Chapter Ten: Westward Ho the Wagons!

You know who gets to ride around in wagons, don’t you? Caesars, pharaohs, kings, emperors, honored guests, and Heads of Ranch Security. Those of us who live at the top of the mountaintop have our little privileges, don’t you see, and when someone throws a parade, you won’t find us pulling wagons.

I had been chosen to ride in an open carriage, while Drover had volunteered to be Nag of the Day. Everything had fallen into place, almost as though someone had…well, planned it that way.

In fact, someone had. ME. In case you didn’t notice, I had employed several clever tricks to boost his confidence and coax him into becoming a helpful little doggie, instead of his usual slacker-self.

It’s called Lordship. Wait. It’s called Leadership. We inspire the men to push their limits and accomplish impossible foots. You don’t rise to the rank of Head of Ranch Security without developing those crucial Leadership Skills.

All that remained was for me to give the mutt a little dab of coaching and, you know, help him get his muscles tuned up for the big job ahead.

“All right, son, step out. Pick ‘em up and lay ‘em down. Lift those legs as high as you can and let’s get those Upper Boogaloo muscles stretched out. This is going to be a very important assignment.”

Remember that little spark of ambition I had noticed in his eyes? Well, I was pleased to see that it had grown into something bigger, more of a glow than a spark. The little guy was responding to my coaching and was rising to face one of the biggest challenges of his whole career. And I must admit that it made me proud.

He moved his legs up and down and rolled his shoulders. “Boy, it’s all coming together. I can feel it. This is going to be my big day!”

“Looking good, son. Practice your starts.”

“I’m on it.” He crouched down in a sprinter’s stance and yelled, “Here I go!”

Wow. He sprang out of the blocks like an arrow shot out of a canon and…huh? There was a clattering sound, a thump, a cloud of dust, and…I couldn’t believe this. He went down like a load of hay, and came up…limping.

“Oh rats, there it went! This old leg just quit me! Oh, my leg!”

For a moment, I was too shocked to speak, then I managed to yell, “Drover, stop acting like a little…”

Too late. Alfred had been watching the whole thing and now he was shaking his head. “I don’t think Drover would make a very good horse. He’s too much of a shrimp.”

Exactly right. He was a shrimp, but even worse, he was a shrimp with a devious mind.

Guess who got tagged for the Horse Detail. Me. While Drover limped and groaned, Alfred rigged me with a piece of cotton rope and harnessed me to the wagon. My face burned with anger and disappointment. My coaching career had gone down in flames, along with my hopes of riding in a parade in an open carriage.

It almost broke my heart. Leadership is wasted when you’re surrounded by ninnies.

The boy got me harnessed to the wagon, stepped back and gave me a looking over. “Hankie, you’re gonna make a good horse, ‘cause you’re so big and strong.”

Big and strong? That was true, of course. Yes. I had a pretty amazing set of shoulders and have we ever discussed my legs? Wow. You talk about a pair of awesome legs! Powerful, and we’re talking about muscles that are like steel springs.

As I’ve always said, it isn’t every dog that gets chosen to pull a covered wagon Out West. It’s a very special honor and it doesn’t go to just any old mutt that needs a job.

So, yes, it was a proud moment for me, for the ranch, for the entire Security Division. Out of all the dogs in the world, I had been chosen to pull my little pal’s wagon on an exciting adventure, exploring the Wild West.

Alfred climbed into the wagon and it didn’t bother me that he invited the King of Slackers to ride with him. Okay, it bothered me, but not for long, and here’s why. Do you know who rides around in wagons? The shrimps and the half-steppers. I say, “Let ‘em have it.” It takes a real dog to pull a wagon.

I also took some comfort in knowing that this would all come out at Drover’s next court martial.

Well, we were all set for our trek Out West. When Alfred gave me the command to move out (“Gitty Up”), I leaned into the harness like a giant locomotive and began lugging the wagon. No ordinary dog could have pulled such a load. Me? I hardly even noticed. Piece of cake.

You know, the funny thing about our trip Out West was that…well, we headed south, not west. That seems odd, doesn’t it? Alfred chose the route because the terrain south of the house was flat and smooth, better suited for wagon traffic.

In the Real World, if you’re heading Out West, you probably ought to go west, but when kids and dogs are running the show, it really doesn’t matter. By George, Out West can be anywhere we want it to be, and on that particular day, it lay south of the house.

And so our journey began. On and on we pushed—over mountain passes that were still clogged with snow, across mighty rivers with steamboats chugging past, across burning deserts where the only living things we saw were cactus trees and two-hump camels.

It must have been somewhere in the middle of the desert that we made a sad discovery. Our horse was getting tired, and we’re talking about bleary-eye, tongue-dragging, gasping-for-air kind of tired. The grand adventure that had begun as a piece of cake had turned into a piece of something quite a bit heavier than cake, maybe bricks or lead weights.

Gag, I was bushed, and you know what really hurt? We hadn’t gone more than a hundred feet from the house, for crying out loud.

The Wagon Boss tried to urge me on. “Come on, horsie, gitty up! Gitty up!”

Gitty Up was out of the question. It was time for me to Gitty Down, and that’s what I did. I sat down, unrolled about six inches of tongue, and went into our Maximum Ventilation Program (panting for air).

Alfred was disappointed. I could see it all over his face. “Hankie, we’re not there yet.”

Yeah, well, we were as “there” as we were likely to get for a while. I had to take a break and refill my tanks with…

Huh?

You won’t believe this. Would you like to guess who showed up at that very moment, and I mean out of nowhere, like flies at a picnic? I’ll give you some hints.

Hint #1: He wasn’t invited.

Hint #2: He wasn’t invited because nobody

could stand his company.

Hint #3: He came slithering up behind me

and began rubbing on my left front leg.

Hint #4: He flicked the end of his tail across

my nose.

Did you figure it out? It was Mister Never Sweat, Sally May’s rotten little cat, and for reasons I could not imagine, he had left the yard and hiked out into the pasture to join us.

I pushed him away. “Get that tail out of my face. What are you doing out here, you little creep?”

“Now Hankie, don’t be that way. You might not believe this, but I’ve come to help.”

A jagged laugh leaped out of my throat. “Help? You? The last time you helped, you helped yourself to my scraps.”

His eyes lit up. “You know, I did, and they were delicious. But, Hankie, this is different.” He stared at me with his mysterious kitty eyes. “I really do think I can help you.”

I ran this through Data Control. He was up to some kind of trickery, but I couldn’t figure it out. “Okay, I’ll bite. Help me what?”

“I can help you pull the wagon.”

“You can help me…ha ha! Oh, that’s rich, that’s hilarious. You couldn’t even pull an empty bean can, much less a wagon.”

He rolled over on his back and began playing with his tail. “Well, it all depends on how you approach it, Hankie. You should look for your Hidden Strength. Scissors cut paper. Rock breaks scissors. Paper covers rock.”

“Yeah, and dog runs kitty up a tree. So what?”

His face bloomed with a smile. “That’s it, Hankie, you figured it out!”

“I did?”

“Yes, and I am just amazed. You discovered your Hidden Strength, based on a law of physics.”

“I don’t get it.”

He sat up and lowered his voice to a whisper. “A dog is never too tired to chase a cat.”

“Wait a second. Are you saying...”

“I’ll hiss, you’ll chase. In chasing, you’ll pull the wagon and entertain the child.”

My mind was swirling. I would have begun pacing, as I often do in such swirling situations, but, well, I was hitched to the wagon.

“Okay, Pete, let’s go straight to the bottom line. What’s in it for you? And don’t give me any baloney about how you care about me or Little Alfred or anyone else on this planet, because I know you don’t.”

He fluttered his eyes and studied his paw. “Hankie, I…am…bored.”

I stared at him in amazement. “You’re bored? You’re so bored that you want me to chase you?”

His eyes crackled with delight and he nodded his head. “Yes, and I think it might turn out to be fun.”

This was one of the craziest things I’d ever heard, and the craziest part was that…it might actually work.