The Further Adventures of Hank the Cowdog. John R. Erickson

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      In the security business, you learn to live your life a day at a time because you never know if you’ll make it past that next monster. Any one of them is liable to be your last.

      A lot of dogs can’t handle that kind of pressure, but there’s others of us who kind of thrive on danger. When you’re in that category, you learn to savor the precious moments. I mean the little things that most dogs take for granted.

      Like a roll in the sewer after a big battle. There’s nothing quite like it, believe me. You come in hot and bloody and tore up and wore out, proud of yourself on the one hand but just derned near exhausted on the other hand, and you walk up to that pool of lovely green water and . . . well, it’s hard to describe the wonderfulness of it.

      That first plunge is probably the best, when you step in and plop down and feel the water moving over your body. Then you roll around and kick your legs in the air and let your nose feast on that deep manly aroma.

      Your poodles and your Chihuahuas and your other varieties of house dogs never know the savage delight of a good ranch bath. If they ever found what they’re missing, they’d never be the same again. There’s just something about it that makes a dog proud to be a dog.

      Well, I climbed out of the sewer and shook myself and sat down in the warm sunshine. Drover was still standing in water up to his knees. I noticed that he hadn’t rolled around in it. He never does. He just wades in and stands there, looking stiff and uncomfortable.

      “How do you expect to get clean if you don’t get yourself wet?”

      He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like to get wet.”

      “This water has special power, son. It revives the spirit.”

      He kind of dipped down and got his brisket wet and scampered out on dry land. “There. I feel much better now.”

      I just shook my head. Sometimes Drover acts more like a cat than a cowdog. Makes me wonder . . . oh well.

      We sunned ourselves for a few minutes, then headed on down to the gas tanks. I had a gunnysack bed down there with my name on it and I was all set to pour myself into it. I was fluffing it up again and getting it arranged just right when I heard the back door slam up at the house.

      I perked my ears and listened. When the back door slams at that hour of the morning, it often means that Sally May has busted the yoke on Loper’s breakfast egg. He won’t eat busted eggs, for reasons which I don’t understand. Seems to me that an egg’s an egg, and after a guy chews it up and swallers it, it’s all about the same anyway.

      But Loper doesn’t see it that way, which is fine with me because around here, in Co-op dog food country, an egg in any form is a gourmet delight.

      I cut my eyes toward Drover. He had his chin resting on his front paws and was drifting off to sleep. He hadn’t heard the door slam, and I didn’t see that it was my duty to tell him about it.

      I slipped away from the gas tanks and loped up the hill. Had my taste buds all tuned up for a fried egg when I met Pete. He was going the same direction I was.

      “Get lost, cat. Nobody called your name.”

      He gave me a hateful look and hissed. Well, you know me. I try to live by the Golden Rule: “Do unto others but don’t take trash off the cats.” Pete was in the market for a whipping, seemed to me, so I obliged him. Figgered I might as well get it over with, while it was fresh on both our minds.

      I jumped him, rolled him, buried him, cuffed him a couple of times, and generally gave him a stern warning about how cats are supposed to behave. After I’d settled that little matter, I trotted up to the yard gate, ready for my egg.

      Sally May was standing there with her hands on her hips. I sat down and swept the ground with my tail, gave her a big smile and sat up on my back legs.

      I picked up this little begging trick some years ago. It was pretty tough to learn—I mean, it takes balance and coordination and considerable athletic ability—but it’s paid off more than once. People seem to love it. They like to see a dog beg for what they’re going to give him anyway. Don’t ask me why, but they do.

      Begging sort of goes against my grain. I mean, my ma was no ordinary mutt. She had papers and everything and cowdog pride was sort of bred into me. But a guy has to make a living, and now and then he finds himself cutting a few corners.

      Well, I went up on my hind legs. Sometimes I get my balance the first time and sometimes I don’t. This time it worked. I balanced myself on two legs, and then to add a special touch, I wagged my tail and moved my front paws at the same time.