Chapter Four: Another Triumph over the Cat

When Sally May had gone, I turned back to the cat and noticed that he was smirking. I never did like a cat who smirked. I’ve never even cared for cats who didn’t smirk.

I don’t like cats.

“What are you smirking about?”

“Hi, Hankie. You got in trouble again, didn’t you?”

“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t, but you got throwed in the water. That’s what really matters.”

Drover was right behind me. “Yeah, that’s what really matters.”

“How was your swim, Pete? Tell us all about it. Did you enjoy the water or was it a terrible experience? We want to know because your unhappiness is the most important thing in the world to us.”

“Yeah,” said Drover, “and we want to hear all about it.”

Pete lifted a front paw and gave it a shake. And he continued to grin, which didn’t set too well with me. He was trying to pretend that he had control of the situation, but I knew better.

“It was really very nice, Hankie.”

“Oh no it wasn’t. You hated it.”

“Yeah,” said Drover, peeking around my back side, “you hated it and we know you hated it, and since you hated it so bad, we love it.”

Pete stood up and stretched. “No, I was surprised how much I enjoyed it.” He began slinking our way with his tail stuck straight up in the air. “Oh, I didn’t care too much for the water itself, but there were other benefits.”

I could hear him purring now. My lips began to twitch as my autonomadic nervous system kicked in and struggled to take over my snarling responses.

“Oh yeah? What so-called other benefits? I don’t believe you.”

“Well, Hankie, I shouldn’t tell you because it would only make you mad.”

“Oh yeah?” said Drover.

“Quiet, Drover, I’ll handle this.” I turned back to the cat. “Oh yeah? I don’t think there were any benefits. I think you hated every second you spent in the water. I think your subterranean mind is seething with anger and thoughts of revenge. Isn’t that right?”

He was coming closer, and still smirking. “Oh no, Hankie, those are the crude emotions you might find in dogs, but we cats aren’t made that way.”

“I have two words to say to that, Pete: HA, HA!”

“Yeah,” said Drover, “and HA, HA again!”

“Well said, Drover. So there you are, Pete. Four ha-ha’s in response to your outrageous lie. As you can see, no one here believes you.”

“But it’s true, Hankie.”

By this time he was right in front of me, rubbing on my front legs and feather-dusting my nose with his tail, which I didn’t like.

“Get that tail out of my face, cat.”

“Do you want me to tell you the two benefits I received from being thrown in the water?”

I thought seriously about amputating his tail, but decided to postpone it for a moment. “Yes, I’d like to hear that, Kitty, but be quick about it.”

“Oh, I will, Hankie. The first benefit was that Sally May came to my rescue.”

“Yes, of course she did. You have her completely bluffed out. She doesn’t know what a sneaking little weasel you are.”

“Um hummm, and the second benefit is that I can do almost anything to you now, Hankie, and if you do anything back to me, you’ll be in big trouble with Sally May.”

HUH?

My ears shot up. My lips curled. A growl began to rumble in my throat.

Pete flicked his tail across my nose. “Isn’t this fun, Hankie? You’d probably like to jump right in the middle of me, wouldn’t you? But you know what would happen if you did, don’t you?”

“You’re bluffing, cat, you can’t . . . get that tail out of my face!”

“I’m impressed with your self-control, Hankie, but I know a little trick that will just drive you crazy.”

“No you don’t. Get away and leave me alone! You can’t . . .”

“Here, let’s try it and see.”

He stuck his smirking mug right into my face. Then he hissed and slapped me on the tenderest part of my nose with his claws.

Well, you know me. Do unto others but don’t take trash off the cats. He had hissed in my face and slapped me across the nose, and that threw his behavior up into the Trash Category.

And what did I do? I just by George buried him!

“REEEEEEER!!”

“Git ’im, Hankie, git ’im!”

I was well on my way to teaching Pete the error of his ways when all at once I heard the back door slam up at the house. Then the yard gate slammed. Then . . . heavy footsteps coming our way.

“All right, Hank, you’ve done it now! I warned you to leave my cat alone and now . . .”

That was Sally May. She sounded . . . I glanced at Pete who was suddenly limping around in circles and moaning and dragging one back leg behind him. But in spite of his so-called “injuries,” he managed to smirk back at me.

“I told you there were benefits, Hankie, but you didn’t believe me.”

Sally May began shelling us from twenty yards out, and the rocks were falling very close to the mark. In fact, one hit me right in the back.

“Ooooof! She got me! Come on, Drover, it’s time to sell out and head for the brush! There’s a crazy woman . . . ooooof! . . . coming our way!”

And with that, we went streaking down to the creek where we vanished into the willows and tamaracks that saved our lives. I had only one regret about the . . . no, I had several regrets about the incident, but I’d rather not discuss any of them.

Let’s just drop it.

Well, I had taken two direct hits from Sally May and I was in the process of trying to lick my wounds, so to speak, when all at once . . . 

My ears jumped to the Full Alert position. I had heard an odd noise. I turned to Drover. “Did you hear something?”

“What?”

“I said, did you hear something?”

“Oh. No, I didn’t.” But just then he heard it—a kind of low moan or cry. “Oh yeah, there it is.”

We listened. “Holy smokes, Drover, do you suppose Sally May has followed us down into our hiding place? No, wait. She wouldn’t have left her baby, and furthermore, she’s probably too busy fawning over her stupid cat.”

“I thought only deers could fawn.”

“Exactly. So it couldn’t be her.”

“And it wasn’t me.”

“And it wasn’t me.”

“And that doesn’t leave anybody we know. Maybe it’s a deer.”

“I doubt that, Drover. Deer don’t make the kind of low, moaning sound I’m picking up. Come on, let’s slip through the brush and establish a forward position. Stay behind me and don’t get hurt.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

I went into my Stealthy Crouch Mode and slithered through the brush. I peered out into a small clearing, and there, sitting beside the creek, was a small boy dressed in striped overalls.

It was Little Alfred, and he was crying his little heart out.

Let me pause here to point out that, even though Little Alfred had pulled my tail only hours before, even though he—at the age of four—had turned into an ornery little stinkpot who didn’t deserve to have a loyal dog as a friend, in spite of all that, when I saw the boy sitting there alone and crying my wicked old heart just melted.

You talk about cowdog instincts? Well, most of our instincts are directed towards being tough and hardboiled, towards protecting the ranch and doing a job, but fellers, we also have an instinct that responds to a little boy with tears running down his face.

I had to go to him, I couldn’t help it. No matter what he’d done, I forgave him because . . . 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that I loved the kid. I know, I’d helped raise him and everything, but when you’re big and tough and about half-mean, you don’t . . . 

I liked him, that’s all I’m saying. And I cared about him. And by George, if he needed a friend, I was just the dog for the job.

I raised up and started towards him. Drover stayed where he was. “Hank, you’d better keep away from him. He’ll pull your tail again and make you yelp.”

“Then let him.”

“He’s mean and naughty.”

“Maybe he is, Drover, but he’s my boy.”

“I don’t think anybody else wants him.”

“He’s my boy, and Duty calls.”

I went down to the creek bank and sat down beside Little Alfred and started licking the tears off of his cheeks. He looked up, kind of surprised, and there for a second I didn’t know what he would do.

Then he threw his arms around my neck and cried and told me all about his troubles.