Lost in the Blinded Blizzard. John R. Erickson

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      By George, it was the mouse. Slim had finally flushed him out and now it was time for me to go back into action.

      “Get ’im, Hank!”

      Well, the mouse went bouncing across the room, just as though he had little springs on his legs—funny how a mouse can do that—and I went tearing after him.

      Slim fell in behind me, wearing one boot and one sock, dragging his blue jeans that were still attached to his right leg, and swinging a pool cue.

      I chased and he swung. Say, he was out to get revenge on that mouse, and if he’d hit the mouse instead of the ceiling light fixture, we’d have had us one splattered mouse.

      Instead, we had us one splattered light fixture, and that pretty muchly ended the excitement.

      I tracked the mouse all the way down the hall and into the bedroom, where the trail ended at a hole in the baseboard.

      Slim had to get the broom and dust pan and sweep up all the busted glass. He sure looked strange, sweeping the floor in his boxer shorts, with his jeans all wadded up around his right ankle.

      I returned to the stove and found that Drover had taken over my spot. “Arise and sing, pipsqueak, and move over before I have to amputate one of your legs.”

      “Murgle skiffer porkchop, what happened?”

      “We have given the mice their evening exercise, is what happened, and you’re lying in my spot.”

      His eyes rolled around for a moment, before they finally came into focus. “Who had some nice evening exercise?”

      I went nose to nose with the mutt and gave him a growl. “Move now, talk later.”

      “Oh, okay.”

      He gathered himself up and staggered two steps to the west. I moved into my place of honor, which Drover had warmed up for me, turned around three times in a tight circle, and collapsed. Oh, that felt good!

      Warmed by the warmth of a roaring cedar-post fire, I surrendered my grip on the world and prepared myself for a nice, long murgle skiffer in front of the porkchop.

      Perhaps I fell into a dream. I heard a lady-dog’s voice saying, “Hello, Hank, I think I’m madly in love with you.”

      Mercy me, Miss Beulah the Collie? Yes, there she was before me, in all her glory—the World’s Most Beautiful Collie Gal.

      “Ah Beulah, at last you’ve come to your senses! I knew that sooner or later, the pain in your porkchop would murgle you to skiffering.”

      “I’m Drover.”

      “Oh no you’re not, because if you were really Drover, then I would be . . .” I opened one eye and saw a terrible sight: Drover. “So it’s true? You really are Drover?”

      “Well, I think so.”

      “In that case, you’ve wrecked my dream and brought it crashing down to the floor of reality.”

      “Yeah, Slim just finished sweeping it up.”

      I opened both eyes and glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

      “Your dream. It made quite a mess.”

      “Slim was sweeping up my dream? You’re not making any sense, Drover, but that didn’t stop you from waking me up, did it?”

      “I thought you were having some nice evening exercise. That’s what you said.”

      “I did not say that, but never mind, Drover, because unless I’m badly mistaken, a vehicle has just pulled up in front of the house!”

      “Boy, I get confused.”

      “Bark, Drover, and rush to the door! Someone or something has just territrated our penatory!”

      And with that, we rushed to the front door and sent up an amazing barrage of barking. That was just in case they had any big ideas about busting down the door and trying to capture the house.

      Course, it very seldom goes that far in real life. Most intruders can be stopped in their tracks by a good strong dose of barking.

      I mean, they’ll come ripping up to the house like they own the place, and they might even leap out of the car and go charging up to the front porch in a manner that makes you think they’re going to tear the door off its hinges.

      Your mailmen and your UPS drivers are the very worst about doing this, I mean, they seem to think they’ve got a right to enter the ranch without permission and start banging on doors.

      But once they reach the porch and hear that barking, they begin to realize that there’s a dog on duty, and you’ll see an amazing change in their behavior.

      At that point they might tap on the door, or they might call out, “Is anyone home?” But you won’t see ’em banging on any doors, no siree, because . . .

      HUH?

      Someone was banging on Slim’s front door, and I mean banging loud.

      “Open up, in the name of the law! We know you robbed the stagecoach, Slim Chance, and we know you’re in there. Now come out with your hands up or we’ll burn this place to the ground!”

      The, uh, deep roar of a bark that had been gathering momentum in my throat changed pitch all of a sudden, as my, uh, throat seemed to contract, so to speak, in response to the, uh, sound of an angry mob on the front porch.

      I hadn’t exactly prepared myself for an angry mob, don’t you see, and while angry mobs of mobsters have never struck fear in my heart, they have never struck courage in my heart either.

      After retreating a few steps . . . several steps . . . СКАЧАТЬ