Chapter Three: Slim Clips His Toenails
Slim watched them until the pickup left our property and turned right on the county road. Then he looked down at me.
“Boys, that right there is a bad dog. Joe’s going to have problems with him. Nice work, Hank.” He bent down and scratched me behind the ears. I puffed myself up to my full height and shot a grin at Mister Squeakbox. “You ain’t much of a fighter, but your heart’s in the right place. I’ll remember that the next time you mess up.”
Huh?
There! You see what these guys do? They give you a little compliment, a little pat on the head, and then they take it all back with some tacky remark. I’ll remember that the next time you mess up. What an insult. What an outrage!
For his information, I rarely ever “mess up,” and I had no plans for “messing up” any time in the near future.
I couldn’t believe he’d said that. Oh well.
Where were we? Oh yes, at the end of a long hot day in August. Bushed. Beat. Exhausted. Worn down to a nub of our former selves but triumphant, since I had won a huge moral victory over an overbearing rottweiler. And we had ended our long, hot so forth down at Slim’s bachelor shack, on the banks of Wolf Creek.
We dogs kind of enjoyed staying down at Slim’s place. For one thing, he, being a bachelor, had no problem with dogs staying inside his house. Not that we were dirty, understand. We weren’t—or I wasn’t. I can’t speak for Drover or speculate on his personal habits relating to cleanliness, but I can certainly speak for myself.
I’m pretty derned fussy about my appearance. I bathe every single day in the overflow of the septic tank. It not only leaves me clean and spotless, but it also gives me that deep, manly aroma that the lady dogs really love.
Where were we? Oh yes. Slim always let us stay inside the house, and once there, we often found ourselves in position to . . . how can I say this? Once we established a presence inside the house, we were then in a perfect and natural position to . . . well, share in his meals. Snack. Eat. He sometimes gave us food, is the point, and food is a very important part of a dog’s . . . whatever.
Spiritual development, I suppose. Feeling of well-bean. See, even on a bad day, a few morsels of food can bring a flood of new meaning into our lives.
We ask so little of this life, we dogs, and a few scraps of food can turn a slow day into an exciting experience. For all his flots and falls . . . for all his flaws and flots . . . for all his faults and flaws, let us say, old Slim often scored home runs in the Sharing of Food Department.
Anyways, Drover and I made our way up to the house. Slim had gotten there first and was inside doing . . . something. Taking off his boots, perhaps. Yes, that’s exactly what he was doing. I knew, because I heard him straining with the boot jack, and then I heard his boots hit the floor.
Bam. Bam. Two boots. That’s what he wore, two boots, because . . . well, he had two feet, I suppose, and if a guy has two feet, he wears . . . skip it.
We made our way up to the front porch and went to the screen door. A lot of your common run of ranch mutts—and we’re talking about mutts with no class or couth or manners—would start scratching on the screen door. Not me. I knew better than to do such a thing. Not only was it discouthful and rude, but that door-scratching had a tendency to . . . well, destroy screens.
I knew Slim’s position on Damaged Screen Doors. He didn’t approve. They made him mad and caused him to roar and yell. Hencely, instead of scratching on the door, I sat down on the porch and positioned myself so that he could see me.
Drover was there, too, and together we sat down and waited for Slim to let us in. Minutes passed. We could hear him in there. He was doing . . . something.
Click. Click. Click.
My ears leaped up and I twisted my head to the side as I tried to analyze the sound. “What’s he doing in there?”
“Well, I don’t know, but it sounds kind of like . . . you don’t reckon he’s clipping his toenails, do you?”
I gave the runt a glare. “Clipping his toenails? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would he clip his toenails at a time like this?”
“Well, I don’t know. What time is it?”
“It’s time for us to be off duty and inside the house, where we belong. Besides, Slim would never go to the trouble of clipping his toenails. He just tears them off.”
“Oh, okay.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Drover, unless I’m badly mistaken, he’s in there clipping his toenails.”
“I’ll be derned. I never would have thought of that.”
“Nor would I, but the evidence is building up. That clicking sound, you see, is coming from the toenail clipper as it clips each of the various toenails.”
“I’ll swan.”
“And obviously he doesn’t realize that we’re out here, waiting to be let in.” I paused a moment to ponder the situation. “Okay, Drover, let’s go into Loyal Dogs Waiting Patiently. Do you remember the routine?”
“Well, let me think. We sit and . . . stare at the door?”
“Almost. We sit and stare at the door and sweep our tails across the porch.”
“Yeah, but my tail’s just a stub and it can’t sweep.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. Okay, I’ll switch my tail over to Slow Sweeps, and you wiggle yours. How about that?”
“That’ll work. I can do pretty good wiggles.”
And that’s just what we did, went into Loyal Dogs Waiting Patiently and did a heck of a job with it. But it didn’t work.
Click. Click. Click.
“Hmmm. He seems to be ignoring us.”
“Yeah, and I’m getting discouraged.”
“Don’t give up, son, we’ve got a few more bags in our trick. Maybe we should sing the ‘Let Us in the House’ song. That’ll get him.”
And with that, we belted out the song, just like this.
Let Us in the House Song
There’s a time for everything.
There’s a time for working.
There’s a time for suffering.
And there’s a time we should call it quits.
We dogs have worked in heat and dust,
And that’s without complaining,
But what’s the deal? This door is shut,
And there’s some risk that we’ll starve to death.
Must you clip your toenails?
And must you do it now?
We’re sitting on the front porch
Waiting to be let inside.
We don’t really want to
Cause you any trouble.
Can’t you merely take the hint?
’Cause if you don’t we will scratch the screen.
Summer heat is hard on us
And these drought conditions.
We’ve just put in a long, hard day
Protecting you from all kinds of stuff.
We don’t want to threaten,
Bark or beg or moan,
But this is getting serious.
Your nails can wait for another time.
Must you clip your toenails?
And must you do it now?
We’re sitting on the front porch
Waiting to be let inside.
We don’t really want to
Cause you any trouble.
Can’t you merely take the hint?
’Cause if you don’t we will scratch the screen.
Pretty awesome song, huh? You bet. And I was pretty sure it would do the trick. I cocked my ear and listened.
Click. Click. Click.
“Drover, something’s wrong. Surely, if he’d heard our song, he would rush to the door and let us in.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like us anymore. Maybe he hates us. Remember all those dog hairs on the pickup seat?”
“Those were hog hairs. You told me so yourself.”
“I think they were dog hairs, and I think they might have come from . . . us.”
“Hmmm. You could be right.”
I cut my eyes from side to side and plunged into deep thoughts of deepest concentration. “Okay, what’s done is done. There’s no use spilling any more milk. If Slim insists on clipping his toenails, we have no choice but to scratch on the screen door.”
Drover’s eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t think we’d better do that. He might get mad.”
“Well, it’s his own fault. He’s brought this upon himself. We tried the course of manners and reason and it flopped.”
“I guess we could just stay out on the porch.”
I stared at him. “I can’t believe you said that. Stay out on the porch? When there’s a whole house waiting for a couple of tired, loyal dogs to come in? What good is a house without dogs, Drover?”
“Well . . . ”
“A house without dogs is like a song without a melody, a tree without leaves, a sandwich without mustard, a ranch without baling wire. A house without dogs is a hollow place, just four roofs and a wall.”
“And toenail clippers.”
“Exactly. A house without dogs is like toenail clippers without a toe. Do you see what this means? It means that we must go to the drastic measure of scratching on the screen.”
He gulped. “Which one of us?”
“Me, of course, unless . . . I guess we could let you, uh, go solo on this deal. Yes, it might be good experience for you.”
“Yeah, but this old leg’s acting up on me again.”
“Which leg?”
“The one I use for scratching.”
“Use your other leg.”
“It’s starting to hurt too, terrible pain. I just don’t think I could stand it.”
I gave my head a shake. “Drover, you are such a weenie. What’s the big deal? We’re doing this for Slim’s own good, don’t forget that.”
Drover stood up and began limping in a circle.
“Okay, skip it, I’ll do the scratching. But this will have to go into my report.”
“Oh no, not that!”
“Yes, and all your begging and whining won’t change a thing. It will go into my report and you will get five Chicken Marks. How does that make you feel?”
“Oh my leg!”
I ignored his noise and marched up to the screen door. I took three deep breaths, limbered up my scratching paw, and prepared to launch myself into Drastic Measures. Maybe that was a mistake.