The Case of the Perfect Dog. John R. Erickson

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СКАЧАТЬ stared at me, then smiled. “You are?”

      I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Absolutely, and you know what else? I think we can forget about those demerits and Chicken Marks. Let’s just say they disappeared from our files. Now, let’s check out the scraps.”

      “What about my nose?”

      “Bring it along. You can use it on the scraps.”

      It isn’t often that Drover distinguishes himself in combat, and when he does, we try to make a big deal out of it. I realize that getting sucker-punched by a cat isn’t the highest form of bravery, but at least the little guy had dared to put his nose into harm’s way. It was a start, and maybe it would give us something to build on.

      After that touching ceremony, we turned our attention to…where was the boy? And, more to the point, where was that bucket of scraps? He’d been right there beside us when the fighting had broken out, but now…

      At last I caught sight of him. He had gone to the garden, a patch of fertile ground that had been enclosed inside a hog wire fence. You might say that we dogs were not encouraged to go there. Why? Sally May had some peculiar ideas about dogs and gardens. On the few rare occasions when we had jumped the fence, our presence had caused major explosions.

      So it struck me as odd that Alfred had chosen to do Scrap Distribution in the garden. He was about to enter the gate when we arrived on the scene, out of breath but glowing with anticipation of the big event.

      Right away, I went into the Loyal Dog Waiting Configuration: plopped my hind quarters on the ground, sat at attention, and beamed him Looks of Longing and Sincerity. Drover followed my lead and did the same.

      The boy seemed surprised. “Hi Hankie, what do you want?”

      Well…uh…at the risk of seeming blunt…what was in the bucket?

      “Oh, you want some skwaps?”

      Well, sure, scraps would be nice. Yes, absolutely. I gave my tail five vigorous thumps on the ground.

      He shrugged. “Sorry, I took out the skwaps right after breakfast, and you weren’t there.”

      Huh?

      “I gave ‘em all to Pete.” He pointed to the bucket. “This is stuff for the compost heap.”

      WHAT! Compost heap! He’d given all the breakfast scraps to that miserable little…my mind was swirling. In the distance, I heard the cat laughing his head off.

      I turned to my assistant. “We’ve been tricked.”

      “You mean…I got slugged for nothing?”

      “Yes, that’s exactly what it means. Pete lured us into an argument over scraps that don’t exist. He ate them two hours ago.”

      “Oh darn, now I’m all upset.”

      “Fool! How could you have fallen for Pete’s treachery?”

      “Gosh, what did I do?”

      “Well, in the first place…Drover, Life is full of details. The fact that I can’t remember them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

      “Pete got the scraps ‘cause we slept late. That’s the reason you’re mad.”

      “That’s one of the reasons I’m mad. The other is that you’re still spreading lies and gossip about your commanding officer—namely, that I slept late.”

      “Yeah, but it’s true.”

      “All right, then you’re spreading truth about your commanding officer and that’s even worse.”

      “Yeah, but you gave me an award for bravery.”

      “I’m glad you mentioned that. The award has been revoked and those Chicken Marks are going right back on your record.”

      He gave me a wounded look. “Yeah, but I didn’t do anything wrong!”

      “Drover, the cat is laughing his head off and one of us has to accept the blame. I could take the blame, but think of the effect it would have on morale of this outfit.”

      He blinked his eyes. “Gosh, I never thought of that.”

      “It could be devastating. Here’s the solution. You take the blame, go to your room, and stick your nose in the corner for five minutes. That will put an end to the whole nasty episode.”

      “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

      I whopped him on the back. “I like your spirit, son. Now, run along and let’s put this thing behind us.”

      “Okay, here I go!”

      With an air of fatherly pride, I watched as he…huh? You know what he did? After running about ten steps toward the gas tanks, he made a hard right turn and highballed it straight to the machine shed, where he dived through the slot between the big sliding doors.

      “Drover, this is the voice of your commanding officer! Return to base at once and put your nose in the corner! Drover?”

      He had vanished into the depths of his Secret Sanctuary, and it would have taken a pack of bloodhounds to find him in there.

      You know, it breaks my heart when these things happen. You drill the men, try to teach them discipline and loyalty, and just when you think a light has come on in their tiny minds, they make a dumb decision and blow the whole thing to smithereens.

      Oh well. We have to trudge on with our lives.

      Little Alfred had dumped the contents of his bucket into the compost pit, so I drifted over to check it out. Sniff sniff. Carrot peelings, wilted lettuce, coffee grounds, onion skins, peach seeds, watermelon rinds, and three dozen potatoes that had sprouted in the pantry and gone bad. In other words, I was looking at vegetable garbage that a normal dog wouldn’t touch, even if he was starving to death.

      Yes, this had turned into a dark day on the ranch, and to make things even worse, I could hear Sally May’s rotten little cat: “How are the scraps, Hankie? Hee, hee, hee!”

      Right then and there, I made an entry in the Log Book of My Mind: “Kitty will pay for this.” Exactly when and where he would pay had not been determined.

      I turned to Little Alfred, my dearest pal in the world, gave him Shattered Looks and went to Slow Wags on the tail section, as if to say, “Here’s a thought. What are the chances that you could slip into the house and, you know, bring me a cookie? One little cookie might really turn things around.”

      No sale. He ordered me out of the garden and headed back to the house with his empty bucket. (Here’s an important detail: he forgot to close the garden gate. That will come up later, so remember it).

      At that very moment, I heard a vehicle pulling into ranch headquarters, and, well, you know me. Even when my heart is aching for breakfast scraps and cookies that never appear, I’m still Head of the ranch’s Security Division, and I have to work Traffic.

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