Chapter Eight: Trapped Alive!

My goodness, unless I was badly mistaken, the window glass had moved again. What was the deal? For no good reason, the glass had moved, with nobody cranking it up and without my permission.

No kidding. I stood there and watched as it zipped shut. You know, this was starting to get on my nerves. Not only had the window closed without any authorization from me, but it had denied me my source of fresh, wholesome air. But did I just sit there, moping and breathing stale air? No sir. I moved my freight over to the driver’s-side window.

I stepped past Drover and headed for the open window. I suppose that his mind had been wandering and all at once it returned to his body. “What’s going on? How come . . .”

“Don’t worry about it, son. I’ve got everything under control.” I stepped up to the window on the driver’s side and filled my lungs with fresh air.

Behind me, Drover said, “Gosh, did the other window roll up by itself?”

“Something like that. Yes.”

“Oh, I get it now. You stepped on the button.”

“Button? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, there’s a button . . .”

“There’s a button on every shirtsleeve and a thread on every button, and I don’t have time to discuss threads and buttons. The impoitant point is that we still have a supply of fresh air.”

“Yeah, but you’d better watch where you’re stepping or you’ll do it again.”

“Drover, where I’m stepping has nothing to do with . . .”

Zzzzzzzzzzzzip.

HUH?

I happened to be looking at Drover at that very moment, and was able to observe his eyes as they grew from small dots into wide circles. Then he let out a gasp. “Oh my gosh, you rolled up that window too! I knew it! I tried to warn you!”

“Will you please hush? I had nothing to do with it. I was just standing here, minding my own business.” My gaze prowled around the cab. “Drover, there’s something very strange about this pickup. We must stay alert.”

He fell down on the seat and started wheezing. “Yeah, and now I can’t breathe!”

Of course you can breathe.”

“Yeah, but all the air’s gone stale, and I hate to breathe stale air. I think I’m fixing to smuthocate!”

“Oh, rubbish. Drover, it’s common knowledge that these pickup cabs aren’t sealed airtight. There should be plenty of . . .” I took a big gulp of air. All at once it seemed . . . uh . . . pretty stale. I took another big gulp and . . . “Holy stokes, Droper, we’re running out of air!”

“I knew it! Help, I’m smuthocating!”

“Get control of yourself, son. We have to be professional about this. Try to . . .” My mind was racing. “Try to ration your air intake.”

He stared at me. “How do you do that?”

“Well, you just . . . I’m not sure.”

“Ohhhhhhh!”

“Stop groaning, that’s the first step. Groaning uses up large quantities of precious carbon diego. No more groaning.”

“Well, I’ll try. And maybe we should sit still and not move.”

“Great idea. Now we’re cooking.” I left the window and joined him in the middle of the seat. There, we went into Statue Mode and didn’t move a hair. The pickup chugged on across the pasture, Slim pitched off hay, and we rationed our breathing, cutting each breath by 46 percent. “I think this is working, son. Now, all we have to do is wait for Slim. What do you say? Can we tough it out?”

No answer. I glanced to my right and saw that he had passed out. A cold chill moved down my spine.

“Drover, speak to me. Can you hear me?”

He moaned. “What did you say?”

“Well, I haven’t actually said anything yet, except, ‘Speak to me.’”

“Do you want me to speak or hear you?”

“I don’t care, one or the other.”

“Well, I can’t hear you. Everything’s fuzzy.”

“Okay, then speak to me.”

“I just did.”

“Yes, but you didn’t say anything.”

“Who can talk when he’s smuthocating?”

“Try it, Drover, and give me a report on your condition.”

“What? You’re fading out.”

“I said, give me a comport on your rendition!”

“Nothing makes sense, everything’s fading out!”

“Hang on, son, don’t lose consciousness. Slim’s almost done, he’ll be here any second.”

“Everything’s getting dark!”

“Open your eyes, Drover!”

He opened his eyes and blinked them several times. “That helped.”

“See? Hang on for a few more minutes. Ration your air. Count sheep. Think of a letter between one and ten. Or . . . wait, we’ll play Twenty Questions. That’ll help pass the time.”

“Who goes first?”

“You go. I’m feeling a little rattled.”

“Okay, I’ll try.” He wadded up his face in an expression of deep concentration. “Here’s my first question. How come you don’t roll down a window?”

I stared at the runt. “Why don’t I roll down the window? Because there’s no crank or handle for doing it. Had you thought of that?”

“Yeah, but maybe if you go back to the door and step on one of those buttons . . .”

“Hold it, halt. We discontinued that conversation about threads and buttons.”

“Yeah, but see those buttons on the door?”

I narrowed my eyes and studied the alleged door. “Oh. Those buttons? Okay, what’s your point?”

“Well, I think if you step on one of them, it’ll make the window roll down.”

“Drover, that is one of the dumbest things you’ve ever said. How could a button roll down a window?”

He heaved a sigh. “Hank, just try it. I think it’ll work.”

I gave this half a minute of deep thought. “All right, I’ll trust you this time. Everything in my experience tells me that this is a mistake, but for you, I’ll try it.”

“Thanks. You’ll be glad.”

I marched over to the left-side door, placed my paw on the button, and pushed down.

Click.

That was odd. The sound of a window moving up or down is supposed to be a Zzzzzzzip. The sound I’d just heard had been more of a click. Obviously Drover’s experiment had ended in failure.

Behind me, I heard him let out a groan. “Oh no! YOU LOCKED THE DOORS!”

“I did no such thing. All I did was . . .” I looked closer at the little door-locker thing near the window. It appeared to be . . . gulp . . . in the down position. “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you . . .”

“Help!”

“. . . but something has gone badly wrong. This pickup has locked its own doors!”

“Help!”

“We are now locked inside a moving pickup!”

“Help!”

“Will you please shut your little trap and stop squeaking? I can’t think with all your noise.”

“Murff!”

“What?”

“I’m trying to gag myself.”

“Oh. Thanks. Listen carefully. We have only one course of action left.”

“Bust out?”

“No. We must hide. When Slim finds that the windows are rolled up and the doors are locked, he’ll probably blame it on us.”

“Gosh, I never thought of that.”

“Quick, son, into Bunker Positions! Hit the floor!”

In a flash, we both dived out of the seat, hit the floor, and began burrowing as deeply as we could against the passenger-side door. To add to our concealment, we covered our eyes with our paws. We vanished into the darkness and became Invisible Dogs.

“Nice job, son, I think this will work.”

“You really think so?”

“Oh yes. He’ll never suspect a thing.”

We hovered there in the darkness, listening to the drone of the motor. But then . . . oops, I heard Slim pulling on the door handle, trying to get inside. Then he was banging on the window glass. Then we heard his voice: “Hey!”

“Shhh. Not a peep, Drover. As long as he’s outside, we’re safe.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Drover said, “You know, I’m not so sure we’re safe.”

“What?”

“The pickup’s still moving . . . and nobody’s driving.”

“Well, of course. What’s your point, Drover, and please be quick about it.”

“Well, I was just wondering if maybe . . . we ought to try to let him in.”

“What? Are you nuts? If we let him in, he’ll know we locked him out.”

“You did, not me.”

“Drover, I had nothing to do with it. On the other hand . . .” I uncovered my eyes and sat up. I could see Slim’s face in the window. He was yelling words I couldn’t hear. “Drover, Slim’s at the door. Maybe I’d better see what he wants.”

I went to the door on the driver’s side. Through the window, I could see Slim, trotting along beside the moving pickup. He yelled and banged on the window and pointed to something up ahead. Hmmm. A canyon. Then he pointed to the little door-locker device on the window ledge. What was he trying to tell me?

Bark? Okay, that made sense. He wanted me to bark. I filled my lungs with stale air and cut loose with a burst of deep, manly barking.

This produced a very strange response. His eyes seemed to roll up inside his head and he continued screaming and pounding on the window.

Bark louder? Sure, I could handle that. I refilled my tanks and unleashed an enormous barst of burking, one of the most impressive bursts of barking of my whole career. But even that didn’t seem to help. I mean, he was still out there, yelling and waving like a lunatic.

What was he trying to say? Did he want me to start chewing on the steering wheel? Maybe that was it. I mean, sometimes in very stressful situation, a dog can make things better by, well, chewing on something. I stepped up on the armrest to tell him that I’d gotten his message, but then . . .

Zzzzzzzzzzip.

I’ll be derned. The window rolled down. Amazing! Slim reached his hand inside, pulled up the locking device, jerked open the door, pushed me out of the way, threw himself into the seat, turned the key, and shut off the motor. The pickup chugged to a stop.

The atmosphere inside the cab became very . . . quiet, shall we say. Slim was panting and staring straight ahead with glazed eyes. He reached up a hand and removed his hat, then used it to fan his face. His hands were shaking.

Drover and I exchanged uneasy glances. The silence became very heavy as we wondered what would happen next. Thunder and lightning? Screams of anger? Accusations hurled at us from all directions? We waited in the deadly silence, our hearts pounding like beating hearts.

At last, Slim blinked his eyes and let out a big gust of air, then his gaze slid around to . . . uh . . . ME. I cringed and prepared myself for a blast.

I sensed that I was in trouble. But for what?