Chapter Three: Slim Sits on the Porch in His Shorts

Did I mention that Slim had bought a banjo and was learning to play? It’s true, and it came about because his lady friend, Miss Viola, had bought herself a mandolin and thought it would be fun if they got together once in a while and played music.

Viola was a pretty good musician. Slim was . . . how can I say this? He tried, he really did, and sometimes it sounded okay, but he still had some work to do before he mastered the bluegrass style of picking.

Anyway, we crept back on the porch and Slim smiled. “That’s better. Sit down.” We sat. “Now, this is kind of a special occasion. It ain’t often that I come up with a song this early in the morning.”

I shot a glance at Drover. He was trying to be brave and so was I.

Slim continued. “Now, y’all pretend you’re at Corn Eggly Hall in New York City. You’re all dressed up, wearing tuxedos and black ties and them tall hats.”

Oh brother.

“You’re inside this huge auditorium, see, and it’s jam-packed with people who’ve paid a hundred bucks apiece to hear the singing sensation from the Texas Panhandle.”

This was so childish. I couldn’t believe he was doing it.

He rose to his feet. “They turn off the house lights, and the place goes dark. A spotlight shines on the stage. Ten thousand people hold their breath, and I mean nobody says a word. Then . . .”—he extended his hand and raised it slowly—“. . . the curtain rises and there he is! Slim Chance, the singing cowboy from Wolf Creek! He’s wearing one of them coats like Porter Waggoner wears, with all that glitter-and-sparkle stuff. What do you call it?”

Could we get on with this?

“Spangles or jangles or sequins, stuff that glitters in the spotlight, see, and it tells you that this old boy didn’t just fall off a truckload of turnips. He’s a big star, and the place goes wild. They’re all on their feet, clapping their hands and yelling their heads off.”

This was the wrong time to scratch a flea, but at that very moment I got drilled in the left armpit and HAD to do something about it. I cranked up my left hind leg and began hacking.

Slim beamed me a ferocious look. “Hey! Sit still and pay attention, we’re coming to the good part.”

Sorry.

“You’ve got no more manners than a goat.”

I said I was sorry.

Slim returned to his little drama. “Okay, dogs, the audience claps and cheers for a whole minute, then the place gets quiet and everybody sits down. The Star looks out at the crowd and says, ‘Thank you so very much, and now I’m going to sing y’all a song that comes straight from my heart. I wrote it myself, and I want to dedicate it to my momma back in Texas.’”

Oh brother!

And with that, Slim Chance sat down in his chair, put the banjo in his lap, and burst into song—wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a tee shirt, with nobody listening except a couple of dogs who couldn’t escape. Here’s the song, in case you’re interested.

Sitting on the Porch in My Shorts

Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

Loafing outside in my underwear.

Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

Who’d want to be anywhere else but here?

A man’s home is his castle, where he goes to escape the stress

Of a steady job and a gripey boss and fixing another mess on the ranch.

A job’s okay if you do it right and don’t get carried away.

When it’s time to loaf, be serious about it, get started early in the day.

Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

Loafing outside in my underwear.

Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

Who’d want to be anywhere else but here?

If I was Commodore Vanderbilt, with all that railroad stock,

Do you suppose I’d grab a hammer and go to busting rock?

Heck no, I’d be on the porch of the Biltmore, listening to the frogs,

Getting a tan on my skinny legs and singing to my dogs. I’d sing . . .

Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

Loafing outside in my underwear.

Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

Who’d want to be anywhere else but here?

Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

Loafing outside in my underwear.

Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

Who’d want to be anywhere else?

Who’d want to be anywhere else?

I’d want to be right here.

Can you believe a grown man would do such a thing? I thought it was very strange, but I learned long ago to keep my opinions to myself. These people don’t want to know what their dogs think—about music or anything else. We do what we have to do to keep our jobs, and sometimes that can be pretty embarrassing.

But there was a funny part to the story. See, old Slim thought he was all alone in the world, performing a ridiculous little song two miles from the nearest human.

Heh heh. Foolish man. See, halfway through the song, I heard a vehicle pull up behind his house, then the slam of a car door. Old Slim was onstage in New York City and didn’t hear a thing.

And he didn’t see the visitor coming up to the house. I did. I could have barked a warning but decided . . . why bother? If these people don’t want to listen to their dogs, by George they can live with the consequences.

You want to guess who it was? Heh heh. Chief Deputy Bobby Kile from the Ochiltree County Sheriff’s Department, a very important man. If you were going to make a fool of yourself, you might not want to do it in front of a deputy sheriff.

He approached the house. When he saw what was going on, he stopped and listened to the song. His face showed about what you’d expect. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. Then a nasty little smile slithered across his mouth, and he sneaked back to his car.

Now it gets really funny. When Slim finished his song, he smiled at us dogs, took a bow, and said, “What do you think about that, huh? Ain’t that about the cutest little song you ever . . .”

At that very moment, the silence was shattered by the loud scream of a police siren.

You talk about SHOCKED. Slim Chance looked as though he’d backed into an electric fence. All the blood drained out of his face, and his eyes popped wide open. He whirled around and saw a man in uniform approaching the house. At that point, a gurgling sound came out of his mouth. I think he said, “Good honk!”

When he recognized Deputy Kile, he slumped into his chair and stared straight ahead with glazed eyes. The deputy placed a booted foot on the porch, looked up at the sky, and said, “Morning, Slim.” Slim said nothing. “Do you live like this all the time?”

Slim’s gaze slid around to the sheriff. “Bobby, this ain’t funny. You almost gave me a heart attack with that si-reen.”

The deputy laughed for a solid minute, while Slim’s face turned a deep shade of red. At last he was able to speak. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He went into another sputtering fit of laughter. He staggered up on the porch and fell into a chair beside Slim’s.

Slim gave him a sour look. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it. You just about ruined my whole week.”

“Were you singing to the dogs?”

Slim pulled himself into a stiff pose. “I certainly was, and it ain’t the first time either. By grabs, this is America and if a man wants to sing to his dogs, he can do it.”

The deputy nodded, still smiling.

“Every patriotic American ought to sit around in his underwear on the Fourth of July and sing to his dogs. It helps to remind us why we fought that war with the British.”

“I thought it had something to do with taxation.”

“Well, that was part of it, but the big thing was a man’s right to walk around his own house in his shorts . . .”—Slim blistered the deputy with his eyes—“. . . without some busybody from town sneaking up and blowing a frazzling si-reen!”

Deputy Kile laughed. “Are you through?”

“For now.”

“Are you ready to listen to something?”

“I think that si-reen damaged my ears.”

“Well, listen anyway.” The deputy’s smile faded into a serious expression. “Two days ago, a man walked into the grocery store in Twitchell. He had a pet skunk on a leash and was carrying a paper sack. He walked up to the cashier and handed her a note that said, ‘Give me five pounds of baloney, or my skunk will spray your store.’”

Slim stared at him. “Is this a joke?”

The deputy shook his head. “Nope. But the cashier figured it was a joke. When he didn’t leave, she tried to call the police.” The deputy glanced around. “You got any more of that coffee?”

“No. Hurry up and finish the story. You’ve got me curious.”

“I take it with cream and sugar.”

Slim rose from his chair and growled, “You always was a tiresome man.” Still holding his banjo, he hurried into the house (that was something new for Slim, hurrying) and returned minutes later, without the banjo, wearing a bathrobe, and holding a mug of coffee.

Deputy Kile nodded his thanks and looked into the cup. “Where’s the cream and sugar?”

Slim flopped down in his chair. “The milk cow’s been sick, and we had a crop failure on the sugarcane. Finish your story. I’m dying to hear this.”

The deputy took a sip of coffee and flinched. “Is this coffee or mop water?”

“It’s cowboy coffee, and you don’t have to drink it. What happened in the store?”

The deputy took another sip, made an ugly face, and went on with the story. Wait till you hear this. You won’t believe it.