The Case of the Most Ancient Bone. John R. Erickson

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      It was Pete the Barncat—who, for your information, never spent any time catching mice in the barn or anywhere else. He spent his whole life lounging in the shade of the iris patch and making a nuisance of himself.

      Have we discussed cats? Maybe not. I don’t like ’em, never have. And the cat I dislike the most in the whole world is Pete, who has some kind of genius for showing up at the very worst of times.

      Such as now. And there he was, giving me that simpering grin that drives me nuts. “Hi, Hankie. Did you get sprayed?”

      I gave the little snot a withering glare and marched away. He probably thought he could provoke me into a childish display of temper. Ha! The foolish cat. Little did he know that I was a very busy dog and had more important . . .

      On second thought . . . I whirled around and marched back to the fence. “What did you just say?”

      “I said,” he grinned and blinked his eyes, “you got sprayed.”

      “That’s correct, kitty, I got sprayed. Perhaps you think that’s funny.”

      He snickered. “Yes, yes, it was very funny. You should have seen that look on your face when she . . . hee hee . . . turned the hose on you!”

      I felt my lips curling up into a snarl, but I caught it just in time and turned it into a calm, pleasant smile. See, I knew what the cat was trying to do: provoke me into an “incident,” let us say, right there in front of Sally May, which would get me into even more and deeper trouble with the Lady of the House.

      But I knew Pete’s tricks and I wasn’t going to fall for this one. I beamed him a sweet smile and said, “You’re right, Pete, I got sprayed, but I wanted to get sprayed. That’s why I went into the yard, so that Sally May could cool me down with a nice little shower of water.”

      “Oh really?”

      “That’s correct. Why else would I have gone into the yard? It was part of a clever plan, Pete, and as you can see, it worked to perfection. See? I’m wet, cool, and refreshed.”

      “Hankie, I think,” he began purring and rubbing on the fence, “you’re jealous because I get to stay in the yard, and you don’t.”

      “No, not at all.”

      “And it just eats your liver that I’m Sally May’s special pet.”

      “Nothing could be further from the truth. For your information, Sally May and I have enjoyed a wonderful relationship.”

      “Then,” he fluttered his eyelids and grinned, “why did she order you out of the yard? Hmmm? See, I’m in the yard and, look, you’re not/Stick your head in a coffee pot/Bring it out, red hot. And that says it all, Hankie. I spend my days in the iris patch, and you have to live out there in the heat and the dust. Poor doggie!”

      I struggled to control my savage instincts. “You’re trying to get me stirred up, aren’t you?”

      “Um-hm. Is it working?”

      “Not even close. You must be slipping.”

      “Oh really? Well, what if I . . . hissed at you?”

      “I don’t know, Pete. Try it and we’ll see what happens.”

      He arched his back, widened his yellowish eyes, and hissed at me. I watched him with a smile and—get this—gave no reaction at all. “Gosh, Pete, it didn’t work. Try it again.” He humped himself up and hissed even louder this time. I laughed in his face. “Sorry, Pete, the old magic just isn’t there. Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe . . . maybe your tricks aren’t working any more, huh? What do you think?”

      I could see that he was getting mad. “Hissing has always worked, Hankie. Something’s going on here. What is it?”

      I sat down and looked at his sour face. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, Pete, but what the heck? See, you’ve used that hissing trick too many times. I’ve figured it out, I know what you’re trying to do. That chapter in our lives is over.”

      “I’m not convinced, Hankie.”

      “No? Then try it again.” The cat glared at me and didn’t hiss. I chuckled. “See, your problem is that you’re too lazy to learn new tricks. We dogs learn from experience. When we see your same tired old tricks over and over, we figure them out. I mean, how dumb do you think I am?”

      He stared at me with his big cattish eyes. “That’s an interesting question, Hankie. I might want to think about it.”

      “Fine. You think about it all you want, but I can tell you the answer. I’m not dumb at all, and you’re over the hill. The old stuff doesn’t work any more. The world has passed you by.”

      “Oh really?”

      “That’s right. You belong in a museum, Pete, a museum for fat lazy cats who spend their lives loafing in the shade.”

      A secret grin spread across his mouth. “Bet you’d like to be in the shade, wouldn’t you, Hankie?”

      “Me? Ha ha. No, Pete, I . . . what makes you say that?”

      “Because that’s what you were trying to do when you sneaked into the yard. You wanted my iris patch, didn’t you, hmmmmmm?”

      I narrowed my eyes at the little sneak. “Don’t be spreading lies about me, weasel. For your information, I care nothing about iris patches or shade. I love this heat. It makes me tougher and smarter. That’s all I ever wanted to be, Pete, tough and smart.”

      “Oh СКАЧАТЬ