Chapter Fourteen: The Runt Gets His Big Chance

If you recall, I had just given Drover the great news: I had decided to move him up to the varsity.

His eyes crossed. “The varsity! You mean . . .”

“Yes, Drover, I think you’re ready for the Big Game. I’m going to give you the starting position at offensive tackle. Is that exciting or what?”

His eyes grew wider. “Tackle! Me?”

“Yes sir. You’ll be right up front with the big boys. I want you to go out there and really bust somebody, show ’em who’s boss.”

“I already know.”

“What?”

“I said . . . varsity, oh boy. Goodie.”

“That’s the spirit, Drover. This could be the biggest game of the season. Let’s go get ’em!”

He jumped to his feet and let out a cheer. “Let me at ’em, I’ll hammer their helmets! I’ll knock their socks off and then I’ll . . .” Suddenly, he went down like a rock. “Oh drat the luck, there it went! This old leg quit me again! Oh, the pain!”

“Maybe it’s just a cramp.”

“No, I really messed it up this time.”

“Work through it, son, you’re on the varsity now. The team needs you.”

“I know, it’s what I’ve always dreamed of, but I just don’t think this old leg’ll stay under me.”

I paced a few feet away and gazed up at the sky. “Okay, here’s an idea. Suppose we move me to offensive tackle and give you the starting job at running back?”

“You know, that might work.”

I whirled around and gave him a scorching glare. “Just as I suspected. There’s nothing wrong with your leg. Get off your lazy duff, and let’s go out there and win a big one for the ranch.”

“Well, okay, if you think . . .” His eyes popped wide open and he pointed at something behind me. “Oh my gosh . . . it’s THEM!”

Huh? Them? I whirled to the right and went into my karate stance, expecting to see a whole herd of cannibals coming at me with flashing teeth. What I saw was a whole herd of wild turkeys, clucking and pecking down along the creek.

“False alarm, Drover, it’s just . . .” He had vanished. “Drover?” All that remained was a small cloud of dust above the spot where he had been sitting. “Drover! Come back here! I’m giving you a direct order! Okay, pal, if you’re not back here in two minutes, you’re off the team!”

From somewhere in the distance, I heard a faint cry. “Oh, my leg! Oh, the guilt!”

I couldn’t believe it. Yes, I could. It was exactly what you’d expect from an ungrateful, unpatriotic, quivering little gold-bricker. I’d given him the opportunity of a lifetime, a starting position on the ranch’s team, but instead of seizing the opportunity . . .

Oh well, I didn’t need him anyway. I’d be better off without him. It was only a short two-mile hike over to the lake, and maybe I wouldn’t run into the Coyote Brotherhood. Sure, they often hung out under the shade of the cottonwoods along the creek, but maybe today . . . gulp.

I raised my voice to a shout. “Okay, Drover, I’ve decided to reshuffle the starting lineup. Come back and we’ll try you at running back. What an opportunity, huh?”

I cocked my ear and listened. Not a sound. No doubt he had already burrowed into the deepest, darkest corner of the machine shed and nothing less than a bulldozer could have pulled him out.

I turned my gaze to the west. Well, I would have to make this journey all alone, without an offensive line. Was I scared? Not at all. Okay, let’s put it this way. Any dog in his right mind would be worried about making such a journey, so yes, I felt some concern.

To be honest, I felt pretty nervous about it, but you know what drove me onward? The picture in my mind, the glowing picture, of my beloved Sardina Bandana waving good-bye as tears splashed down her cheeks. That’s the kind of vision that drives a dog to endure all kinds of danger and hardship.

Even so, there was little room for mistakes or miscalculations. Even a tiny error in navigation could land me into a confrontation with bloodthirsty cannibals and, well, we certainly didn’t need that. I would have to plot my strategy down to the tiniest dovetails.

Would you be interested in seeing my plan? It’s Highly Classified information but maybe it wouldn’t hurt if we gave you a little peek.

Let’s step into the Map Room and study a chart of the ranch and surrounding territory. Okay, here we are at the feed shed on the west end of ranch headquarters. Directly to the west of the feed shed, we have this fence running north and south, separating the home pasture from the horse pasture.

The “home pasture” gets its name from the fact that the home of Loper and Sally May sits pretty muchly in the center of it, and the “horse pasture” was so named because . . . well, because that’s where we keep the horses. If we kept black cows in that pasture, we might call it the “black cow pasture,” but we don’t so we don’t.

It’s kind of complicated but the thing to remember is that horses stay in the horse pasture.

Okay, notice that the creek winds its way through the horse pasture. An ordinary dog making a trek across this pasture on a scorching hot summer day would follow the creek, right? Of course he would. Why? Because trees grow along the creek and an ordinary dog would be interested in staying in the shade, sparing himself from being broiled alive in the glare of the sun.

But that brings us to the kernel of the nutshell. If dogs crave the shade of graceful cottonwood trees, who else do you suppose might be spending the afternoon loafing in the shade along the creek?

Coyotes, which is precisely why I had made my generous offer to move Drover up to the varsity. In the event that we blundered into the afternoon camp of some cannibals, having Drover up there on the offensive line would, uh, open up a few options, so to speak.

But Drover had blown that opportunity, so maybe you’re beginning to see the outlines of my new game plan. Instead of following the creek, I would set a course . . . here, look at the map . . . set a course two hundred yards north of the creek. As you can see, the new course would deny me the luxury of walking in the shade, but it would also deny lounging cannibals the luxury of eating me.

Pretty shrewd, huh? You bet, and now you’ve had an inside look at my plan for this mission: Stick to the high ground, endure the glare of the sun, and avoid nasty confrontations with cannibals along the creek.

I was ready. I took one last compass reading from the sun and set a course of two-five-zero-zero, and marched out into the pasture. “Be brave, Sardina, your hero is coming!” I knew she wouldn’t hear my call but that was okay. It made me feel braver and kind of took my mind off the heat.

And boy, it was hot! After marching the first quarter mile in the glaring sun, I was panting so hard, I had to switch my tongue over to the left side of my mouth. Some of your town dogs and ordinary yard mutts pant with their tongues pointing straight ahead. What they don’t know is that a dog can do a better job of cooling himself down when his tongue hangs out the left side of his mouth. It makes the old tongue look kind of like a dead fish, but so what? It works.

Anyway, it wasn’t a great day to be out on a hike, but I had an excellent reason for . . . HUH?

Okay, let’s pause here for just a moment to review our, uh, Marching Plans. In drawing up our plans, we had devised a clever strategy for avoiding coyotes, remember? But what you forgot to bring up in our planning sessions was that we would be trekking across the horse pasture and that horse pastures almost always contain . . . what?

Horses. Remember our previous discussions about horses? They are hateful, spiteful, arrogant, overbearing bullies who also happen to be huge, and they love to torment dogs. I mean, show ’em a badge that says you’re Head of Ranch Security and they’ll laugh in your face. Tell ’em that you’re on a very important mission and they’ll laugh even harder. Tell ’em that they’re all under arrest . . .

Don’t ever tell a herd of horses they’re under arrest. It will backfire every time. One dog should never threaten to arrest thirteen head of horses, each of them weighing over a thousand pounds, but you know, sometimes in a flash of anger, we say things we later regret.

This is painful. I would rather skip over it so that the little children would never know . . . I mean, how can the Head of Ranch Security preserve law and order when . . . well, when he’s being chased around the pasture by thirteen head of mocking, shrieking horses whose huge teeth are trying to snap off his tail?

It was a shameful, humiliating experience, and the less we say about it, the better. Let’s just say that if a dog runs in circles long enough, horses will get bored and leave. That’s what happened, and as the cowards trotted away, I yelled, “And let that be a lesson to you! Get out of my horse pasture and don’t ever come back!”

Told them, huh? You bet. The big bullies.

I glanced around and noticed I had moved down along the creek, only a short distance from the shade of a big cottonwood tree. I had worked up quite a sweat, so I trotted over to the . . .

Oops. Coyotes. Two of them, lying in the shade of the cottonwood tree.