The Mopwater Files. John R. Erickson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ let’s see. My name’s Drover and I’m your best friend and I just caught a grasshopper.”

      “Just because you’re a grasshopper doesn’t mean you’re a friend of mine. Where am I?” I blinked my eyes. “Okay, it’s coming back now. You’re Drover.”

      “That’s what I said.”

      “There for a second, I thought you were Beulah.”

      “No, it must have been me, ’cause I’m all I’ve ever been.”

      I stared at the runt. “What?”

      “I said, I’m all I’ve ever been but I caught a grass­hopper.”

      “That doesn’t make a lick of sense.” All at once, he licked his chops. “Will you stop that?”

      “Stop what?”

      “I’ve told you over and over not to do that.”

      “What did I do?”

      “I said that you’re not making a lick of sense and . . .” He licked his chops again! “There, you see? You keep doing it. What’s wrong with you?”

      “Well, I can’t help it.”

      I hoisted myself up to a sitting position and turned a withering glare on my . . . whatever he was. My nitwit assistant, I guess.

      “Of course you can help it. It’s a totally absurd and meaningless gesture.”

      “Not really. See, I ate a grasshopper and that’s why I was licking my chops.”

      “You ATE a grasshopper?”

      “Yep, I sure did. Caught him with my own two paws and ate him with my own mouth.”

      I gave my head a shake. “Drover, that’s disgusting. Eating a grasshopper? Son, chickens eat grass­hoppers, but dogs don’t.”

      “Yeah, but I did.”

      “That’s appalling.”

      “No, it was appealing.”

      “Don’t correct my spelling and don’t try to put words into my mouth. I said it was appalling and that’s exactly what I meant.”

      “Yeah, but I ate the grasshopper and you didn’t, so maybe you don’t know how it tasted.”

      I narrowed my eyes at him. “I can’t believe you said that. Have you no respect for your elders, your betters, your superiors? Just because I’ve never eaten a grasshopper, you think I don’t know how they taste?”

      “Well, that makes sense to me.”

      “I’m shocked, Drover, shocked and dismayed and disappointed that you would . . . okay, just for the sake of argument, how did it taste?”

      He grinned. “Well . . . it was pretty good.”

      “See? I gave you a chance to express yourself and what did you do?”

      “Well . . . I told the truth.”

      “No, you didn’t tell the truth. You contradicted my Theory of Grasshoppers, is what you did, and if you can’t give the right answer, what good is freedom of speech?”

      “Well, I don’t know. But I ate a grasshopper and it was pretty good. And you ought to try one yourself.”

      I curled my lip. “I will never eat a grasshopper. Bird dogs will fly before I eat a grasshopper. Hogs will ride sidesaddles before I eat a grasshopper.”

      “They’re better than you think.”

      “No sale, Drover.”

      “And they’re better than dry dog food.”

      “I don’t want to hear it.”

      “They taste kind of like chicken.”

      “Well, of course they do, because that’s what chickens eat.”

      “Yeah, and you like the taste of chicken, don’t you?”

      “No, I . . .” All at once it appeared that my mouth was watering, as I, uh, recalled several delicious ultra-secret chicken dinners I had . . .

      I licked my chops, so to speak, and was unable to answer the question.

      Drover grinned. “See? I said ‘chicken’ and you licked your chops, and that’s proof that you like chicken.”

      “I did not lick my chops, and even if I had, it would prove almost nothing, for you see, Drover, ranch dogs are forbidden to eat . . . slurp . . . chickens—for good and obvious reasons.”

      “Yeah, but that’s my point.”

      I gave him a hard glare. “Your point? Who or whom do you think you are, and when did you start putting points into your pointless conver­sations?”

      “Well, I don’t know, but I’ve got one now. You want to hear it?”

      I heaved a sigh. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

      His grin faded. “Gosh, I just lost it. I can’t remember. Oh darn.”

      “Will you hurry up? I’m a very busy dog.”

      “Okay, here we go, I’ve got it. The point is that grasshoppers taste like chicken, so when you eat a grass­hopper, it’s almost like eating a chicken.”

      I licked my chops. “Hmmm. Not a bad point, actu­­ally. And you know, Sally May hates grass­hoppers.”

      “Yeah, ’cause they eat up her garden.”

      “Exactly. So we’re looking at possible bonus points here. Hmmm.” I ran that one through my data banks. “I find only one major flaw in your ointment, Drover. The back legs of a grasshopper are known to have spurs or barbs, which might lodge in the throats of certain dogs.”

      He grinned and shrugged. “Well, they didn’t bother me. I guess you have to chew ’em up, is all.”

      “Hmmm, yes. But we still have one problem, Drover. I don’t have the energy to catch a grass­hopper. It’s this heat. It drains me of all energy and ambition. I don’t want to do anything but sleep. It’s very discouraging.”

      “Well, maybe a couple of fresh grasshoppers would help. They always seem to have plenty of energy, and so do the chickens.”

      “Hmmm.” I heaved a sigh and pushed myself up on all fours. “Okay, Drover, I’ll give it a shot. But if this doesn’t work, I’ll have to put it on your record.”

      We made our way down to the yard gate. I happened to know that Sally May was out working in her yard, for I had seen her there before my nap . . . that is, before I had checked into the shade for, СКАЧАТЬ