Chapter Seven: I Enroll in Rip and Snort’s Wilderness School
Just for a second there, I thought I had been betrayed by the lovely Missy Coyote.
On the one hand, it was hard to believe she might have resisted my many charms, and we’re talking about, oh, massive shoulders, a pretty nice coat of hair, dashing good looks, great talent, a wonderful charming personality, dashing good looks, nice ears, a heck of a fine nose, and dashing good looks.
On the other hand . . . she was a coyote and I was a dog, and when push came to shovel, she just might choose her own kind over me. And that would not be good.
That would be very bad, and I found myself studying the paths and trails that led back to the ranch, just in case this deal got out of hand.
But then I noticed that Missy was talking to the brothers. They were listening but didn’t appear to be real happy about it. I heard several loud grunts and growls, and then Snort said, “Rip and Snort not want dummy ranch dog for teaching. Want dummy ranch dog for supper!”
The conference went on for several more minutes. I tried not to show a great amount of concern, even though I was getting worried. I mean, Missy was the chief’s daughter and had some influence, but when you’re dealing with cannibals, you never know how things might turn out.
At last the conference broke up. Snort came pounding over to where I was sitting. His face was . . . sour, shall we say. He didn’t look happy at all. He marched up to me and poked me in the chest with his paw.
“Coyote girl say she friend of Hunk.”
“Oh? Well, thanks. Yes, we’ve been . . .”
“Rip and Snort not give a hoot for dummy ranch dog and not want teach dummy ranch dog coyote ways.”
“Yes, well, I can understand . . .”
“Ranch dog shut trap and listen.”
“Yes sir.”
He kept poking me in the chest. “Rip and Snort take dummy ranch dog for big night of hunt and tear-up, but only for coyote girl.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you, Snort.”
He poked me again. “Ha! Not kind. Coyote not give a hoot for kind.”
“Do you suppose we could discuss this without you, uh, poking a hole in my rib cage?”
“Snort not give a hoot for ripped cage.”
“Rib cage.”
“Shut trap.”
“Yes sir.”
“Rip and Snort take dog along, but Hunk got to pass test, ha ha.”
I stared into his wicked yellow eyes. “Test? What sort of test did you, uh, have in mind?”
He puffed himself up. “Hunk have to sing Coyote Sacred Hymnal and National Anthemum—all by self.”
“Oh, you mean ‘Me Just a Worthless Coyote’? Let’s see . . . yes, I think I can remember the words. But of course I’ll do my own arrangement and it might not sound as bad . . . that is, it might not sound as good as what you guys do.”
“Ha. Too bad. Hunk sing.”
The brothers plopped themselves down on the ground and stared at me with eyes that expressed . . . well, a small amount of anger but mostly boredom. Yes, large amounts of boredom, almost as though they were doing this strictly as a favor to Missy—which they were.
Well, this wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, I’d heard Rip and Snort do the song many times, and I’d even sung it with them a few times. As a test of my skills and abilities, this promised to be no big deal. I tuned my tonsils and banged out a great new arrangement of their shabby little National Anthem.
Coyote Sacred Hymn and National Anthem
Me just a worthless coyote, me howling at the moon.
Me like to sing and holler, me crazy as a loon.
Me not want job or duties, no church or Sunday school,
Me just a worthless coyote, but me ain’t nobody’s fool.
I did in it waltz time, see, gave it a snappy little rhythm, added some harmony parts, and generally spiffed it up. It turned out to be a huge improvement over the dreary thing they usually sang.
When I was finished, I turned to the audience and bowed. Missy gave a squeal of delight and clapped her paws. The brothers continued staring at me, I mean, their expressions hadn’t changed one bit.
“Thanks, Missy. Well, what do you think, guys? Not bad, huh?”
Snort swiped his paw through the air. “Trash.”
“Oh, well . . . sorry. I thought you might appreciate the new arrangement. I’m sure you’ll agree that—”
“Snort not agree for nothing. Snort madder and maddest for being nice to dummy ranch dog. And Snort hungry too, wanting to eat and burp and fight and tear up whole world.” The brothers stood up and shook the grass off their coats. “Hunk follow.”
“Well, sure, but I want you to know that—”
“And Hunk shut stupid mouth too. Talk too much.” He headed west, down a cow path, and I could hear him grumbling to himself. “Not want to listening dummy ranch dog talk all night. Coyote not give hoot for . . . mumble, grumble, mutter.”
I fell in behind Snort, and noticed that Missy wasn’t following. In fact, she was waving her paw good-bye. “Hey, you’re not going with us?”
“No. Coyote boys go for big hunt and fun. Missy wait.”
I stopped. “Uh, listen, is there a chance I could stay with you? I mean, Rip and Snort are charming guys and all, but I wouldn’t mind . . .”
She shook her head. “Hunk go with brothers, learn outlaw ways with outlaws.”
“Yes, of course. And you’re pretty sure they won’t try to eat me, right?” She nodded. “Great. Well, this is what I wanted . . . I guess. See you around, Missy.”
Darkness was falling and I plunged into the growing shadows and caught up with my . . . whatever they were. My teachers in outlawry and survival methods.
I wondered what Drover was doing. And Pete. And Little Alfred. Not that I missed them, understand. It was just that . . . okay, maybe I missed them, but not much. Surely the adventure and excitement of becoming an outlaw dog would . . .
I followed Rip and Snort into the uncharted wilderness. This was going to be fun, great fun. I just knew it would be.
We followed the trail for, oh, half a mile, I’d say, and then we left the trail and began marching through some tall grass near the creek. This was the fall of the year, don’t you know, and the country had raised a big crop of sandburs that summer. All at once I found myself limping and hopping. Those sandburs were tearing me up.
“Say, fellas, could we stop for a second and let me pull some of these stickers out of my paws?”
I sat down and began gnawing at the stickers in my left front paw. I got those out and had moved to the rear when Snort came up behind me.
“Hunk not stop in middle of march.”
“Yes, well, I seem to have . . . didn’t you guys notice all these sandburs?”
“Ha! Coyote berry tough guys, not give a hoot for little sticker-hurt in foots.” He kicked me in the tail section. “Hunk get tough, too.”
I leaped to my . . . youch . . . feet. “Sure, you bet. No problem.”
We resumed the march. My feet were killing me! I tried to walk on crumpled toes, on the sides of my feet, on my elbows, but those stickers were eating me alive. But I didn’t dare complain or say a word.
You think those guys weren’t tough? They were tough.
We marched for another five minutes or so, and then Snort called a halt. He came back to the rear of the column where I was, shall we say, unstickering my paws again. He glared down at me.
“Uh. Hunk got soft foots.”
“No, actually I think they’re getting tougher by the, uh, minute. No kidding. Tougher and tougher. I can almost feel the change.”
“Hunk got soft foots, never become outlaw dog with soft foots.”
“Don’t worry about it, Snort. My feet will be fine.”
“Not feet. Foots.”
“Okay, foots. My foots will be fine.”
“Not fine. Foots soft.”
“Okay, my foots are soft, but they’ll be fine.”
“Ha. Better be.” He pointed a paw to a spot of soft ground in front of us. “Now Hunk use soft foots for dig up supper.”
My spirits rose on hearing “supper.” “Hey, great. This is the part I’ve been looking forward to all day. And you said . . . dig?”
He scowled and raised his voice. “DIG. Use foots for shovel, make hole in ground.”
“Right. I understand the meaning of ‘dig’ but I was a little surprised . . .”
He clubbed me over the head with his paw. “Hunk talk too much. Use foots for dig and never mind surprising. Rip and Snort watch, ho ho.”
“Okay, fine, I can handle digging.”
And so I began digging. It wasn’t bad. The ground was soft and moist and before long I had a nice little hole. The only problem was that I had no idea what I was digging for. Roots? That seemed a likely possibility, only there weren’t any roots in this particular area. I thought of asking about this but decided against it.
While I was doing all the work, the brothers sat nearby, grinning and belching. They seemed pretty proud of their belching skills, and each tried to outdo the other. I would have been more impressed if they had lent a hand with the digging, but that didn’t seem to be in their plans. They didn’t mind letting me do all the work.
I must have dug for fifteen solid minutes and it had just about worn me out. When I stopped to catch my breath, they noticed. Snort lumbered over and studied the pile of fresh dirt beside the hole.
“Ah ha! Hunk find good grub, oh boy. Now Hunk get to eat.”
“Hey, great, thanks. Yes, I’m starved.” I climbed out of the hole, shook some dirt out of my hair, and stared down at the dirt pile. Hmm. I couldn’t see anything but . . . I looked closer. My head came up and I gave Snort a puzzled look.
“Grub worms?”