The Phantom in the Mirror (5 page)

Chapter Eight: Fishing Turns Out to Be No Fun for Me

I
t wasn't Sally May with a plate of scraps. It was Little Alfred, her son. He had come out of the house and had started playing in the yard.

He had taken down the piece of plywood that covered the crawl space under the house, don't you see, and appeared to be playing Explore the Cavern. I had played that game with him on several occasions. It was a good game, but we had gotten into trouble over it.

Why? Because Alfred's dad didn't want the crawl space open and exposed. It attracted skunks, see, and a skunk under the house is no fun.

A skunk under the house is real bad.

Well, right away I saw two things I didn't like about the situation. The first was that Alfred had opened up the crawl space, and the second was that he didn't have any scraps.

I should have known. This was the wrong time of day for Scrap Time.

Scraps, you see, are composed of what's left after a meal at the house. At the present moment, we were in that time interval between lunch and supper. Hence, no scraps. Hence, the slamming of the screen door had been a false alarm.

That was disappointing. I mean, when a guy gets his taste buds all tuned up for some roast beef trimmings and fatty ends of bacon, it's hard to go back to Life's dull and monotonous rhythms.

Life without scraps is bearable, but also pretty boring.

“Well, Drover, it appears that we answered a false alarm.”

“Oh drat. I sure was looking forward to some scraps.”

“Yes, this could very well be a scrapless night for us, but at least we beat the cat to the false alarm. On a scrapless night, when Life loses all meaning, I guess that means something.”

“It means I'm starving.”

“It means you complain too much, Drover. Be happy with what you have and don't worry about what you don't have. That's a simple formula for a good and happy life.”

“But how can life be happy without scraps?”

I aimed a steely gaze at the runt. “Will you dry up? You're starting to make ME unhappy. Until you started whining and complaining, I was a happy dog. I was content with my life. I was counting my blessings.”

“How many did you have?”

“Hundreds. Thousands. I had thousands of blessings, Drover, but you've ruined them all, simply by pointing out that no dog can be happy without scraps. And now I'm just as miserable as you are and I hope that makes you happy.”

“Well, that's not what I had in mind.”

“Good. Great. You're getting just what you deserve, and we'll just sit here and be miserable together.”

Boy, were we miserable! We were probably two of the unhappiest, miserablest dogs in the whole entire world, facing the long, cold winter night without a single scrap. Or even the hope of a single scrap.

Fellers, things were looking pretty bleak.

At that moment, Little Alfred saw us and came over to the yard gate. He had gotten tired of Explore the Cavern, it appeared, and was looking for another form of amusement.

He looked at us through the wire gate. “What's the matter, Hankie? You wook sad.”

Sad? Hey, sad didn't even come close to what I was feeling. On the other hand—I wagged the last three inches of my tail—on the other hand, there was nothing wrong with me that a nice juicy steak bone wouldn't have fixed.

Or a strip of steak fat, say three-four inches long. Or some roast beef trimmings. Or, shucks, even a piece of baloney. I mean, we weren't talking about truckloads of food, just a little token reward to get me through the long winter night.

Anyways, I wagged my tail and hoped that the boy might get the message: “Hankie needs scraps. Hankie will look very happy when scraps arrive.”

I guess he didn't get the message, because he said, “Well, you want to go fishing wiff me?”

Fishing?

I ran my gaze across the back yard, searching for a body of water that might be large enough to support a fishing expedition. Just as I had suspected, there was no body of water.

In other words, no, I didn't want to go fishing—first, because fishing in a yard without water was impossible, and second, because I was too busy being miserable and unhappy.

Nix on the fishing.

“Well” said the boy, “I think I'll pway fishing.”

Oh, so that was it. He was going to
play
fishing. Nope, I still wasn't interested. I had gone fishing with Slim on several occasions and it had been pretty boring, to tell you the truth.

I mean, you sit on the bank and watch a cork for hours and hours. Is that fun? Ha. No thanks.

And besides, I didn't dare enter Sally May's Precious Yard. You know how she is about dogs in her precious yard. She would never understand the business about fishing. Never.

“Well, I'm going to find me a piece of stwing and some bait, and then I'm going to catch me a big old fish.”

He dashed into the house.

Fine. He could catch all the “big old fish” he wanted, and he could do it without my help be­cause I had exactly zero interest in fishing.

I turned to Drover. “Well, are you still un­happy?”

“Yeah. Life's pretty awful sometimes. How about you?”

“Same here. It all seems so pointless without scraps.”

Little Alfred came bursting out the back door. In one hand he held a piece of string, maybe five feet long. In the other, he held a piece of . . . something. Bait, I supposed, but I really didn't pay attention because I really didn't care.

Fish bait might be interesting to a fish but it holds no fascination for a dog.

The boy sat down in front of the gate and began tying the alleged bait to one end of the . . .

Suddenly my ears shot up. My nose shot up. My eyebrows shot up. Unless I was badly mistaken, my nose, which is a very sensitive instrument, had just picked up the smell of . . .

I leaned forward and studied the bait in Alfred's hand.

BACON? A strip of raw bacon?

Have we ever discussed fishing? I love to fish, always have, even when there's no pond and no fish. I mean, who cares if you catch a fish? That's not important. What's most important and meaningful about fishing is that it gives you a chance to
be with the kids.

Watch 'em grow up. Meet a challenge. Have some good, clean, wholesome fun.

Fishing is a great thing to do with the kids, and maybe I haven't mentioned this before, but sharing the, uh, precious moments with these kids is a very important part of my job as . . . that was bacon, all right . . . important part of my job as Head of . . .

These kids grow up SO FAST! Before you know it, they're grown up and gone, and you look back and wonder why you never took the time to . . .

The smell of that fresh bacon was about to drive me bazooka!

. . . why you never took the time to share those precious simple moments, and by George, I needed to take that boy fishing!

I whined and whapped my tail, moved my front paws up and down, and even took the drastic action of jumping up on the yard gate—something I rarely do, for obvious reasons.

Sally May doesn't approve.

But I did it anyway, because . . . hey, she'd understand. She'd be proud of me for wanting to go fishing with her Little Alfred, the only son she had in the whole world, and guarding him against . . . well, you never know what kinds of hazards and dangers an innocent child might encounter on a fishing trip.

Alligators. Crocodiles. Huge snakes. Child-eating catfish. Lockless Monsters.

Fishing is very, very dangerous for children, and he needed me in there to supervise, and finally he got the message and opened the gate and let me in.

I, uh, went straight to the hand that held the . . . well, the bait, I guess you might say.

He pushed me away, “No, Hankie, get away. You can't eat my bait.”

Eat his . . . I guess he'd gotten the wrong idea. He thought I wanted to eat his bait! Ha, ha, ha. Can you imagine that? Oh boy, these kids get the craziest . . .

No, nothing could have been farther from the . . . why, the thought never entered my . . .

See, the thing is, the boy had this so-called “bait” clutched in his hand, and any careful parent or guardian will tell you that . . . hey I needed to check it out, that's all. It might have been some dangerous substance.

Poison. Toxic waste. Flammable material.

I had to know.

Suddenly, the back door flew open and out came Sally May.

“Alfred, where is my electric mixer? Have you been playing with my mixer again? Because if you have, I'm going to . . .”

Let me pause here to say that there is something about Sally May that strikes fear in the hearts of dogs and little boys. Even if we haven't done anything naughty, her appearance on the scene makes us all squirm with guilt. And when we find ourselves in her yard, where dogs are not allowed, it makes us squirm even more.

When Drover caught sight of her, he dropped his head and started slinking away. Alfred dropped the string, clasped his hands behind his back, and began whistling. Me? Well, I . . .

Snap. Gulp.

I ran a quick test on the Possibly Toxic Bait, shall we say, and holy smokes, that was some WONDERFUL bacon and it brought new meaning and purpose into my life!

Sally May placed her hands on her hips and glared down at us. I hoped she would be proud of me for taking such good care of her boy, her only son in the whole world.

And just to be sure that she understood the importance of my mission, I gave her my most innocent smile.

Huh?

I'll be derned. It appeared that I had a piece of string running right through the middle of my smile.

Chapter Nine: One Thing Leads to Another

S
he didn't look quite ready for the party, seemed to me. I mean, she was dressed in a housecoat and slippers, and she had her hair wrapped up in a turban made of a pink towel.

Perhaps she had just stepped out of the shower and was in the process of getting herself ready for the evening's festivities. Yes, that would explain why she had put makeup on only half of her face, while the other half remained . . . I don't know, pale maybe?

Yes, pale, and it was a strange combination—a little scary, to tell you the truth. For a moment there, I considered barking at her, but only for a moment. Barking at Sally May didn't strike me as a very smart thing to do, especially when she was running late and trying to get ready for a party.

So, even though she looked a little wild, I didn't bark at her.

She glared at her son. “Alfred Leroy, WHERE IS MY ELECTRIC MIXER? Have you been playing helicopters with it again? I've told you and told you and told you: Play with your toys and leave my kitchen equipment alone!

“You see what happens? Here I am trying to get ready for a Christmas party and the whole choir will be arriving at my doorstep in . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Oh my stars, they're going to be knocking on my door and I'm going to be running around the house in my slip, trying to find . . . WHERE IS MY ELECTRIC MIXER?”

The boy looked up at the clouds. “Well, wet's see.”

“I have a dessert that needs whipped cream and I can't whip the cream without my mixer. Now, what have you done with it? Think, Alfred, this is very important.”

The back door opened and Loper stuck his head outside. “Hon, a car just pulled up in front of the house.”

Sally May's head flew back and her eyes grew as wide as fried eggs. “WHAT? They can't be here already. I still have thirty minutes!”

“It's Charles Mack and Sara. You know them, always early.”

“Oh, how can they do this to me!”

“And I can't find any dress pants.”

“I laid them out on the chair!”

“Hon, I know you did, but Molly spread peanut butter all over the front.”

“Peanut butter! How could she . . . I thought you were in charge of Molly.”

“Well . . . somehow she got into the peanut butter while I was reading
The Cattleman
. Anyway, I probably ought to wear pants to this deal and oops, got to go. Someone's at the door.”

Sally May's eyes were getting wilder by the moment. She turned back to her son. “Alfred Leroy, if you don't tell me where you put my electric mixer, I'm going to . . .”

Her words hung in the air like a hammer that was about to fall, but it didn't. Instead, her gaze seemed to move from Alfred to . . . well, to me, you might say.

“Is that dog
eating string?
Hank, how can you be so dumb?” Back to Alfred. “Where is my mixer? I want it NOW.”

“Well, wet's see. I was pwaying wiff it.”

“I knew it, I knew it, Alfred, I've told you . . . where is it?”

“I think it went . . . to the car.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “The car? You put my electric mixer in the car? Why!”

“Well, I was pwaying hiwwycoptoos wiff it, and it just fwoo into the car, Mom.”

“I can't believe you'd do this to your own mother, on the very day she's . . .” Her eyes stabbed me again. “And you! You're eating string. Why do we waste money on dog food? Get out of the way, dog.”

I whapped my tail on the ground and tried to . . . but she was late and in a hurry, and she breezed past me and opened the back door of her car. She grabbed the mixer and started back to the . . .

I refuse to take responsibility for being in the way. I was just sitting there, minding my own business and wondering what five feet of string was going to do to my internal plumbing, and . . .

First thing, she stepped on my tail. I yelped and tried to move out of the way, never suspecting that in the process of trying to get out of the way of her thundering slippers, I would get in her way even more. But that's what happened.

And of course she got her legs tangled up and went sprawling into the grass, while Little Alfred snickered behind his hand. (She should have spanked that boy.)

Well, let me tell you something. When the lady of the house takes a dive into the grass, a true Head of Ranch Security doesn't just sit there looking simple. Our usual procedure in these situations calls for the dog to bark several times, and then to rush to her side and give her a big juicy lick on the face.

I leaped to my feet, issued several loud barks, and rushed to the scene of the accident. I was about to administer the proper Red Cross–approved CPR lick on the face when . . . her face had turned bright red, don't you see, and her upper lip had curled just enough so that I could see exposed fangs, and . . .

I, uh, cancelled the CPR lick on the face. I had a feeling that it wasn't right for this situation, so I licked Little Alfred in the left ear and let it go at that.

“Hank, can't I take a step in this life without stumbling over you?”

Me? What . . .

“And Alfred, it's NOT FUNNY! You go into the house right now and stand in the corner for five minutes.”

Little Alfred headed for the house, while Sally May picked herself up off the grass.

Well, she was definitely stirred up about being late for her own party and it was definitely bad luck that I happened to be sitting there at that very moment.

I don't know who or whom she might have blamed if I hadn't been there, but I was, so naturally, out of all the dogs in the world, she chose to heap the blame upon me.

I smiled up at her, hoping that she might . . . why was she looking at me that way?

“Come here, you nincompoop. I won't have you running around the ranch with that ridiculous string hanging out of your mouth. What if the guests saw you, what would they think?”

I, uh, couldn't answer that.

“They'd probably think the truth—that we're raising the dumbest dog in Ochiltree County. Come here!”

Boy, that hurt. I mean, Sally May had made cruel and cutting remarks about me before, and I knew that our relationship had gone through its share of ups and downs, but for her to suggest that I was the dumbest dog in Ochiltree County . . .

It really hurt, cut me right to the crick.

I lowered my head, tucked my tail between my legs, and went to her. Our eyes met. I wagged my tail and gave her my most innocent wounded look.

“Stop eating string. We spend our hard-earned money, buying you dog food, and you don't need to eat string, for crying out loud.”

She got a firm grip on the string and pulled. She probably shouldn't have done that.

Of course she had no way of knowing that I had . . . uh, just run an important test on a hunk of bacon, or that it was tied to the other end of the string, or that pulling on the string would set off a chain reaction in my digestive system.

In other words, she can't be blamed entirely for what happened next.

But neither can I. I mean, there I was, minding my own business, trying to digest my bacon and string, bothering nobody, asking no favors from . . .

Everything would have turned out fine if she hadn't pulled so hard on the string, if she'd given it a steady, slow pull. That would have brought the alleged bacon to the surface, so to speak, without disrupting my bodily processes.

But she was mad and late and in a rush, and she gave it a big yank.

And what was I supposed to do? Sit there and be a perfect dog while she was jerking around on my innermost innards and vital parts? Hey, my body is a very sensitive piece of machinery and you can't yank and jerk on it like it was a bulldozer or something.

As I say, she shouldn't have done that, but she did and you can probably guess what happened. I did my best to hold back the tide of . . .

Suddenly I was seized by this powerful con­vulsion, this sweeping irresistible tide of . . .

Once things start going sour, they just seem to stay that way. I mean, her shoe and foot could have been anywhere else on the ranch and . . . what lousy luck that she would have her shoe and foot right there in my path, at the very moment when . . .

Boy, was she MAD! Who'd have thought that she would actually chase me around the yard in her bathrobe, at the very moment when her guests were arriving for the Christmas party? I wouldn't have thought it, but she sure did.

I managed to escape but by the thinnest of margins.

And all of that over one measly piece of string.

Remind me never to go fishing again.