Chapter Ten: Justice Strikes the Cat

You think we broke under the strain, don’t you? Go ahead and admit it. You think we were suddenly swept away on a tidal wave of emotional so-forth, broke discipline, and threw ourselves all over Sally May—much to the delight of Kitty-Kitty, who was lurking near the gate and watching the whole show.

Heh heh. Nope.

You’ll be shocked and astounded to hear that we kept our formation and imposed discipline upon our feelings of love and devotion. I’m not saying it was easy. It wasn’t. It was one of the toughest assignments of my whole career. I mean, we were both quivering with emotion—trembling, shivering, shaking, twitching.

Drover’s eyes crossed under the strain. My front paws moved up and down. Every muscle and nerve in my enormous body cried out for a blessed release, but somehow I managed to keep them under control.

We didn’t jump or lick. We just sat there, beaming looks of devotion to the Lady of the House. Was she impressed? She was majorly impressed, Big Time impressed. She looked down at us for a long time, and slowly the ice in her face began to melt. Yes, right in front of my eyes, I saw the change.

At first she seemed too shocked to speak, but then she said, “My stars! This is something new.”

She closed the door and walked around to the other side of the car to help the kids out. I shot a glance at Drover. “Okay, it’s time for Loyal Dogs Following. Let’s go!”

In a flash, we leaped to our feet, fell in step behind Sally May, and followed her around to the other side of the car. While she was opening the door, we plopped ourselves down in the snow and went into another Controlled Sit.

Little Alfred stepped out of the car and saw us. “Hi, doggies. Did you miss us?”

Oh yes! In fact, I came within a whisker of breaking discipline and throwing myself into his arms. We were the best of pals, the boy and I, and my whole body ached to give him a proper homecoming. But, somehow, I resisted and stayed in formation.

Sally May gathered up Baby Molly in her arms, closed the car door, and moved toward the gate. My eyes drifted down to a patch of bare ice right in front of her. It would be very slick. Did she see it? Sally May, be careful, watch your step. She was carrying the baby, see, and if she slipped on that ice . . .

It was as if it was happening in slow motion. I watched as her right foot came down on the patch of ice and began to slide forward. She leaned backward and tried to catch her balance, but her foot kept sliding. She was going to fall, I could see it coming. She and Baby Molly were going to take a hard spill on the frozen ground! And there was nothing anyone could . . .

Then it came to me in a flash. It wouldn’t be fun, but I knew what I had to do. I would have to offer up my body as a Safety Cushion! I leaped to my feet and threw myself into the path of her plunge to the ground. I got there without a second to spare. Sally May’s feet went out from under her and she sat down hard on my . . . OOF . . . midsection. Baby Molly started to cry as they landed with a thump. Sally May had given me a pretty severe smashing, but both she and Baby Molly came out of it with no broken bones or damage.

Little Alfred helped her to her feet and she looked down at me with astonished eyes. “Do you suppose he did that on purpose?”

“I think so, Mom. He’s a pwetty good dog.”

I coughed and staggered to my feet, trying to catch my breath. Sally May blinked her eyes and shook her head, then her lips turned up in a smile. “Well, I never . . . Hank, I don’t know if you meant to do that or not, but I could have broken my neck, or dropped the baby, or . . . I don’t even want to think about it. I believe you deserve a reward. Alfred, honey, bring Hank a couple of strips of bacon.” She bent down and patted me on the head. “Thank you.”

Did you hear that? Wow! She had thanked me, and I was fixing to receive the Coveted Bacon Award! Could it get any better than that? Yes, it got even better. As Sally May crept across the ice and through the gate, guess who tried to butt into my deal and get some undeserved attention.

Mister Lurk and Smirk. Pete.

See, it had just about killed his soul that I had won some points with Sally May, and he just couldn’t stand it. He shot me a hateful glare and started following Sally May toward the house, rub­bing her ankles and purring. Tee hee. Maybe you can guess what happened. Pete got himself tangled up in her feet and she stepped on his tail.

His eyes bulged out and he cut loose with a loud, “Reeeeeeeer!”

Sally May tripped over him and said, “Sorry, Pete, but get out of the way.”

Little Alfred was following behind his mother. “Get out of the way, Pete! You twipped my mom.”

This was almost too delicious, and I came within a whisker of breaking discipline and going into a fit of wild, righteous laughter. But at the last second, I was able to impose Laughter Clamps and maintained a solemn face.

The cat picked himself out of the snow and shook all four paws, one at a time. His ears were pinned down on his head and he beamed me a glare. “Well, I guess you enjoyed that, Hankie.”

“Me? Not at all, Pete. In fact, I’m sitting here sharing your pain and wishing there were something I could do to help you in this time of trouble.”

Behind me, I heard Drover snort a muffled laugh. I struggled to keep a straight face—nay, a mournful face, one that expressed my deep sorrow that Pete had . . . tee hee . . . gotten exactly what he deserved, the pest. It was tough, but I got ’er done. I not only didn’t laugh at Pete’s misfortune, I didn’t even smile.

I could see that this was killing him. My campaign to win the heart of Sally May was working to perfection, and Kitty had no idea what to do about it.

He came slithering through the snow, and by now the pupils of his eyes had widened. That’s what cats do when they’re mad, you know. The dark part of their eye gets big, revealing thoughts that are just as dark as their eyes. Oh, and his ears were still pinned down on his head.

“I know what you’re doing, Hankie, but it won’t work.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Pete. Are you suggesting . . .”

“You’ll find out.”

I didn’t have time to wonder what that might mean. The back door opened and out came Little Alfred. And, holy smokes, even at a distance, I could see that he was carrying two strips of raw bacon draped over his left index finger. Drover and I exchanged looks of anticipation. We both began to quiver with excitement.

Drover said, “I don’t know if I can sit still for this. I can already smell that bacon. Can I have a piece?”

“Are you nuts? I earned that by . . . okay, what the heck, I’ll share.”

“Gosh, thanks. Boy, I love bacon.”

“Me too, but hold your position. Remember: manners and discipline.”

Drover clamped his jaws together and put on a brave face. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit.”

We watched as Little Alfred approached us on the snow-covered sidewalk. Pete was also watching, and as the lad walked up to the gate, Pete struck like a jungle tiger. He dived through the air and snatched our bacon strips out of Alfred’s hand, and scampered away.

There we sat, Drover and I, waiting for the awards ceremony to begin, and suddenly the party was over. Nothing remained of our hopes and dreams but Kitty’s tracks in the snow and the lingering aroma of luscious, yummy bacon.

I was too stunned to speak. Drover broke into tears. “He stole our bacon! Pete stole our reward for being good dogs! I wanted that bacon so bad, I can’t stand it!” Through his tears, he stared at me. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

My mind was reeling. One voice inside my head screamed for revenge, but another voice was urging calm and restraint. “Stay calm, Drover. Let’s try to work within the system.”

“The system!” he squawled. “Systems don’t work on cats because they cheat!”

“I know, I know, but let’s hold our formation and see what happens.”

Little Alfred’s face had turned a deep shade of red and he beamed a hot glare toward the iris patch, where the thief had taken refuge. We could hear him smacking and slobbering as he devoured our Bacon Award.

Pete, that is, not Little Alfred. Pete was smacking and so-forthing.

Little Alfred raised a fist and shook it at the cat. “I’m going to tell my mom!” And with that threat hanging in the crisp air, the boy stomped back into the house. Moments later, we heard his voice. “Mom, Pete stole the bacon from my doggies!”

I shot a glance at Drover. “You see? The wheels of justice are beginning to turn.”

“Well, I hope they run over Pete’s tail, the mean old thing. My heart’s just broken!”

“I understand, son, but try to be brave. Hold the formation and maintain Iron Discipline. This could get very interesting.”

We waited. I kept one eye on the iris patch and the other on the back door. Pete’s face poked around the side of the house. He was licking his lips and . . . you probably guessed . . . smirking.

He saw us and waved a paw. “The bacon was delicious, Hankie. I hope you didn’t mind sharing it. You’re such a nice doggie.”

I wasn’t sure I could hold myself back. My vision went red. I could feel pressure behind my eyes. I could hear thunder rumbling deep inside the volcano of my . . . something. My heart, I suppose. I could hear the rumbling of molten lava and the hissing of steam.

And then, beside me, Drover said, “Git ’im, Hankie, beat ’im up!”

I almost lost control and surrendered myself to the savage instincts that were urging me to make salad out of the scheming little cat, but just then the back door burst open.

You may not know this, but we dogs have learned to read Sally May’s mood by the sound of the screen door opening. When it merely opens and closes, she’s in a good mood. When it flies open and hits the side of the house with a loud crack, we know it’s time to lay low and take cover.

The screen door opened with a loud crack. It sent a shiver down my backbone, and I had to strug­gle to keep from highballing it down to the calf shed—the place where on more than one occasion I had sought refuge from Sally May’s . . . uh . . . sharp tongue and broom.

Remember that song about Sally May? “When she’s angry, when she’s wrathful, the trees run for cover. And when she speaks of her displeasure, the mountains hide their faces.”

No kidding, it’s true. Hey, when Sally May’s on the peck, all life on the ranch comes to a standstill.

She came boiling out of the house. Her face showed all the signs of danger: flaming eyes, flared nostrils, lips as thin as nails. Just the sight of her turned me into a melting blob of dog hair.

Drover let out a gasp. “Oh my gosh, we’d better run!”

“Hold your ground, son. Let’s see what happens.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Shhhh. Listen.”

Her eyes darted around the yard. She saw us sitting beside the gate—two faithful dogs who had been robbed and cheated. Little Alfred joined her.

“Where is the cat?” she asked. The boy pointed toward the iris patch. She started toward the northwest corner of the house. “Pete? Kitty? Here, Kitty.”

I couldn’t believe this next part. Any dog in his right mind would have quit the country when he heard the crack of the screen door, but Pete . . . see, he’d had very little experience with the Thermo­nuclear side of Sally May’s personality. Oh, and he was also an incredible dumbbell.

You know what he did? He came sliding out of the iris patch, purring and rubbing against the side of the house. Then he went over to Sally May and started wrapping himself around her ankles. He had no idea what was fixing to fall on top of his head. But I did. Tee hee.

I loved it!

She reached down and snatched him off the ground. I mean, she didn’t just pick him up, she snatched him up so fast, it actually caused his smirk to evaporate. Maybe he had begun to realize that, this time, something was different.

Sally May held him up to her face. “You’re a naughty cat. You stole bacon from the dogs and you didn’t deserve it. Shame on you!”

She pitched him out into the snow. He pinned down his ears, fired an angry look at us dogs, and went scampering off to the north side of the house.

You talk about quivering with joy and excitement! I could hardly sit still. I wanted to do flips in the air and bark a rousing approval for a job well done, but, somehow, I maintained Iron Discipline and held the formation. So did Drover. I was proud of the little mutt.