Chapter Four: The Horrible Quicksand Monster
And so it was that Drover and I left the ranch forever, turned our backs on worry and responsibility, and went out into the big wide world to find our true loves.
We hit the creek just south of the house and followed it east through the home pasture. When we came to the Parnell water gap, Drover slipped under the fence and I stood there a moment, looking back.
“Good-bye, old ranch. We gave you our best for a lot of years, and that was more than you deserved. And on this spot we take a solemn oath, never to return.”
I scooted under the fence and we continued our journey.
“That was real good, Hank, that stuff about the solemn oath.”
“You liked that? Would you believe I just composed it on the spot?”
“No kidding? You mean, you didn’t even have to think about it or anything?”
“No, sir. It just by George popped out of MY mouth.”
We went on down the creek, and after a bit Drover said, “What happens if we decided we want to go back to the ranch?”
I gave him a sideward glance. “What happens is that we can’t go back, ever, period.”
“But we might change our minds.”
“No, no, you don’t understand solemn oaths, Drover. Once you’ve taken a solemn oath, you’re bound to it for life. There’s no turning back once you’ve taken an oath.”
“Yeah, but what if we did turn back?”
“As far as I know, it’s never been tested. We just don’t know what might happen, but it would be very bad. Why do you ask?”
“Oh . . . I kind of miss the ranch.”
“We just left the ranch!”
“I know, and that’s about the time I started missing it.”
“Well, shake it off and toughen up, ’cause we ain’t going back.”
“And I’m kind of hungry, too.”
I stopped and glared at him. “Hungry! How can you be hungry at a time like this?”
“I don’t know.” He started crying. “But I’m hungry and I’m homesick and I want to go back to the ranch.”
“I should have known better than to bring you along. You’ve got no guts, Drover, no backbone, no sense of adventure.”
“I know it!” he blubbered. “I’m a failure, I’ve always been a failure. Can I go home now?”
“Sure, go on. You’d be doing me a big favor if you left right now, and the sooner the quicker.”
He sniffed and wiped his eyes with a paw. “Thanks, Hank. You’ll be better off without me.”
“Indeed I will. You’ll be sorry, of course, when I tell you about all my adventures.”
“I know I will.” He started slinking back toward the water gap. “Bye, Hank, and good luck.”
“And good riddance to bad rubbish!”
He went his way and I went mine. I must have gone, oh, twenty or twenty-five paces when I had a change of heart. I hated for Drover to miss this opportunity. I mean, the little mutt had lived such a sheltered life, he needed a chance to widen his horizons.
I loped back to the west and caught up with him. “You feeling better now?”
“Yeah, now that I’m going home, I feel great . . . except I’m still hungry.”
We’d just about reached the water gap by this time. “I’m feeling a little gant myself, Drover. Tell you what we’re going to do. About a mile east of here, there’s a low-water crossing. Let’s me and you hot-foot it over there, and if you really want me to, I’ll teach you how to live off the land.”
“I never did that before.”
“That’s my whole point. See, what you don’t know is that this world’s just full of food—berries, roots, fish, wild game, you name it. And it’s all out here, waiting for us to find it and eat it.”
“Really?”
“Drover, once you’ve lived off the land, you’ll never want another chunk of Co-op dog food.”
“No fooling?”
“Trust me.”
“And then can I go home?”
“Yes. We’ll definitely take that under advisement at the proper time. Come on, let’s go.”
He hesitated and looked across the fence. “Well . . . it might be fun, and I sure am hungry.”
“That’s the spirit! Let’s motivate.”
We headed down the creek again, this time at a faster clip. I kept glancing over at Mr. Homesickness and expecting him to have another attack, but I guess he was thinking about food. When a guy thinks from his gut, it changes his whole attitude.
We reached the crossing along toward the middle of the afternoon. It was kind of a cement dam, see, with the country road going over the top, and there was a little pool of water backed up on the upstream side.
When we walked up to the pool, we could see the perch and minnows swimming around.
“You see that, Drover? This creek is alive with food. It’s everywhere! Our biggest problem is going to be trying to decide whether we want froglegs, minnows, crawdads, or fish for supper.”
“I want a big fish.”
“You want a big fish, by George we’ll get you one. How big a fish you want?”
“Oh, three or four pounds ought to be plenty.”
“A four-pounder be all right? Coming right up! Watch me and study your lessons.”
I figgered the quickest way to teach the runt was to demonstrate. I mean, lectures and classroom stuff have their place, but there’s no substitute for real live, on-the-spot training.
I chose a place where the bank was maybe two feet above the water. I crouched down in some tall grass and directed my unusually keen vision toward the pool below. The dark green tint of the water told me that it was a deep hole.
See, if you want little fish, you go to shallow water. But if you’re stalking four-pounders, you set up shop over a deep hole. This is fairly common knowledge among experienced hunters, but I had to explain it to Drover.
“Now, all we have to do is wait.”
“Gosh, that sounds easy!”
“You’re catching on, son. You’re gonna love this easy life, and just wait until you sink your teeth into that four-pounder.”
I was crouched on the bank, my muscles cocked and ready to explode. All I needed was a victim.
The minutes passed. Herds of minnows swam past, little perch, a couple of small bass, water spiders, more minnows, and more minnows. I was about to fall asleep . . .
Then I saw something large. This was no minnow, no measly perch. It was BIG. Every muscle in my highly conditioned body waited for the command to strike.
It was a turtle. “How would you feel about a nice mud turtle for supper, Drover?”
“I don’t like mud. Hank, I’m starving.”
“Patience, son. Ah-ha! Look what’s right behind the turtle.”
This was it, the one we had been waiting for—a huge, enormous, fat fish.
“There’s our fish,” I whispered. “Range: six feet. Depth: eighteen inches. Bearing: oh-two-zero-zero. Speed: just about right. Ready. Aim. BONZAI!”
I exploded out of my attack position, reached maximum altitude, leveled off, straightened out, and began my plunge toward the unsuspecting fish. As I streaked toward the water in a graceful arc, the fish appeared even larger than before. Indeed, the thought crossed my mind that Drover and I together wouldn’t be able to eat him.
Most experts regard fish as fairly stupid animals, yet we must give them credit for having a certain dull-witted instinct for survival. Even though my attack was perfectly planned and flawlessly executed, somehow the fish got wind of it. And with one flick of his tail, he vanished.
Canceling the mission at that point was out of the question. I mean, you get into some heavy physics, with thrust and forces and vectors and other stuff that’s much too complicated to go into. It’s the kind of stuff we deal with every day in the security business but . . .
The point is that once you get a mass of pure muscle traveling downward at a high rate of speed, the physical forces unleashed can’t be reversed. Furthermore, in the event that someone miscalculated the depth of the water, this projectile is likely to enter the creek, pass through the shallow liquid, and strike the bottom with tremendous force.
That derned creek wasn’t nearly as deep as I thought, never mind what color it was. I buried my nose in six inches of mud on the bottom.
And before you laugh at my misfortune and pass it off as just one of life’s many jokes, let me point out just how serious it is when a guy gets his nose buried in six inches of mud—under the danged water.
Okay, first of all, your nose doesn’t just pop out of the mud, right? And second of all, it’s very hard to breathe when you’re trapped in deadly quicksand—well, mud. And third of all, stasstisstics, satisticks, suhtickles . . . numbers collected by governmental agencies show that most of the people and animals who drowned between 1945 and 1984 had their heads under water.
So laugh if you wish, but this was a life-threatening situation. I could have very easily by George drownded.
No ordinary dog could have gotten out of that pit of deadly quicksand. I mean, that stuff didn’t just hold me, it was trying to suck me down, deeper and deeper.
I tried to call for help, but as you might have already surmised, that didn’t work. I kicked all four legs in the air. I thrashed, I fought, I twisted and turned and flailed the water, and with each frash and thrail . . . uh, thrash and frail, my life inched closer to darkness and doom.
I repeat: no ordinary dog could have escaped this gruesome death. I escaped. Just follow the logic to its conclusion. When you have logic doing your talking, you don’t need to brag.
With only seconds of life left, I tore myself from the clutches of the deadly Quicksand Monster, and before he could get me again, I staggered out onto dry land.
Drover was there, wagging his tail. “Did you catch the fish? How’d you get all that mud on your nose?”
Gasping for breath, I collapsed on the bank. “Never mind . . . the danged fish . . . don’t go near . . . that water . . . horrible Quicksand Monster . . . tried to kill me . . . fought him off . . . just barely made it.”
Drover rolled his eyes around. “Where’d he go?”
“Water . . . deep, bottomless pit . . . stay back.”
“Hank, I want to go home.”
“No, it’s all right . . . whipped him, ran him back into the pit . . . just one thing, Drover.”
“What?”
At last I caught my breath. “Under the circumstances, I think it would be a good idea for us to have minnows for supper.”