Chapter Eight: False Alarm

Okay, relax. It was Drover, chugging down the dusty road and coming in my direction. Oh brother. Was there anyone I would rather NOT see at that particular moment? No. I flattened myself out on the ground and tried to melt into the shadows.

Maybe he would go right past and never see me.

He trotted up to the mailbox and stopped, glanced around, and called out, “Hank? Where’d you go? Listen, I’m feeling kind of guilty about being such a little chicken. Terrible guilt, honest, and I’ve decided to start my life all over again. Hello?”

I held my breath and didn’t make a sound. He heaved a sigh and started out again, trotting west on the county road and heading toward Ranch Headquarters. He didn’t see me, and that was great.

But then he stopped and sniffed the air. He turned around and looked straight at me. His face bloomed into a smile. “Oh, hi. There for a second, I thought I smelled a skunk.” He came skipping toward me, then skidded to a stop. He sniffed the air again. “I did smell a skunk. Oh my gosh, is that . . . you?”

“It’s me, and let’s go straight to the point. You’re fired. Clean out your desk, turn in your badge, and disappear. I never want to speak to you again. Good-bye.”

“You mean . . .”

“I mean it’s over. I gave you every chance in the world to make something of yourself. Instead, you made a mess of everything.”

He hung his head. “I know but I can’t help it. I’m such a chicken!” He broke down and started crying. “Sometimes I can’t stand myself, but I’m all I’ve got.”

“Yeah, well, that’s real bad luck.”

“I promised Mom that I’d be a good little dog . . . and now I’ll have to tell her that I got fired! It’ll just break her heart!”

What can you say? I’m pretty hard-boiled (you have to be in my line of work), but this was no fun.

“Hank, give me just . . . five more chances.”

“Absolutely not.”

He bawled some more. “Give me just . . . three more chances.”

“No! I’ve made my decision, and there’s no turning back. Sorry.”

More bawling and squawling, then he moaned, “Okay, one last chance, that’s all, just one.”

He boo-hooed for another minute, while I reviewed his file and counted the plink of his tears on the ground. (Twelve). At last I couldn’t stand any more of it. “All right, quit bawling. One more chance, but you have to take the Pledge of No Chicken. Stand at attention, raise your right paw, and repeat the Pledge.”

He dried his eyes, snapped to attention, and raised his paw. “Yeah, but I don’t remember it.”

“I haven’t given it yet.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Here’s the Pledge, so pay attention. ‘I, Drover C. Dog, do solomonly swear to be brave and bold, to stop being a chickenhearted little mutt, and never the twang shall meet.”

“What’s a twang?”

“Say the Pledge!”

He said the words, and I began pacing in front of him. “All right, trooper, you’re back on the force. I’m taking a huge career risk, so don’t blow it. Here’s your first assignment.” I gave him a brief account of my scuffle with the burglar and his skunk. “I’m sending you up to headquarters to warn Slim. Can you handle that?”

“Oh, that’s why you stink so bad?”

I leaned down into his face. “Can you handle the job or not?”

He coughed and fanned the air in front of his face. “Oh yeah, I can do it, ’cause I took the Pledge of No Chicken.”

“Good. I’ll set up a command post over there in the shade and wait for your report.”

He began hopping up and down. “Oh, this’ll be fun!”

“Drover, it won’t be fun. It’s hotter than a depot stove.”

“Yeah, but Beulah might be at the picnic. Bye now, here I go!”

He went skipping down the road like a little . . . I don’t know what. Like a happy little grasshopper, I suppose.

“Drover, halt! Come back here!”

He came back and gave me a puzzled look. “Gosh, did I do something wrong?”

“Not yet. We’ve had a change of odors.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I said, we’ve had a change of orders. I’m going with you.”

“But I thought . . .”

“In this heat, the trip to headquarters could be dangerous. You just rejoined the force five minutes ago, and we’d hate for anything bad to happen.”

“Gosh, that’s nice.”

“Let’s move out.”

I began marching down the middle of the road. Drover followed along behind—just where he belonged. After a moment, he said, “Oh, I get it now. Beulah.”

“That’s right, pal. She’s mine, and don’t you even speak to her.”

“She won’t like your smell.”

“She’ll love my smell. Women go for a deep manly aroma.”

“Yeah, but you tried that once and it backfired.”

“Drover, when I need your advice about romance, I’ll ask for it. In the meantime, please keep your trap shut.”

“You never learn.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. I was just shutting my trap.”

As I predicted, it was a long hot trip to headquarters. We had to stop twice to rest in the shade, but thirty minutes later, we reached our destination. Even at a distance we could see that dozens of friends and neighbors had turned out for the picnic.

Several men in aprons cooked hamburgers on a big iron grill. A group of ladies sat in lawn chairs, talking and laughing, while another group played instruments and sang. Children were playing softball, and several ranchers slouched against trees, discussing grass and cattle. Others were pitching horseshoes.

As we marched toward the picnic ground, Drover said, “How are you going to tell Slim about the burglar?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The message. We made the trip so you could warn Slim about the burglar. How do you say ‘burglar’ in Tailwag?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Me! But I thought . . .”

“I’ve decided to let you handle it, son.”

“Yeah, but all I’ve got is a stub tail.”

“Use a simple wig-wag procedure and double the speed. Wig-wig-wag-wag-wiggy-wiggle.”

“That means ‘hamburger.’”

I stopped and gazed into the emptiness of his eyes. “Drover, I’m going to be busy entertaining a certain lady dog. I don’t have time to teach you how to communicate with the human race. Go to Slim and tell him about the burglar. Use your tiny mind and figure it out.” I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you back on the force.”

“Thanks.”

“Since you’re on probation, I know you won’t bungle this assignment.”

He began to wheeze. “You know, pressure really messes me up.”

“Pressure is good for us, son. If it weren’t for pressure, all the tires in this world would be flat.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Air pressure. That’s the difference between a tire that works and one that’s flat. Do you want to spend your whole life as a flat tire?”

He wheezed again. “Boy, I sure could use some air.”

“I’m sure you’ll find some at the picnic. This air is filled with air. Now, run along and take care of business. I’ll expect a full report in half an hour.”

He whined and wheezed, but I didn’t have time to hear his little complaints. I had bigger flies to fry. See, I had already searched the crowd and spotted . . . mercy! Have we discussed Miss Beulah the Collie? Yes, surely we have, because for years she had been the object of my dreams and devotion.

Flaxen hair. Dewberry eyes. Long collie ears and a long collie nose. A perfect tail, a perfect set of teeth, perfect toes . . . wow, what a woman!

How many nights had she visited me in my dreams? Dozens of times, hundreds of times. In my dreams, she belonged to me, and me alone, but the problem with dreams is that at sunrise, the show’s over and then we have to deal with . . . well, facts.

See, there was a bird dog in her life. Plato. They stayed on the same ranch, down the creek from us, and she seemed to have some kind of weird affection for him. I had never understood that. I mean, in so many ways she seemed gifted and intelligent. How could she like a bird dog when she could have . . . well, ME for example?

It made no sense, none. As a group, bird dogs tend to be dull, boring, and dumber than dirt, and Plato was all of those things—times five. What can you say about a dog that spends his entire life sniffing the ground, chasing birds, fetching sticks, and pointing old tennis shoes?

What you can say is that he was exactly the kind of mutt that Beulah should have avoided like a cloud of germs, but she didn’t. She actually seemed to like the creep, even though I had tried every trick in the book to win her heart.

You know, a lot of dogs would have gotten discouraged and quit. Me? I often got discouraged but didn’t quit. I would never quit! I would never give up hope that one day, the germ clouds would lift and she would see the Birdly Wonder for what he was—a stick-tailed buffoon who didn’t deserve the time of day, much less her affectation.

Those were the thoughts that echoed through the caverns of my mind as I went to my One and Only True Love. Yes, there she sat in the shade of an elm tree, watching all the activities that were going on at the picnic, taking it all in with her delicious brown eyes.

As I moved toward her through the crowd, I became aware of a very important detail. She was sitting alone! NO BIRD DOG. My heart leaped with joy. Holy smokes, maybe she had finally ditched the pest!

I quickened my pace and listened to the snare drum of my heart, beating out wild rhythms. Could this be the day? My heart said . . . yes!