The Case of the Prowling Bear. John R. Erickson

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СКАЧАТЬ pretty amazing what two dogs can do when they put their minds together, isn’t it? You bet.

      Late that afternoon, we made our way back to Slim’s shack. Drover and I had recently moved the Security Division’s command post from its normal location at ranch headquarters, down to Slim Chance’s bachelor shack on the banks of Wolf Creek. We do this every year when the weather turns cold. We’ve found that our communications gear functions better at Slim’s place, and you know how important it is to have all that high-tech equipment working in top shape.

      Also, Slim let’s his dogs stay in the house on cold winter nights, heh heh, and, well, that’s a huge factor in keeping up the morale of the unit. Studies have shown that dogs who sleep inside houses with warm stoves perform 83% better than those who sleep on frozen gunny sack beds beneath gas tanks.

      I mean, this isn’t just the opinion of one dog who’s got some skin in the game. This stuff has been studied and documented. If you want your Security Division to be sharp and alert, bring ‘em inside and let ‘em stretch out beside the friendly glow of a wood-burning stove.

      Slim had his faults, but on the matter of Dogs In The House, he was on the cutting edge of ranch management. The man had learned that a happy, well-rested Security Division is the best investment a ranch can make.

      Anyway, we made it back to Slim’s place around sundown. In February, darkness comes early, around six o’clock, and it can be very dark. Maybe that seems obvious, that darkness is dark, but it’s also true. Around here, our darkness is dark.

      The fire in Slim’s wood stove had died down to embers, so he brought in a load of chinaberry and mesquite wood, and chunked up the stove. Before long, the house was warm and cozy, and Slim set about making himself some supper.

      He’s a bachelor, you know, and doesn’t spend a lot of time in the kitchen. His suppers usually come straight out of a can: hash, Vienna sausage, sardines, or mackerel, the stinkingest fish you can buy. It smells almost as bad as cat food. Don’t eat his mackerel sandwiches.

      But on this particular evening, he must have been feeling inspired, because he actually cooked something. Yes sir, he made a big pot of boiled chicken gizzards, added two bullion cubes to give them some flavor, and even dumped some rice into the pot.

      Why chicken gizzards? Very few people will eat gizzards, so they’re cheap, and that makes them perfect food for bachelor cowboys. Most folks grocery-shop for nutrition and taste. Bachelors shop for cheap.

      Hey, and get this. After supper, he even spent some time cleaning up the kitchen. He swept all the crumbs off the dinner table and onto the floor, which is a smart thing to do. It keeps the mice from crawling around on your eating surface. Then he placed his dirty dishes into the freezer compartment of the refrigerator.

      Smart move. Several rounds of food poisoning had taught him a valuable lesson about sanitation: if you don’t freeze those dirty dishes, they’ll come back to bite you.

      Then we all moved into the living room and began an evening of fun and excitement. That’s a joke. Long winter evenings at Slim’s place weren’t exactly electric experiences. We didn’t do much. Drover stretched out on the floor, while I found a more comfortable spot on…

      “Get out of my chair.”

      …on the floor beside Drover. Gee, what a grouch. Slim took the only comfortable chair in the house and settled into reading the latest issue of Western Horseman magazine. That lasted for about thirty minutes, then he got restless, went back into the kitchen, and made a batch of popcorn.

      Somehow he managed to scorch the first batch, and we’re talking about a cloud of smoke that filled the entire house. He had to open all the doors and windows to let the place air out, and by the time the smoke had cleared, the temperature in the house was about right for hanging a side of beef. Cold.

      But he made another batch and ended up with a bowl of fluffy popcorn. He returned to his chair and crunched away on his evening treat, while Drover and I...well, we had some interest in this, you might say, and we took up positions at Slim’s feet. There, we watched him eat. We moved our front paws up and down, licked our chops, thumped our tails on the floor (I did; Drover’s tail was too short), and uttered Groans of Desire.

      I don’t often resort to Groans of Desire because, well, they sound a lot like begging, and I’m no beggar. But sometimes our people don’t take hints and we have to dig into our bag of tricks.

      We set up shop at his feet and launched ourselves into Groans of Desire. At first, they had no effect. He kept stuffing his face. Oh, he knew we wanted to share his popcorn, but he just grinned and kept eating.

      We cranked up the Groans and at last he said, “Would y’all like to have some popcorn?”

      You see what we have to put up with? OF COURSE WE WANTED SOME POPCORN! Any rock, tree, or fence post on the ranch would have known that we wanted some popcorn.

      He grinned. “Okay, I’ll make a deal. If you can catch it out of the air, I’ll let you have some.”

      I turned to Drover. “What do you think, can we handle this?”

      “Oh yeah, let’s do it.”

      And that’s what we did. For the next hour, we played Slow Pitch Popcorn. Slim did the pitching and we dogs did the catching, and you know what? We were pretty good at it. We muffed a few shots at the beginning (sometimes that popcorn will bounce off your nose, don’t you see), but we got better with practice. By the end of the game, Slim was giving us long fly balls that went looping all the way up to the ceiling, and we snagged every one of them. Most of them.

      Wow. It’s pretty amazing what dogs can do, but around nine-thirty, we ran out of popcorn, and that ended our evening of fun and entertainment. Slim got up out of his chair and took a big stretch.

      “Come on, dogs, it’s time for y’all to answer the Call of the Wild.” We followed him out on the porch. He pointed up at the moon. “Moon’s got a ring around it, a sign the weather’s fixing to change. Which reminds me. My pot’s got a water ring and I need to soak it with Babbo.”

      Water ring? Babbo? It made no sense to me. One minute he was talking about the moon and the weather, and the next minute…I don’t know, he’d switched to water and cooking pots and Babbo, whatever that might have been. You know, we dogs are doing well if we understand half of what our people say, and guess who always gets blamed for the communication failures. The dogs.

      The truth is, our people mutter and mumble, talk to themselves, and never bother to explain anything. And with Slim, the lines of communication are even more snarled, because he spends half his time pulling pranks. He would rather play pathetic tricks on his dogs than…I don’t know, eat popcorn, I suppose.

      Do you remember the time he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it up over his head, and buttoned it again? I remember it very well. It made him look like a man without a head, and you can imagine what he did with that. Naturally, I started growling, I mean, that’s what a dog is supposed to do when he sees a headless man on his ranch, right? I growled and barked, so he made claws with his hands and came after me, and…

      We don’t need to go into all the details. The point is that we dogs never know what to believe or what’s coming next, so it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t pay any attention to his statement about pots, rings, and Babbo. As you will СКАЧАТЬ