The Christmas Turkey Disaster. John R. Erickson

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      One of the most discouraging parts of this job is that, after you spend years trying to set a good example for the employees, you find that they’re just as selfish and greedy as they were before.

      My assistant, Drover C. Dog, had become the most recent example of this slide into something-or-otherness. The nerve of the little pipsqueak! First he sat there and watched while I destroyed my bed, then he refused to share his possessions with the victim of a disaster.

      I know I shouldn’t let these things upset me, but they do. When you care about your employees, and I mean really care, it hurts when they let you down. Sometimes I’m tempted to lower my standards and accept that the world is a rotten place, full of selfish dogs and people, but I’ve never been able to pull that off.

      Like a fool, I continue to hope, and it brings a lot of sadness into my life. Oh well. A guy must trudge on to the next chapter of his life, nursing the slender flame of hope.

      Actually, that conversation with Drover had yielded a few shreds of good information. Perhaps you missed them, so let me give a quick review.

      First, he had blurted out the fact that tomorrow, our people would observe the Christmas holiday. Second, he had pointed out one of the crucial differences between Christmas and every other day of the year: an evening Scrap Event that always produced an abundance of turkey bones and turkey skin, as well as occasional offerings of mashed potatoes, turkey dressing, turkey gravy, and even a few random bites of punkin pie.

      Slurp. Sorry. The memory of past Christmas Scrap Events caused the slobbalary glands in my mouth to gush water, forcing me to lick my chops and make slurping sounds.

      Slurp. See what I mean? It’s funny how that works. A guy doesn’t even have to see or smell the turkey-related material. Just the thought brings forth…slurp slop glop…it’s a little distracting, to be honest, because a Head of Ranch Security must keep a clear, sharp mind at all times, and that’s hard to do when he’s having to mop his mouth every few slurps…every few seconds, shall we say.

      Maybe we’d better change the subject. Where were we? I have no idea. Once you get those food thoughts inside your mind, it’s hard to maintain a professional…tell you what, let’s restart the story and see if that helps. Ready? Here we go.

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The mystery began in December, as I recall, and all I can think about are turkey scraps.

      Okay, we’re going to have to call a five-minute time-out and shut down all our equipment. Once we power up, please don’t say anything about you-know-what. Got it? See you on the other side.

      Equipment Is Shutting Down

      Blank Screen

      Blank Screen Sequence Is Still In Effect

      This Is Boring

      Equipment Is Ready For Power-up

      Click, Whir, Buzz

      We Have Power-up

      Reconfiguring The Configuration

      Waiting…Waiting

      New Screen Is Loading

      TURKEY SCRAPS!!!!!!!!

      Oh brother. We know who’s behind this: our enemies. They never rest or sleep. They’re always on the prowl, searching for ways of hacking into our systems and planting bogus information that will breed chaos in the Security Division.

      Who are they? We’re never sure: cunning spies, robot monsters, creatures from the Black Latrine, strange beings from another galaxy, raccoons, coyotes, and cats. All we know for sure is that they’re always slipping around and lurking in shadows, and we can never relax our scraps…relax our guard, that is. We can never relax our…

      This is frustrating, but we have to mush on with the story. Getting bogged down in food thoughts is not an option. We’ll just have to grit our teeth and try to crash through all the distractions.

      Okay, after carrying on a depressing conversation with Drover in our office/bedroom, during which he had served as a willing accomplice in the destruction of my bed, I rode the elevator down to the first floor and walked out of the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex.

      The air outside was crisp and clean, and it helped clear my mind of all the fog that had accumulated during my conversation with Drover. All at once, it was clear to me that he was a selfish little cad, too stingy to share his bed with a fellow-dog, and that he needed to spend more time with his nose in the corner.

      But the impointant pork is that it was a new day and I was determined to make it a good one. I marched past the garden with its bare stalks of last summer’s okra, past the fragrant green waters of Emerald Pond (frozen, by the way), and up to the machine shed. There, I went straight to the overturned Ford hubcap that served as our dog bowl, and began crunching tasteless pellets of Co-op dog food.

      Crunch, crack, snap.

      I’ve already expressed my opinions about Co-op, so I won’t take the time to repeat the obvious, that a first-class ranch outfit would have been embarrassed to put out such miserable fodder for its Security Division. It’s bad stuff. I can’t think of a nicer way of saying it.