The Case of the Raging Rottweiler. John R. Erickson

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      Joe let down the tailgate of the pickup, just as Drover and I arrived to begin our investigation of this new dog.

      Have we discussed the ranch’s position on visiting dogs? Maybe not. We always check ’em out pretty carefully, and for very good reason. Some of those town dogs will try to chase cattle, and that’s a major No-No. A huge No-No. In ranch country, dogs who chase cattle are very unpopular, and they don’t last long.

      Yes, we would have to speak with this mutt and get a few things . . .

      HUH?

      I saw him. There he was.

      That wasn’t a dog. It was a BEAR, a huge, enormous grizzly bear!

      I, uh, did a sudden about-face and found my steps leading to the underside of Joe’s, uh, pickup, so to speak. There, to my surprise, I found Drover cowering in the dust.

      “What are you doing under here? You’re supposed to be interrogating that dog.”

      “Not me. I saw him, and he looks like a gorilla. I never interrogate gorillas.”

      “Oh, rubbish. He’s just a dog. He puts on his pants the same way we do.”

      “His pants would make a tent for me. You go. I’ll wait here.”

      Well, I couldn’t allow Drover to know . . . to think, let us say, that I was . . . well . . . nervous or uneasy about this new dog on the ranch. I mean, that would have ruined him—Drover, that is. Part of my job on this outfit is setting a good example for all the employees of the Security Division. For Drover, actually. Someone from the Security Divi­sion had to check it out, and it appeared that it would be me.

      I gave the runt a withering glare. “All right, I’ll go, but I must warn you, Drover. This will have to go into my report.”

      “Fine with me.”

      “What?”

      “I said . . . oh darn. Drat.”

      “I’m sorry, but the regulations are very clear on this. You will get three Chicken Marks.”

      With that, I whirled away from Drover and marched . . . okay, maybe I didn’t march out from under the pickup. I scooted and crawled, but the important thing was that I put in an appearance. I was there to show the flag for the Security Divi­sion, and to let this mutt know . . .

      He saw me and started growling.

      . . . to let this fella know how happy we were to, uh, have visitors on the ranch. We don’t get many visitors, don’t you know, and it was always nice . . .

      I worked up a friendly smile and waved a paw in greeting. “Hi there.”

      He glared and growled. Gad, what an ugly dog! What had they called him? A “rottenwiler”? He looked rotten, all right, rotten and enormous. I mean, the guy must have weighed a hundred pounds.

      A rottweiler, that’s what they called him.

      Anyways, we were sure proud to have him visiting the ranch. I sat very still and listened.

      Joe sat on the tailgate and called the dog to him. “Come here, Bruiser. Be still. Those dogs won’t hurt you.”

      Slim took a toothpick out of his hatband and ran it through his teeth. “That’s a mighty big dog. I’d say there ain’t much chance that Hank and Drover would hurt him. I’ve heard stories about them rottweilers. Some of ’em have a bad attitude.”

      Joe nodded. “He is a big dog, and he ought to be able to whip his weight in wildcats. But you know, he’s as silly as a goose. Most of the time he goes around acting like King Kong, but he’s scared to death of my wife’s cat.”

      “Aw heck. Scared of a cat?”

      “Yes sir. And the other day, he saw himself in a mirror and spent three hours hiding in the closet. To tell you the truth, I think he’s a little bit . . .” Joe’s finger drew circles in the air beside his head. “I’ll be glad when my brother gets back home.”

      Just then, Bruiser’s head shot up. He’d seen our doe and fawn down by the creek. A growl sprang from his throat. He started barking and made a lunge. Joe grabbed one of his legs and tried to hang on, but Bruiser tore away from him, dived out of the pickup, and headed straight for the deer.

      “Bruiser, come back here! Bruiser!”

      Well, I was just sitting there, observing and minding my own business. Next thing I knew, Slim was standing over me. “Hank, go get ’im. Stop that dog before he kills the fawn.”

      I stared into his face. What? Stop the dog? Was he crazy? That dog, for his information, gave every appearance of being a hundred-and-fifty-pound wrecking machine, and if Slim thought . . .

      He grabbed my tail and hoisted me up. “I hate to ask you to do this, but I’m asking. Get him stopped and I’ll be right behind you. Now go!”

      I swallowed a lump in my throat and looked toward the creek. Well, if Bruiser was afraid of cats, maybe . . .

      When the mother deer saw that big lunk of a dog heading her way, she flashed her white tail and sprinted off to the east. That was the good part. The bad part was that the fawn tried to follow but tripped over some weeds. He was pretty young, see, and had spindly legs, and he fell down.

      Bruiser was headed straight for him. Oh, did I mention that Bruiser ran like a fat duck? No kidding, he did. He couldn’t run worth a dern.

      He plowed through the shallow water, leaped up on the east bank of the creek, and lunged right at the fawn and pinned it with his massive paws.

      Gulp. Well, it was clear what I had to do. I didn’t want to, but when you’re Head of Ranch Security, you answer the calls and hope for the . . . gulp . . . best.

      I hit Sirens and Lights and went straight into a Code Three. The second one of the day, in case you’re counting. Using my incredible speed, I was able to close the distance between myself and the rottweiler. I roared up to the crime scene and went right to work.

      “Halt in the name of the law! Come out with your hands up. You’re under arrest!”

      Standing over the fawn, Bruiser heard my com­mand and turned his ugly eyes on me. “What did you say?”