Chapter Nine: Buzzard Music
Junior said, “S-s-s-ee? I t-t-told you h-he w-w-wasn’t d-d-dead.”
“You did not tell me no such thing. All you said was…” Wallace whipped his head around to me. “Dog, you don’t need to go around acting like a smarty-pants.”
I couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Wallace, when you ask ridiculous questions, you get ridiculous answers.”
“Puppy dog, there’s nothing ridiculous about supper. That’s what buzzards do. We’re in the supper business.”
“Yeah? How’s business?”
“Business is awful, down thirty-one percent.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“No you ain’t. If you really gave a rip, you wouldn’t be wearing that grin all over your face.”
I laughed. “You tagged me there. I really don’t give a rip, so let’s talk about something else. I’m doing a patrol of ranch property and I need to know if you’ve seen anything suspicious.”
A sly grin spread across Wallace’s beak. “Well, now, as a matter of fact, yes, only I ain’t going to tell you about it.” He winked at Junior. “Teach him to be a smarty-pants, heh.”
“Oh g-g-go ahead and t-t-tell him, P-p-pa. He’s the g-g-guard dog and h-h-he needs to know.”
“Why? He wouldn’t believe me if I told him.”
“W-w-well, t-tell him anyway, anyway.”
Wallace pulled on his chin and cut his eyes from side to side. “All right, but we’ll make him guess. There’s no way he’ll get it right.” He gave Junior a wink and turned back to me. “Okay, puppy, this morning at daylight, me and Junior seen something very, very suspicious, and there’s no way you’ll ever guess the right answer.”
“What if I do?”
“Well, you won’t. I guarantee you’ll never think of this, not in a thousand years.”
“But if I do? Here’s an idea. If, by some miracle, I get the right answer, you have to say ‘Thank You’ fifty times.”
See, I knew old Wallace hated manners and being polite. Junior had been working on him for years, trying to improve his social skills, but the old coot had resisted every attempt to teach him manners.
Junior loved my idea and broke into a big grin. “Oh, th-that’s w-w-wicked!”
“Junior, hush, I’m a-trying to think.” Wallace paced back and forth on the limb, scowling and pulling on his chin. “All right, doggie, we’ll do the deal, but here’s the other side. If you lose, which you will, you have to say ‘Buzzards is beautiful’ sixty times.”
“You’re on, we’ve got a bet.”
Wallace grinned at Junior. “Son, I’ve got this one in the sack.”
Heh. I had a feeling that I knew the answer, and that old Wallace was fixing to get the shock of his life.
He was looking very smug about this, and said, “All right, dog, go ahead and make your guess, and be prepared to lose.”
I paused for a moment to add a little drama to the presentation, then looked up the tree and said, “You saw a half-grown black bear. He crossed the creek and walked right past your tree.”
Wallace looked as though he’d backed into an electric fence. His eyes bugged out and I thought he might fall out of the tree. It was hilarious, one of the funniest moments of my whole career. We’re talking about shocked beyond description.
He puffed himself up to his full height, whipped around to Junior, and yelled, “This is the rottenest dirty deal I ever saw! Who told him that?”
“N-not me, P-pa, honest.”
“You had to tell him! There’s no way…” He jerked his head around and scorched me with a pair of flaming eyes. “You cheated, dog! I don’t know how you done it, but you’re a low-down cheater and a rotten egg eater!”
I cackled out loud. “I didn’t cheat, Wallace, and Junior didn’t tell me. Let’s just say I got lucky.”
“Lucky my foot! You’re as crooked as a snake.”
“Too bad. You lost, so pay off.”
“I ain’t going to pay off! It was rigged.”
Junior nodded. “H-he’s r-right, P-pa, y-y-you lost. P-p-play fair.”
“Play fair! What kind of buzzard are you?”
Junior laid a wing across his shoulder. “P-pa, it w-w-won’t h-hurt for l-long.”
Wallace shoved him away. “Don’t touch me! You have no idea how bad it’s going to hurt. I’d rather sit on a cactus bush than say thank you!” Boy, you talk about steamed. That was one mad buzzard. “All right, puppy, I’ll pay off. What would you think if I made it into a song?”
“I’d hate it. I’ve heard you sing before, and to be real honest, it shattered my nerves.”
A big smirk bloomed on his beak. “Too bad. Hang onto your drawers, ‘cause you’re fixing to get shattered.”
And with that, he launched himself into his Thank You Song.
Thank You
You cheated me with sneaky tricks, and now I have to pay.
You’re making me repeat two words I rarely ever say.
We made a bet. You won, I lost, so listen for a while.
And here’s your fifty thank-yous, delivered buzzard-style.
Thank you, thank you, I wish that I could spank you.
Thank you!
Thank you!
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
You want some more? Well, listen here:
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, pooch, and stick ‘em in your ear.
In case you thought your little trick would make me more polite,
This solemn presentation should set the record right.
If you’re too dumb to get the point, again I’ll have to say:
I’ll be a buzzard, unrepentant, ‘til my dying day.
Thank you, thank you, I wish that I could spank you.
Thank you!
Thank you!
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
You want some more? Well, listen here:
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, pooch, and stick ‘em in your ear.
I’m proud to be a buzzard, I’m proud to be uncouth.
I despise all forms of manners and that’s the gospel truth.
The trouble is that saying “thank you” always makes me sick,
And throwing up on mouthy dogs is a famous buzzard trick. Ha!
Thank you, thank you, I think that I shall tank you.
Thank you!
Thank you!
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
You ever see a buzzard launch his dinner from a tree?
Thank you, thank you, thank you, pooch,
And here’s a gift from me!
Sometimes, during presentations of buzzard music, my mind wanders. I mean, it’s so bad, the mind wishes to fly away to a happier place. But on this occasion, I just happened to be listening to his words, and caught just enough to realize that trouble was heading my way.
See, the old sneak had devised a way of getting his revenge. When he sang that line about pitching his lunch from a tree, he wasn’t kidding. That’s what buzzards do when they’re mad or unhappy: they throw up on whoever made ‘em that way. And we don’t need to go into horrifying details about what buzzards eat.
Bottom line: you don’t want to get hit.
When he launched, I saw it coming and had just enough time to scramble out of the way. The awful stuff hit the ground with a splat, and fellers, you talk about STINK! I’m sure it killed every weed and blade of grass within fifty feet.
I beamed him a glare. “Now, why’d you have to go and do that?”
“By grabbies, you made me do manners and it made me ill, and that’s what you get—paybacks! Teach you to force manners on a buzzard. I hope you get corns on your feet and fleas in your hair.”
“Yeah, well, I kept a count on your thank-yous, and you only did thirty-eight. You owe me twelve more.”
His eyes lit up. “Well, now, that ain’t a problem. If you want to get all huffy about it, I’ll sing that song again, fifty times, if you want. Hee. To be real honest, I’d love to take another shot at you, even if it means saying a bunch of mealy-mouth thank yous.”
I backed farther away from the tree, just in case he was reloading. “No, that’s okay. You cheated, but I’m not going to press my luck.”
He gave a snarling laugh. “Well, maybe you ain’t as dumb as you look. Sorry you have to leave so soon. Have a nice day. Or, even better, go sit on a porcupine and come back sometime when you can’t stay so long.”
“Thanks, Wallace, it’s always a pleasure doing business with you. See you around, Junior, and watch out for bears.”
I returned to the pickup, chuckling to myself and enjoying the memory of old Wallace yelling “Thank You!” It had really made my day…but then a darker thought moved across my mind. A black bear was running loose on our ranch, and you know what? That wasn’t so funny.
I slowed to a walk and noticed something else that wasn’t funny. The air, which had been soft and still all afternoon, had begun to stir…and it was cold—not just cool or chilly, but cold. We’re talking about air from a deep freeze. Dark clouds raced over us from the north, and all at once, tumbleweeds began loping south across the prairie.
Slim noticed it too. He had stripped down to his tee shirt, you might recall, and now he felt the sudden chill. He looked up at the sky and that’s when the wind slammed us—a blast of frigid air that turned his breath into fog.
“Load up, dogs! Let’s get out of here.”
By the time we made it back to Slim’s place, the wind was screaming through the big cottonwood trees along the creek. I don’t know how much the temperature had dropped, but it was falling like a cinder block, and little bullets of ice smacked our faces as we ran to the house.
We darted inside and Slim went to work stoking up the fire. Nice idea, but the wind was coming down the stove pipe and pushed clouds of smoke into the house. See, when the fire in your stove burns down to ashes, there isn’t enough heat going up the chimney to keep the cold air from coming down.
Slim had been through this before and knew what to do. He built a roaring fire with newspaper and got the stove hot enough so that the chimney would draw, then he added pieces of pine lumber and small chunks of hackberry bark, until he had a good hot fire and was able to close the stove door.
He heaved a sigh and fanned the smoke away from his face. “Dogs, we’re in for a bad night.”
He had no idea how true those words would turn out to be. Neither did I, but I was getting a real bad feeling about it. I mean, when you hear the house creak and groan, when the windows are rattling in their frames…fellers, it makes you feel pretty small and fragile.
Then the electric lights started blinking, and Slim had a pretty good idea what was coming next. He hurried into the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets until he found his kerosene lamp. He hadn’t used it since the last time the power had gone out, so the lamp’s glass chimney was covered with black soot, dust and mud dobber nests. He cleaned it and had just lit the wick when the power went out.
He shook his head and growled, “I’m never ready for these things, always half a step behind.” His eyes grew wide. “Good honk, I’d better fill the bathtub in case my water freezes up!”
He dashed into the bathroom. Under normal conditions, we dogs follow our people from room to room, but on this deal, I wasn’t sure that would be a good idea. I mean, we’d had an unfortunate incident in that same bathroom the night before and I had no wish to reopen old wounds.
But I did follow him to the door and watched as he turned the bathtub’s water spigot. Two drips of water came out, then nothing. His head slumped. “No electricity, no water pump, half a step behind. Well, it looks like we’re going to have a dry camp for a while.”
Holding the lamp in front of him, he went back into the kitchen and rummaged through cabinet drawers until he found a flashlight. He found five of them, actually, but only one that worked.
That sent him into another grumbling tirade. “These stinking flashlights sit there in the drawer for two years, just waiting for the power to go off, and then they all drop dead at the same time. The only time a flashlight works is when you don’t need it.”
To teach the flashlights a lesson, he slammed the drawer shut as hard as he could. BAM! Too bad he didn’t get his thumb out of the gap. He let out a yelp of pain, shook his hand for a solid minute, and even put the thumb in his mouth and sucked on it.
I turned my head so as not to add to his embarrassment. I mean, we dogs could tell many stories about our people, but this was one that didn’t need repeating, a grown man sucking on his thumb. The poor guy was having a real bad evening.