The Phantom in the Mirror (7 page)

Chapter Twelve: Unbelievable Ending! No Kidding

P
oor Me

No one appreciates a hero like me.

In spite of the fact that I'm trying to be

Man's very best friend and woman's too,

So what if I happened to barf on her shoe?

My loyalty to her has never ceased,

I've stayed by her side through war and through peace.

I've guarded her kids and chicken coop,

But still she insists I'm a nincompoop.

Well fine, okay, it's a poor-me kind of day.

When you need a friend, just call me and I'll look the other way.

Poor me, poor pay! That's all I have to say.

That's fine, all right, I'm out on strike,

It's a poor-me kind of day.

I bark up the sun most every morn, I was here at the ranch when her babies were born

I guarded the steaks that she put out to thaw . . .

And maybe I was foolish for eating them raw.

But what of the nights I've stayed up and barked?

And tussled with monsters and things in the dark?

Protecting the cattle and chickens and sheep

And got myself shot at for jarring her sleep!

Well fine, okay, it's a poor-me kind of day.

When you need a friend, just call me and I'll look the other way.

Poor me, poor pay! That's all I have to say.

That's fine, all right, I'm out on strike,

It's a poor-me kind of day.

So when there is trouble or monsters or stuff,

I plan to be sleeping or warming my duff,

I'll tell them too bad and stay on my seat.

Emergency calls can be handled by Pete.

And then we'll just see what happens from there.

When they're getting their due and getting what's fair.

And as the ranch crumbles, I'll cry out with glee,

“You've caused this by being so mean to poor me!”

Well fine, okay, it's a poor-me kind of day.

When you need a friend, just call me and I'll look the other way.

Poor me, poor pay! That's all I have to say.

That's fine, all right, I'm out on strike,

It's a poor-me kind of day.

The little mutt stared at me in disbelief. “Gosh, I hate to hear you talk like that. Somebody has to care . . . about something.”

I laughed in his face. “Not me, pal. I'm off duty, and caring isn't in my contract. Let somebody else care.”

Just then we heard singing in the house. It was a church song, something about . . . let's see if I can remember the words. Something about . . . here we go:

“Gloria in excelsis Deo,

Et in terra pax hominbus.”

It was a lousy song and they were lousy singers, sounded like a barn full of chickens and stray cats. Horrible noise and a stupid song.

They deserved a skunk, all of them.

Drover was listening to the music. “Gosh, that's so pretty! We've never had music like that out here on the ranch.”

I curled my lip at him and rolled my eyes. What did HE know about music? Was he some kind of expert on the subject? He didn't even have a decent tail, is what kind of expert he was, only a chopped-off stub.

Okay, maybe the song was a little better than I'd thought, but still . . . pretty good, actually, and there we were, sitting under this deep black sky full of stars, looking out on the whole entire universe that sparkled with ancient light, and the music seemed to be reaching out to the light . . .

Not a bad sound, for a bunch of country people. Pretty good, actually. There they were, doing their little part to make the world a better place, and there I was . . . well, feeling sorry for myself, you might say.

I heaved a big sigh. “Drover, do you know who cares?”

“Nobody, I guess.”

“That's where you're wrong. I care. I shouldn't, but I do. I can't help it. I guess that just goes with being a cowdog.” I pushed myself up. “Come on. We've got a skunk to whip.”

“But I thought you said . . .”

“Never mind what I said. There's more to this life than potato soup.”

“What does that mean?”

I gazed at him in the starlight. “I'm not sure. It just popped out. Stars were put here to shine. People were put here to sing, and dogs were put here to protect the ranch from skunks. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so.”

“Good. Let's move out. We'll have to jump the fence.”

“Okay, but this old leg . . .”

I leaped over the fence and made my way around the southwest corner of the house. There, I picked up visual readings of the skunk. He was sniffing around in the iris patch, slowly working his way toward the open crawl space. At his pres­ent course, bearing, and speed, he would reach the hole in fifteen seconds.

I went straight to the spot and blocked his path. He waddled forward, raised his head, wiggled his nose, and stared at me with his beady little eyes.

“Scram, Rosebud. The choir's practicing and you need to run along.”

As I've already mentioned, skunks don't seem to have any fear of dogs—or much of anything, really—and Rosebud chose to ignore my warning. He had it in his mind to go under the house, and by George, I think he would have walked right between my legs, if I'd let him.

I didn't, of course. I stopped him with a sharp growl. He wiggled his nose and started forward again. This time I stopped him with something more substantial. I clubbed him over the head with a paw.

Suddenly his tail fanned out and he hopped up on his front legs. Then he darted to my left . . . his left . . . he darted to the left and tried to make an end run on me. At that point, I found it impossible to avoid getting involved.

Over the years, I had tested out several techniques for skunk work, and the one that worked the best was the one I used. I abandoned the soft touch and went to Sterner Measures.

I jumped him, grabbed him behind the neck, and pitched him up into the air.

WHOOSH! SPLAT!

By George, that got his . . . cough, choke, arg . . . attention. All at once he had that tail spread out and he wasn't looking for bugs . . . cough, choke, arg . . . anymore, although it was a little hard for me to see exactly what he was . . . wheeze, arg, snork . . . doing because my eyes were suddenly stinking.

Stinging, that is. But the important thing is that I'd gotten his full undivided attention, and with a skunk, that's important.

Step Two calls for more of the same, only the second time I pitched him toward the yard fence—a not-so-subtle hint that I wanted him to leave. I grabbed him behind the neck and gave him the old heave-ho.

In return, he gave me the old whoosh-splat, and did I say that I kind of like the smell of skunk? Let me back up and rephrase that. A little of that stuff goes a long way, and after a dog has been off Skunk Patrol for a few months, he tends to forget what happened the last time he did it.

In close quarters, in hand-to-hand combat, those guys REALLY STINK. But the nice part about skunking is that once you've taken the first hit, you hardly notice the second, third, and fourth, because that first one knocks out all your sensory equip­ment, and we're talking about sparks, smoke, shorted wires, blown circuit breakers, and all the lights out on the control panel.

I survived the first hit, lost all my instruments, and kept barking and pitching that little feller away from the house, until he finally got the message.

By that time, the singing inside the house had stopped. Doors flew open and people were outside and I heard them talking about “skunk in the yard” and “pew-weeee!”

Then I heard Sally May's voice above the others. “Loper, your dog has done it again! We can't even have a party without him . . .”

“No, now wait a minute, hon. Look here. Some­body left the crawl space uncovered. Hank kept the skunk from going under the house.”

“Oh. You really think so?”

Suddenly I was surrounded by a crowd of admirers. All the members of the church choir had come out into the night to congratulate . . . well, ME, you might say, for heroic actions and service above and below the call of duty.

A few voices stood out above the murmur of the crowd. Let's see if I can remember them:

“What a wonderful dog!”

“Yes, Sally May's so lucky to have him!”

“Gee whiz, I wonder if they'd take a thousand bucks for that dog.”

“Oh no, they wouldn't sell Hank, not for any amount of money.”

And so forth. I sat there in the middle of the adoring masses, drinking in their praise and trying to appear humble. It was the fulfillment of every cowdog's dream.

But then came the very best part of all. Sally May knelt down beside me—and I mean, right there in front of the whole church choir—knelt down beside me and, you won't believe this, gave me a hug. That's right, hugged my neck and kissed me on the cheek.

“Hank, all these years I've misjudged you. I've been cruel and small-minded and I've ignored the obvious fact that you're probably one of the finest dogs in the whole world. Why, everyone in the choir wants to buy you and take you home. In the last five minutes, we've had three offers of ten thousand dollars cash!

“But we can't let you go, Hank, not for any amount of money. Instead, we want you to move into the house and live with us. I'll fix up the guest bedroom, just for you. We'll move the gas tanks inside, if that's what you want, and spread out your gunnysack on top of the bed.

“We want you to eat your meals with us at the kitchen table—sirloin steak three times a day. And I don't care that you stink. From now on, my house will smell of skunk and dog, and I'll be proud to tell the neighbors that Hank lives with us!”

Well, I couldn't have come up with a better ending for this yarn if I'd written it myself. As a matter of fact, I did, and yes, I might have stretched the truth a bit here and there, but the point is that Sally May was proud of me and I became her hero.

And before we let that pleasant feeling slip away, let's shut this thing down.