Lost in the Blinded Blizzard (2 page)

Chapter Two: Hickory Dickory Dock: The Mouse Ran up Slim's Leg

I
think Slim was startled when I snapped his boot, but that was a small surprise compared to the one that followed when he felt the mouse running up his leg—inside his pants.

His eyes grew as wide as the lenses of his glasses. His eyebrows shot straight up. “Holy smokes, Billy,
I think a mouse just ran up my
pant leg!
”

Fellers, in my long and glorious career as Head of Ranch Security, I had witnessed my share of crazy things, but this deal promised to top them all.

Slim dropped the phone and grabbed his left thigh with both hands. Then he jumped two feet into the air and said—and this is a direct quote—he said, “EEEEEE-YOW! Ow, oh, ee, yipes, stop that, help!”

When he lit back on the floor, he was dancing. I never dreamed he could move so fast. I mean, on an average ranch day, Slim moves around with something short of lightning speed, but he was sure moving now.

He danced. He stamped his feet. He slapped at his legs. He hollered and bellered and made some very odd squeaking sounds. Hopping around the room on his left leg, he tried to pull off his right boot. Then he hopped around on his right leg and tried to pull off his left boot.

No luck there, so he sat down in the middle of the floor and tugged until the left boot came off.

He cut his eyes from side to side. “Where'd he go?” He peeked into the boot. “Maybe . . . EEEEEEEEE-YOW!”

He was on his feet again, but now his hands were tearing at his belt buckle and zipper. He got his left leg out of the jeans and something small and brown hit the floor.

By George, it was the mouse. Slim had finally flushed him out and now it was time for me to go back into action.

“Get 'im, Hank!”

Well, the mouse went bouncing across the room, just as though he had little springs on his legs—funny how a mouse can do that—and I went tearing after him.

Slim fell in behind me, wearing one boot and one sock, dragging his blue jeans that were still attached to his right leg, and swinging a pool cue.

I chased and he swung. Say, he was out to get revenge on that mouse, and if he'd hit the mouse instead of the ceiling light fixture, we'd have had us one splattered mouse.

Instead, we had us one splattered light fixture, and that pretty muchly ended the excitement.

I tracked the mouse all the way down the hall and into the bedroom, where the trail ended at a hole in the baseboard.

Slim had to get the broom and dust pan and sweep up all the busted glass. He sure looked strange, sweeping the floor in his boxer shorts, with his jeans all wadded up around his right ankle.

I returned to the stove and found that Drover had taken over my spot. “Arise and sing, pipsqueak, and move over before I have to amputate one of your legs.”

“Murgle skiffer porkchop, what happened?”

“We have given the mice their evening exercise, is what happened, and you're lying in my spot.”

His eyes rolled around for a moment, before they finally came into focus. “Who had some nice evening exercise?”

I went nose to nose with the mutt and gave him a growl.
“Move now, talk later.”

“Oh, okay.”

He gathered himself up and staggered two steps to the west. I moved into my place of honor, which Drover had warmed up for me, turned around three times in a tight circle, and collapsed. Oh, that felt good!

Warmed by the warmth of a roaring cedar-post fire, I surrendered my grip on the world and prepared myself for a nice, long murgle skiffer in front of the porkchop.

Perhaps I fell into a dream. I heard a lady-dog's voice saying, “Hello, Hank, I think I'm madly in love with you.”

Mercy me, Miss Beulah the Collie? Yes, there she was before me, in all her glory—the World's Most Beautiful Collie Gal.

“Ah Beulah, at last you've come to your senses! I knew that sooner or later, the pain in your porkchop would murgle you to skiffering.”

“I'm Drover.”

“Oh no you're not, because if you were really Drover, then I would be . . .” I opened one eye and saw a terrible sight: Drover. “So it's true? You really are Drover?”

“Well, I think so.”

“In that case, you've wrecked my dream and brought it crashing down to the floor of reality.”

“Yeah, Slim just finished sweeping it up.”

I opened both eyes and glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Your dream. It made quite a mess.”

“Slim was sweeping up my dream? You're not making any sense, Drover, but that didn't stop you from waking me up, did it?”

“I thought you were having some nice evening exercise. That's what you said.”

“I did not say that, but never mind, Drover, because unless I'm badly mistaken, a vehicle has just pulled up in front of the house!”

“Boy, I get confused.”

“Bark, Drover, and rush to the door! Someone or something has just territrated our penatory!”

And with that, we rushed to the front door and sent up an amazing barrage of barking. That was just in case they had any big ideas about busting down the door and trying to capture the house.

Course, it very seldom goes that far in real life.
Most intruders can be stopped in their tracks by a
good strong dose of barking.

I mean, they'll come ripping up to the house like they own the place, and they might even leap
out of the car and go charging up to the front porch
in a manner that makes you think they're going to
tear the door off its hinges.

Your mailmen and your UPS drivers are the very worst about doing this, I mean, they seem to think they've got a right to enter the ranch without permission and start banging on doors.

But once they reach the porch and hear that barking, they begin to realize that there's a dog
on duty, and you'll see an amazing change in their
behavior.

At that point they might
tap
on the door, or
they might call out, “Is anyone home?” But you
won't see 'em
banging
on any doors, no siree,
because . . .

HUH?

Someone was banging on Slim's front door, and
I mean banging loud.

“Open up, in the name of the law! We know you
robbed the stagecoach, Slim Chance, and we know
you're in there. Now come out with your hands up or we'll burn this place to the ground!”

The, uh, deep roar of a bark that had been
gathering momentum in my throat changed pitch all of a sudden, as my, uh, throat seemed to contract, so to speak, in response to the, uh, sound of an angry mob on the front porch.

I hadn't exactly prepared myself for an angry mob, don't you see, and while angry mobs of mob
sters have never struck fear in my heart, they have
never struck courage in my heart either.

After retreating a few steps
. . . several steps . . .
halfway across the room, I turned to my assistant.
“Drover, I'm almost sure they're bluffing, but just in case .
. .”

He had vanished.

I caught a glimpse of him, trying to crawl under
Slim's chair, but just then the angry mob broke
down the door and hundreds of wild-eyed mob
sters carrying torches and bloody swords streamed
into the house, screaming horrible things and wav
ing their bloody torches and burning swords.

Well, hey, if I'd known they wanted in that bad,
I would have . . .
I could see that this was going to be a fight to the finish, and it seemed reasonable
and honorable that I should postpone the finish as
long as . . .

Fellers, I ran!

Chapter Three: The Swirling Killer Tornado

G
etting traction on a linoleum floor is a very difficult thing to do, especially when your paws are turning several thousand RPMs per second.

After running in place for a moment, I finally got traction on the stupid linoleum floor in the hallway and moved my line of defense, so to speak, a bit deeper into the house.

Into the living room.

Under the coffee table.

Not far from Slim.

Hmmm. That was odd. The angry mob had busted into the house to get Slim, right? So why wasn't he running for his gun or doing anything to defend himself? And how come he was laughing . . . and pointing at, well, ME?

It didn't make any sense. I mean, if those mobsters really . . .

Have we discussed childish cowboy pranks? There seems to be something about cowboys that draws them to silly, childish acts of behavior. Perhaps there are some people in this world who would consider these outrageous acts funny, but you will find very few dogs who do.

I mean, we try to run our ranches in a businesslike manner. We try to be serious about things and we don't appreciate . . .

Okay, Billy, our neighbor down the creek, turned out to be one of those jokers, a guy who never passed up a chance to goof off and pull a childish prank.

He'd pulled up in front of Slim's place and banged on the door and yelled all that . . . hey, he hadn't fooled me for a minute with that stuff about how Slim had robbed a so-called . . . I mean, we don't have stagecoaches around here, right?

But on the other hand, a guy never knows for sure . . . see,
he was banging on the door,
and I mean really BANGING and YELLING, sounded like a whole mob of . . .

Well, this guy not only took fiendish delight in making noise and scaring people, but he seemed even prouder of himself for scaring the liver out of me and Drover—primarily Drover.

Don't forget who was the first to run and hide. It wasn't me.

Okay, maybe I ran too, but not as fast as Drover.

Billy was very proud of himself for making all that childish noise and violating the privacy of Slim's home, and there for a second or two, I thought he might get a hernia from laughing so hard at . . . well, at me and Drover, but mainly Drover, who had tried his best to crawl under Slim's easy chair.

Remember that I had crawled under the
coffee
table,
not under an easy chair, and it's common knowledge that in serious and disastrous situations, such as earthquakes and tornadoes, citizens should take refuge
under the nearest coffee table.

So there you are. I had done nothing to be ashamed of. Drover, on the other hand, had walked right into their foolish trick and had become the butt of their laughingstock.

Okay. Billy went down to his knees, he was laughing so hard, and Slim was getting more than a few chuckles out of it too.

You might recall that this was the same Slim who, only moments before, had been running around his house, half-naked, and chasing a poor little mouse with a pool cue.

Right. And the same guy who had destroyed the light fixture on the ceiling.

You'll notice that Slim hadn't been nearly as amused by HIS foolish display as he now was by mine . . . ours . . . Drover's, actually, which just goes to prove that small minds take delight in the misfortunes of others.

It really hurt me to see him laughing at Drover that way.

“Call off your dogs, Slim, before they hurt somebody!”

That was Billy. Very funny. Ho, ho, ho.

“Whatever you do, Billy,” said Slim between spasms of infantile laughter, “whatever you do, don't try to crawl under that coffee table with Hank! He's a trained killer, and I ain't sure I can hold him back.”

Oh, they got a big chuckle out of that! I glared daggers at them. Also snarled at Billy, just to let him know that sticks and stones might break my bones, but his words might get him bitten on the leg, if he ever turned his back on me.

By this time, Drover had poked his head out from under Slim's chair. “Hi, Hank, what you doing under the coffee table?”

“Don't speak to me, you little weasel.”

“What's wrong?”

“You know very well what's wrong. Under combat conditions, you ran and left me to defend the house by myself.”

“Well, I thought I saw a mouse and I chased him under the chair.”

I gave him a withering glare. “Drover, that is a lie, and you know it.”

He hung his head. “I know, but it sounds a lot better than the truth. I don't think I can face the truth.”

“Go ahead and face it. You'll feel much better.”

“No I won't. I'll feel ten times worse.”

“Telling the truth is good for the soul.”

“Yeah, but telling a lie is good for everything else.”

“Try it, Drover, you might be surprised.”

“Well . . . all right.” He squinted one eye and appeared to be in deep concentration. “Let's see. I ran away and hid under the chair because . . .”

“Yes, yes?”

“I can't say it, Hank, it just hurts too much.”

“Take the plunge and say it.”

“Oh rats. I ran away and hid under the chair because . . . I was scared. There! Now everybody knows.”

“But that wasn't so bad, was it?”

“I guess not.”

“And don't you feel better now?”

He thought about it for a moment, then gave me his patented silly grin. “You know, I do feel better.”

“See what I mean? I'll bet you feel ten times better.”

“Oh yeah, ten or maybe even eleven. All at once I feel like a terrible burden has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel wonderful!”

I crawled out from under the table, pushed myself up on all fours, and glared down at the runt.

“Well, you have absolutely no right to feel wonderful. Not only did you behave in a cowardly and chickenhearted manner in a combat situation, but you had the gall, the nerve, the stupidity to admit it!”

“Yeah but . . .”

“Now, you put that burden right back on your shoulders and carry it around for the next 24 hours. That's your punishment for being a chicken­hearted little mutt. And shame on you!”

“I knew I shouldn't have told the truth! Now I feel ten times worse!”

“Yes, but you deserve it, and that should make you feel better about feeling worse. Now, get out from under that chair and stop showing your true colors.”

He crawled out and wiped a tear from the end of his nose. “Hank, what were you doing under that coffee table?”

“I, uh, what coffee table?”

“The one you were under.”

“Oh, that one. Yes, it's a coffee table.”

“I know, but what were you doing under it?”

“What makes you think I was . . . oh yes, I remember now. Drover, because you were cowering under the chair, you missed hearing why Billy came bursting into the house.”

“Yeah, I sure did.”

“Good. I mean, yes, of course. He came bursting into the house to announce that a tornado had been sighted nearby—a deadly swirling killer tornado.”

“No fooling?”

“That's correct. And as you might know, in the event of a tornado, one should take refuge under the nearest coffee table.”

His face brightened. “Gosh, then maybe I did the right thing after all, hiding under Slim's chair.”

“I'm afraid not, Drover.” I placed a paw on his shoulder and looked into his eyes. “There's a huge difference between a coffee table and a chair.”

“There is?”

“Yes. You never sit on a coffee table and you never put coffee on a chair.”

“Rats. Then I have to go on carrying my burden around?”

“I'm afraid so, Drover, but because of the tornado, we'll shorten your time to twelve hours.”

“Gosh, thanks, Hank!”

One of the nice things about this job is that, every now and then, you get the opportunity to involve yourself in the lives of others, to help them understand themselves and life's many twists and turns.

And that makes it all worthwhile.