Chapter Eight: The Pasha of Shizzam
It was, to say the least, a bittersweet dream, which sort of describes the way things have gone with Beulah from the very beginning. If that bird dog would just go away . . . oh well. I don’t want to get started on Plato.
Except to say that any dog who chases birds can’t be very smart, and any woman who chases bird dogs, when she could have a brave, magnificent Great Grand Potentate cowdog for the same price, is walking the fine line between poor taste and terrible judgment.
But I don’t want to get started on that. There’s no rational explanation for it, that’s what torques me about the whole thing. I mean, is there anything dumber or less significant than pointing birds? Who cares about birds? If you’re going to point something, point something that matters. That’s what I always say.
But never mind. I can’t be bothered . . . what is it about that stupid, spotted, stick-tailed bird dog that holds her interest day after day, week after week, and month after month? It’s outrageous.
But the important point to remember in all this is that I really don’t care. There are other women in the world, hundreds of them, thousands of them, and if she wants to go chasing after a stupid . . . phooey!
Nevertheless, it was a wonderful dream, in a painful sort of way, and I wouldn’t have minded running it over and over through the entire afternoon and into the evening hours. But that wasn’t to be. Drover, the little dunce, began pulling my ears.
When I felt the first tug at my left ear, I growled, pretty muchly on instinct, and told him, “Drover, you’re dlvkskdi bchslek vksl.”
“That wasn’t me, Hank. You’d better wake up and see . . .”
“And you’d better zvlsckelf b’aldke mfkd ake zzzzzz.”
“Hank, get up. Somebody’s here.”
“Of course somebody’zzzzzz snort wheeze here, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking to each other.”
“No, I mean somebody else.”
“Tell ’em I’m busy. Tell ’em I died three weeks ago. Tell ’em . . .” He pulled my ear again. “Tell ’em that if you pull my ear again, you nincompoop, I’m going to build a mudhole in the middle of your face!”
He pulled it again. That did it. My eyelids sprang open, and once my eyeballs quit rolling around and locked in on the target, I saw . . .
HUH?
. . . this face, see: Two big eyes, short nose, a broad grinning mouth, jug ears, red jacket, and a red fez on top of its head. Drover didn’t wear a red fez. Or have jug ears. Or a short nose.
“Drover, I don’t want to alarm you, but something has happened to your face. All at once it has begun to resemble a . . .”
“A monkey, Hank?”
“Exactly. All these years you’ve acted like a monkey, and now the chickens have come home . . . Drover, is there something we need to discuss?”
“Yeah. I think your monkey’s got some business on his mind.”
“Which could be called monkey business, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah. He’s sitting on your chest. I told him to get off but he only made teeth at me and stuck out his tongue.”
“I see. Yes, it’s all coming clear now. I gave him strict orders to stand with his nose in the corner. He has disobeyed, and now we have the Case of the Disobedient Monkey.”
“I guess so. What are you going to do?”
“Very simple, Drover. Obviously the little whelp has forgotten his place in the overall scheme of things and must be taught a lesson. I’ll simply order him to get off my chest.”
“That sounds like a good idea—if he’ll do it.”
“He’ll do it. I’ll speak to him in his own dialect. Watch this and study your lessons.” I beamed a steely gaze into the eyes of the monkey. “Monkey get off dog at once, hurry-scurry, boola-boola, chop-chop!”
He didn’t seem to understand. Instead of following my order, he flicked the end of my nose with his finger. And grinned down at me. That flicking business hurt.
I tried another tack. “Monkey not understand. Monkey get off and . . .” He flicked my nose again. “Monkey BAD monkey to flick master’s nose with finger. Monkey be good monkey, get off and . . .” He did it again.
“I don’t think he speaks that language, Hank. He keeps flicking your nose.”
“So it seems, Drover, and now I have no choice but to translate my message into the universal language—brute force.”
“Oh gosh, don’t hurt him.”
“I’ll try to be gentle, but I can’t make any promises.”
I took a deep breath and concentrated all the muscles in my highly conditioned body into an upward surge. Within a period of only a few seconds, I struck him in the chest with my front paws, kicked him in the back with my hind paws, and arched my back like a bucking horse.
Pretty impressive, huh? But you know, these monkeys are used to living in trees and it’s a little hard to shake one loose. I struggled and thrashed until I could struggle and thrash no more. The fool monkey was still sitting on my chest.
And you might say that he had, well, pinned my front legs to the ground, so to speak.
“Oops,” said Drover. “That didn’t work too well.”
“It’s just a simple language problem, Drover, nothing to be alarmed about. The little brute thinks I want to play with him. I’ll have to use a sterner tone of voice, that’s all.” I narrowed my eyes and made teeth at him and snarled. “Monkey unpin legs right now, chop-chop, or face disastrous consequence!”
He unpinned my legs. I winked at Drover and gave him a smile. “There, you see? You can’t monkey around with a monkey. You’ve got to be firm.” I turned back to the monkey. “Now, monkey get off and wugg lum wum lum . . .”
The little snot had reached into my mouth, taken hold of my tongue, pulled it out a full six inches, and was . . .
Did I mention that one of the dangers of revealing Top Secret . . . yes, I did, and just as I had feared . . .
“Oh, my gosh, Hank, he’s got your tongue!”
“Wugg lumwum lum wugg!”
“I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Wugg lum wugg wum lum wugg!”
“Do you want the monkey to turn loose of your tongue?”
“Uhhh!”
At that moment, the monkey spoke for the first time. “My name is not Minkey. I am Pasha of Shizzam, Lord Temporal and Spiritual, and heir to the throne of Raj Kumari.”
Drover’s eyes widened and he took two steps backward. “Oh my gosh, he’s talking, Hank! And did you hear what he said?”
“Uhhh lum wugg wum.”
The monkey looked at Drover. “Tell your friend that he weel not geet his tongue back until he recognizes that he ees a lowly subject of the Pasha of Shizzam. You weel tell him that.”
“I will?”
“Indeed, you weel.”
“What if I go hide in the machine shed?”
“If you go hide in thees machine shed place, I weel follow you and pool your tongue.”
“I just thought I’d ask.” He came creeping over and whispered in my ear. “Hank, did you hear?”
“Uhhh.”
“I guess we’d better do what he says.”
“Uhhh.”
Just then, the monkey released my tongue and said, “Are you ready now to be a loyal subject of the Pasha?”
“Funny that you should ask,” I said in a bold tone of voice. “Number One, you’re not a Pasha; you’re a monkey. Number Two, I’m in charge of the ranch and wugg lum wugg wum lum wugg . . .”
He sat there on my chest, grinning down at me and holding on to my tongue. “Perhaps you would like to try eet again?”
“Uhhh.” He gave my tongue back. I rolled it around in my mouth and licked my chops. “As I was saying, we could probably work out some kind of compromise.”
The monkey—eh, the Pasha—wagged one hairy little finger in front of my nose. “No compromise. I am Pasha, you are lowly, stinking, unwashed subjects.”
“Yes, well . . . that sounds like the kind of compromise we could go for, so to speak. Now, if you’ll get off my . . .”
“You must obey Pasha or bad things weel come.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You promise obey Pasha? Or shall Pasha seize tongue again?”
“Well, no, let’s not get . . . I think we could probably . . .”
“Promise or not promise!”
“Oh. I, uh, guess that we could take that under . . . all right, you win. We promise.”
And with that, he crawled off my chest and let me up. That was his first mistake, letting me up, because I had already devised a clever plan for tabing the turnals on this upstart monkey. Turning the tables, I should say. For you see, I had begun drawing on my reserves of Ancient Cowdog Wisdom:
If at first you don’t succeed, bark.
If at second you don’t succeed, run for the house.
And that’s just what we did, fellers, ran for the house. My monkey had gotten out of control and had decided that he was hot stuff. But he had never gone up against my favorite ranch wife, Sally May.
And I had a feeling that when Sally May got through with him, he’d have enough broom tracks on him that he’d forget about being the Pasha of Shizzam.