The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado. John R. Erickson
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Название: The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado
Автор: John R. Erickson
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Учебная литература
Серия: Hank the Cowdog
isbn: 9781591887256
isbn:
“Yes, and the reason he discovered America was that he didn’t stand around cursing and swearing. He sailed his ships. He studied the stars. He wrote in his log.”
“Slim burns logs in his stove.”
“That’s exactly my point, Drover. Do you want to burn logs or sail across the ocean?”
“Well . . . I don’t like water.”
“Exactly. And if you continue this pattern of foul language, you’ll spend your whole life . . . hmmm, was that a raindrop?”
“I think it was the ocean.”
“What?”
“Columbus sailed across the ocean, but at the end of every ocean there’s a pot of raindrops.”
I walked several steps away and gazed off at the approaching storm. I took a deep breath and let the wind blow my ears around.
“Drover, I must tell you something.”
“Sure, anything.”
“Sometimes I think the stress of this job is too much for me. I . . . I’ll be honest. Now and then I feel that . . . that the things I’m saying . . . just don’t make sense.”
“I’ll be derned.”
“Please don’t curse and swear.”
“Sorry. I won’t be derned. I’ll never be derned.”
“Thanks. I hope you mean that.”
“Oh, I do.”
“Good. Drover, sometimes . . . sometimes I have this, this strange sensation that . . . my mind is a bowl of scrambled eggs. Have you ever had that feeling?”
“Boy, I love eggs.”
“I know, but I’m talking about the sensation of scrambled eggs. Have you ever felt that your entire life, all your thought processes, your plans and dreams . . . were coming out of a bowl of scrambled eggs?”
“Well, let’s see. Nope, never have.”
“Hmmm. Just as I thought. It’s this job, the crushing responsibility, the ozone we breathe day after day at the top of the mountain.”
I heaved a deep sigh, walked back to Drover, and laid a paw on his shoulder.
“I’m glad we’ve had this opportunity to chat. It’s so seldom that I get to, well, chat with the men.”
“Yeah, or even with us dogs.”
“Exactly.” I gazed up at the stars which were now covered with thick clouds and were therefore invisible. “The hour is late, Drover, and the night is dark. What are we doing here by the yard gate?”
“Well, let’s see. I don’t remember. Do you reckon we’re waiting for scraps?”
“Maybe so, although I don’t remember Sally May ever bringing out scraps in the middle of the night.”
“Yeah, and if she’s not going to bring out scraps, it doesn’t make much sense for us to be waiting for them. I guess.”
“Good point, son. Maybe we should go back to bed.”
“Boy, I can go for that.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m worn to a frazzle, completely bushed. This patrol work is a dog-killer. We’ve earned a rest.”
And with that, we made our respective ways down the caliche hill and to our gunnysack beds beneath the gas tanks. We had hardly seen those beds in the past forty-eight hours.
I fluffed up my gunnysack, walked around it three times, and collapsed. The bone-deep fatigue that had gripped me moments before seemed to rise like a helium balloon and float out through a window in the top of my snork, murking the porkchop snicklefritz.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
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