Chapter Ten: A Clever Plan to Sweep Miss Beulah Off Her Feet

My Heart Is Up for Rent

Now Frank, Miss Beulah, my amor,

That collie gal that I adore,

Has managed to escape my snares and traps.

I know it doesn’t make much sense,

That she’s resisted such a prince,

But she derned sure has, and that is just a fact.

I’ve gone to visit her at night,

Howled at the moon, got into fights,

And once I even tried rolling on a skunk.

That coyote trick didn’t hardly work,

She’s still in love with that same old jerk

Named Plato, and my hopes are pret’ near sunk.

Oh, my heart is up for rent,

My love’s been living in a tent.

I struck a spark and built a fire.

And got the heartburn of desire.

This game of love is pretty rough,

I’ve had this heartburn long enough.

But what the heck’s a dog supposed to do?

You chase the girls, they run away,

But if you quit, they want to play.

Who wrote these dadgum rules, I’m asking you?

Miss Beulah’s tough as nails, I fear,

The hardest case of my career,

I just don’t understand what makes her tick.

Now, surely, Frank, there’s ways and means

Of working me into her dreams.

It’s time for me to find a magic trick.

Oh, my heart is up for rent,

My love’s been living in a tent.

I struck a spark and built a fire.

And got the heartburn of desire.

Well Hank, it happens that you’ve found

A fiddlin’ fox who’s been around

And knows a thing or two ’bout charming gals.

See, all I do to turn it on

Is tell this fiddle to play a song,

And soon I have ’em standin’ in my corrals.

So if that heartburn’s got you down,

And if you’re tired of being a clown,

Just give old Frankie the Fox your shopping list.

I’ll play a jig, I’ll play a song,

She’ll think she was hit by an atom bomb,

I tell you, son, this fiddle has never missed.

Oh, my heart is up for rent,

My love’s been living in a tent.

I struck a spark and built a fire.

And got the heartburn of desire.

I’ll play a jig, I’ll call a dance,

That collie gal won’t have a chance.

That empty heart will soon be occupied, brother.

That empty heart will soon be occupied.

When we were done with the song, Frankie turned to me and smiled. “Say no more. It will be done.”

And you know what? In three minutes’ time, me and that fox had worked out a plan that was guaranteed to sweep the lovely Miss Beulah off her feet, into my awaiting arms, and out of the clutches of Plato the bird dog.

Have I mentioned Plato before? Yes, of course I have. Plato had been a thorn in my paw for a long time, the problem being that, for reasons I had never understood, Beulah had some silly attachment to the mutt.

How any woman in her right mind could choose a bird dog over . . . but let’s don’t get started on that. The point is that for years and years I had searched for the magic formula, the secret love potion, the shortcut to her heart, only to be turned away and disappointed. Crushed, actually.

Devastated.

Destroyed.

Left sitting in the ruins of a love story.

Completely wrecked emotionally, hardly able to eat or drink or carry on my work.

Just, by George, wiped out.

On the other hand, I had never had a fiddle-playing fox working for me. If he could charm eggs out of a bunch of hens, there was a real good chance that . . . heh. It hardly seemed fair, but who wants to be fair anyway?

We didn’t wait for darkness to fall, but set out right away for Beulah’s place. Did I feel good? No sir, I felt absolutely splendifferous!

We followed the creek until we came to that section of dense willows that lies just below the house. Then we turned south and proceeded in a . . . well, a southerly direction, of course.

As planned, Frankie took cover behind a big native elm on the north edge of the yard, and I went on. I hadn’t gone far when I came upon The Bird Dog.

He was practicing his pointing routines—creeping up on an old tennis shoe and then freezing, with his nose and tail sticking straight out at opposite ends of his body, and one foot poised in the air.

As you may know, bird dogs get very serious about such things as tennis shoes and old socks, and Plato was so absorbed in bird-dogging his tennis shoe that he didn’t hear me creeping up behind him.

And I, being something of a prankster, couldn’t resist giving him a little shock. At the same moment, I yelled, “Dog-eating tennis shoe!” And gave him a good swat on the behind.

“AAAAAA-EEEEEEE!”

Ho ho, his little pointing routine fell apart—hee, hee—as he flew straight up in the—ha, ha—air, I loved it. He had run a good 10 yards before he figgered out that he hadn’t been attacked by a dog-eating tennis shoe. At that point, he stopped and came back, looking a little embarrassed.

“Well, by golly, you gave me quite a scare! Good old Hank, always good for a laugh. Hank, you won’t believe this, but just this very morning, I said to Beulah, I said, ‘Honey-lamb, I wonder what’s happened to our old friend Hank.’”

“Honey-lamb?”

“That’s Beulah, that’s what I call her, and she calls me Sugarbun. It probably sounds silly.”

“Yeah, probably does.”

“But Hank, we’re just as happy as a couple of larks down here, couldn’t be better, every little thing is just wonderful!”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Isn’t it though? That’s what I tell Beulah, and oh, I’ll bet you want to see her. Honey-lamb!” He called her and then gave me a wink. “She’ll be SO surprised to see you here, and I’m SO happy for her! You two get together and talk about old times, Hank, and I’ll go on and finish my workout, and then we’ll all get together and talk and laugh and just have a wonderful time.”

“You bet.”

“Make yourself at home, Hank. What’s mine is yours.”

“Yes, I know.”

He went on with his workout, never dreaming what schemes were bubbling in my mind.

I hid behind a little bush and watched her coming down from the front porch: the fine collie nose, the flaxen hair, the deep brown eyes, the ears that flapped in the breeze.

Mercy! Any dog would gladly give his life for such a woman. Fortunately, I had come up with a better plan.

“Plato? Plato, did you call?” She still hadn’t seen me. About 10 feet away, she stopped and looked around.

I stepped from the bush, and in a voice as thick and sweet as sorghum molasses, I said, “Hello, Beulah.”

I saw the startled look come into her eyes as old memories came rushing to the surface. She was startled, puzzled, bewildered, and then torn between the true love she’d always felt for me and the false, counterfeit, shabby emotions she felt for Plato.

Yes, I could see it all passing across her face in the space of a few seconds. Finally she spoke. “Why . . . Hank! What are you doing here?”

I gave her a secret smile. “I think you know, Beulah.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Of course you do. I’ve come to save you.”

“Save . . . me? Save me from what?”

“You know, Beulah, and I know that you know, and you know that I know that you know, and there’s no sense in pretending.”

“Oh Hank, I hope you’re not still thinking about . . . us.”

I laughed and immediately switched to Plan B. “Oh no. No. No, no. I have my life and you have yours.”

She sighed and began to relax, heh heh. “That’s right, Hank, and I’m glad.”

“You have your life, Beulah, and I have mine, and we’ve gone our separate ways.”

“But we can still be friends.”

“Exactly. Yes, the best of friends who can talk and laugh and share secret thoughts.”

“I’ve always enjoyed talking to you, Hank. You’re a very interesting dog, and in many ways . . . well, we mustn’t stir the waters.”

“No indeed, Beulah. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us because, after all, we have our own lives and that’s the way it ought to be. Why, if one of us didn’t have a life . . . there would be only one of us left, I guess you’d say, and that would be no fun at all.”

“Oh Hank,” she laughed, and hey, I could see that old sparkle in her eyes, “you have such a funny way of saying things.”

“Yes indeed, my sweet darling, uh, friend . . . friend of many years and shared experiences, and why don’t we take a little walk down by that big native elm tree? It’s a beautiful tree, don’t you think?”

I began easing her towards the tree.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is.”

“Gorgeous tree. I’ve always admired that tree. You know, Beulah, the problem with dogs today is that they don’t take the time to appreciate the beauty of trees.”

She laughed again. “Is that the problem with dogs today? I had wondered.”

“Yes indeed, just move along, my dear, that’s better, just a few more steps and, bingo, here we are.”

We had reached the base of the tree, on the other side of which lurked my secret musical weapon.

“Well,” she said, taking a deep breath of fragrant air, “it is a very nice tree. What shall we talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know, why don’t we talk about fiddle music?”

“Fiddle music?”

“Sure, why not? For years we’ve never talked about fiddle music. Tell me, my, uh, friend, my good friend, what do you think of fiddle music?”

For a moment she ducked her head. Then her big dewy eyes came up and she smiled. “I suppose you already know that I just LOVE fiddle music, but I’m sorry to say that I never get to hear enough of it.”

Ho boy, was this deal working? Old Hank had set the trap of love, and now he was fixing to release the spring.