have such an eye for beauty! Every little shrubbery and blade of grass is just, well, perfect. So green, so cool, so inviting. Terrific.

“And . . . well, maybe you’ve noticed that it’s very hot today, and maybe you’ve noticed that I’m wearing a fur coat. Perhaps you’ve even been worried about me. I mean, everyone knows that you’re the kind of lady who worries about her pets and animals, and let me say right here that I’ve always admired that quality in you—the fact that you CARE so much about animals and doing the right thing.”

I held my breath and waited. Her eyes swung around again. And she said, “You’re still in my yard.”

That didn’t sound so good, but let me point out that she said it with a smile. Hey, this was going pretty well, and it was time to make a dash for the Bottom Line.

“Yes, Sally May, and speaking of the yard, let me take this opportunity to express some thoughts and feelings that are . . . well, close to my heart. I know we’ve gone through some rocky times, you and I, and we’ve had our share of . . . well, misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Failures to communicate our, uh, deepest feelings about each other.

“I’ll admit that I’ve made a few . . . that is, a few mistakes have been made, and I know that they’ve damaged our relationship. Sometimes I’ve even had the feeling that . . . well, you don’t trust me. In your yard, for example. And this has really bothered me. Deeply. No kidding.

“But I want you to know that I’m a changed dog. An older dog. A wiser and more mature dog. And I feel that our relationship has progressed to the point where you can trust me in your yard, trust me to do the right thing, to care for all your precious little flowers and shrubberies and blades of grass.

“Anyway, it’s hotter than blue blazes today, and since you care so much about the, uh, welfare of animals and helpless creatures and so forth. I was wondering . . . hey, what would you think if I moved into the yard for a couple of days? Huh?”

I beamed her my broadest and most sincere smile. She studied me for a long moment, and I had a feeling that the ice in her heart was beginning to melt. Any second now, she would . . .

HUH?

What happened next almost broke my heart. I mean, after all the time and care I had poured into my presentation . . .

Here’s what happened. She said, “Hank, you know the rules. No dogs in the yard.”

Yes, but I was wondering . . .

“Hank . . . out!”

Sure, but maybe this time we could . . .

And then she . . . SHE SPRAYED ME WITH THE GARDEN HOSE!

Okay, fine, if that’s the way she felt about it. If I wasn’t welcome in her yard, I would just . . .

Battered and wounded by the piercing spray of the garden hose, I made a dash to the fence and went sailing over the top. Safe on the other side, I paused long enough to beam her a look we call “My Life Is Ruined and You’re the Cause.” It’s a facial expression we save back for the very darkest moments, and it should have caused her to . . . I don’t know, cry or feel awful or something.

But I guess it didn’t work, because she chirped a little laugh and said, “Hank, I’m sorry, but what can I do? You don’t take hints, and I’m not going to let you trample and dig up my yard. Period.” She turned off the water hydrant and started toward the house. At the door, she turned and said, “Stay out of my yard.”

Those words cut me to the crick. After all the time I’d spent trying to win her heart and convince her . . . what does it take to please these women? What does a dog have to do to convince them that . . .

Suddenly I had to face the crushing reality that my presentation—my very best and most sincere presentation—had fallen into the dust like a...something. A crippled buzzard. A wounded goose. A ruptured duck.

I had opened my heart to her, exposed my deepest and most secret feelings, and she had washed them all away with one splat of the garden hose. I was so wounded and damaged, I wasn’t sure I would ever . . .

Oh well. It had been a long shot anyway. Sally May had always been a tough sell, so getting the bum’s rush from her wasn’t exactly the biggest surprise in the world. And getting sprayed with water had felt pretty good.

Huh?

A cat was standing on the other side of the fence, grinning at me and flicking the end of his tail back and forth.