Читать книгу It's A Dog's Life - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: The Thick Plottens

When we got to the top of the hill we found Pete rolling around in the dirt in front of the yard gate. I studied the scene and came up with an explanation for his odd behavior: he had choked on a chicken bone.

I couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more than Pete, and yet there’s a heart beating inside this massive body of mine and every now and then it can be touched by tragedy. I kind of hated to be there, watching Pete in his last moments of life.

Drover went up to him. Pete was on his back, kicking all four paws in the air and rolling his eyes. “What’s wrong, Pete?”

He quit twitching and looked up at Drover.

“The end of the world is coming! I can feel it.”

Drover glanced at me. “Did you hear that?”

“I heard it but I don’t believe it. Step aside and let me check this thing out.” I pushed Drover out of the way and stood over the cat. “I’m going to order this cat to open his mouth. When he does, we’ll find a chicken bone caught in his throat.

“This is a classic case of greed, Drover, which is very common in cats. I recognized the signs the minute I got here. They get to thinking they can eat anything and the first thing you know they get choked on a bone. Now watch. Open your mouth, cat.”

He opened his mouth. Drover and I looked inside. I spotted two tonsils and the little punching bag that hangs in front of the throat. No bone.

I stepped back. “I was afraid of that. Sometimes the bone . . .”

“It’s not a bone, Hank,” said Pete in an eerie voice. “I can feel the end of the world coming.”

Drover gasped. “Hank, he said it again! Oh my gosh! What are we going to do?”

“First, we don’t panic. Second, we interrogate this cat. And third . . . we look for the third point in our plan of action.” I went back to Pete. “Exactly what makes you think the world’s coming to an end?”

“Cat’s intuition.”

“I don’t believe in cat’s intuition. There’s no way to test it.”

“Yes there is. Just ask me any question about the end of the world.”

“All right.” I paced back and forth. “What day is it due?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What time of day?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Hmmm.” His answers matched Drover’s report. When you get the same answers from two different sources, you have to take it seriously. And then there was Sally May rushing away from the house. That had been pretty suspicious too.

Pete lay there with his eyes closed. “I know how you can check it for sure.”

“Well, by George let’s hear it, and be quick about it.”

“You have to say please.”

I chuckled at that. “Me, say please to a cat? Do you realize you are speaking to the Head of Ranch Security? I will not say please to a cat—ever.”

I bent my head down and showed him some fangs—growled, narrowed my eyes, raised the hair on the back of my neck as well as all the way down my spine, gave him the whole nine yards of threatening gestures. And as you might expect, he changed his mind.

“Well, maybe I will tell you.”

“You bet you will, and you’ll tell the truth and nothing but the truth. So start talking while I still have myself under control.”

When a cat has some running room or a tree to climb, he’ll talk trash and very seldom will you hear him tell the truth. But put one flat on his back on the ground, stand over him with some deadly fangs, and fellers, you can make a Christian out of any cat. I guarantee it.

Well, we finally got the truth out of him. I don’t know why he didn’t tell the truth in the first place. It would have been so much simpler and easier for all of us, but cats are just that way. They seem to get a kick out of being deceitful. It’s just part of their nature.

Under severe questioning Pete finally confessed about where he’d learned that the world was coming to an end. Just as I had suspected, it had nothing to do with so-called “cat’s intuition.” He’d been sitting on the window sill when Sally May got a phone call. He’d listened to the conversation (it’s called eavesdropping and cats are very good at it) and he’d seen her write this message down on her calendar: “End of the world, 3:00 p.m.”

I glanced at Drover. “Well, there’s the scoop on this end-of-the-world business. Now all we have to do is check the calendar. Of course there’s one small problem.”

“Sure is.”

“And what is that small problem, Drover?”

He gave me a blank stare. “I was just asking myself that same question.”

“The small problem is that we have to get into the house because that’s where the calendar is. Come on, son, we’ve got work to do.” I turned to Pete. “You can leave, cat, but don’t go far. We may have some more questions for you later on.”

Pete gave me a very strange smile and went up toward the machine shed, twitching the end of his tail. I watched him for a long time. I didn’t like that smile. There was just something about it that made me suspicious.

But we had work to do. Drover and I jumped the fence and began circling the house, looking for a way to get inside. All at once I heard an odd noise. I stopped.

“Hold it! What’s that?” We listened. There it was again, a clicking sound. “It’s a time bomb, Drover! Red Alert! Run for your life!”

We dashed around to the front yard and hid behind that big hackberry tree there by the porch. I waited for the blast, and in the silence I heard that same clicking sound—right beside me.

My ears, which are very sensitive scientific instruments, followed the sound and traced it to Drover. “Why are your teeth chattering?”

“What?”

“I said, why are your teeth chattering? And how can I conduct an investigation with you making noise?”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Hank. I guess I’m scared about the end of the world.”

I shook my head and walked a few steps away. “I don’t know, Drover, sometimes I just think you’re not worth the dadgum effort. How many times have I told you that a cowdog has to be fearless?”

He hung his head. “I know, you’ve told me but . . . it’s the end of the world, Hank.”

“Maybe it is and maybe it ain’t. At this point it’s merely a suppository proposition and all we’ve got to go on is circumscribal evidence. We won’t know for sure until we get into the house and check Sally May’s calendar. Now, are you going to help with this investigation or do I have to send you down to the gas tanks for the rest of the day?”

He thought it over. “I guess I’ll go down to the gas tanks.”

“Oh no you won’t.”

“I guess I’ll stay here.”

“That’s more like it. Drover, always remember this: it ain’t the size of the dog in the fight that matters; it’s the size of the fog in the dog. That’s what life is all about.”

He stared at me and then nodded his head. “I’d wondered . . . what was it all about.”

“Now listen very carefully.” I looked all around to be sure we were alone. “We’ve got no choice but to make a penetration into the house.”

“A what?”

“A penetration. We’ll make a small slit in that window screen and one of us will go inside.”

“Which one?”

“We’ll decide that when the time comes. You ready to move out?” He gulped and nodded. “All right, let’s go.”

We slipped away from the tree and sneaked up to one of the south windows. The window was open. All we had to do was get past the screen.

A lot of people think that you can keep a dog out by locking the doors. That’s not true. A cowdog who is highly skilled in penetration techniques can approach your ordinary window screen, make a small hole with one of his teeth, and then slit the screen.

I began the procedure—went up on my hind legs, poked one of my large front teeth through the screen, and made a slashing upward motion with my head.

The screen fell off and one corner of it hit Drover between the eyes. He yelped. “Sorry, Drover, but as you can see the screen was improperly installed. Typical cowboy job. But never mind. There’s our open window. We’re ready to make the penetration. I’ll go inside and you stand guard. If you see anything suspicious, give me the code word: Mayday. You got that?”

He nodded.

“Now remember: pay attention, don’t go to sleep, and keep your eyes open. The future of the entire world depends on us, Drover.”

“What if we mess up?”

“That gets into the realm of the unthinkable. There’s no margin for error. We’ve never played for bigger stakes. So, until we meet again . . .”

I patted him on the shoulder, coiled my legs, and leaped through the window.