Lost in the Blinded Blizzard (3 page)

Chapter Four: A Few Pointers on Marking Tires

I
t took Billy and Slim a while to get all the childish laughter out of their systems.

Slim boiled up a pot of coffee and they sat down beside the stove, drinking coffee and recounting every detail of Billy's entrance into the house.

I noticed that my name came up fairly often in this conversation. They would say something about “old Hank,” then glance at me and laugh some more.

Seemed to me that they were trying to milk a dead horse. I mean, I hadn't cared much for the experience the first time around, and it didn't get any better the second or third time.

I continued glaring daggers at them, and more than once, when Billy was pointing his big hairy finger at me (he had black hairs growing between the joints of his fingers), I growled at him. (Oh, and he had black hairs growing on the back of his hand, too.)

I never trust a guy with hairy hands.

The best part of this conversation between Slim and Billy came when Billy took a big swig of coffee and found a drowned cricket in the bottom of his cup.

He stared at it for a second, then said, “Slim, I think the protein's running a little high on this coffee of yours.”

Slim leaned out in his chair and frowned. “By gollies, it sure is, but it was the same price as the regular.”

Billy went to the sink and poured out the last of his coffee. If he had tossed a glance in my direction, he would have noticed a big cowdog smile on my face. The cause of justice had been served.

Well, after the Cricket Incident I began to feel restless and bored. I felt a cold draft blowing across the floor and suspected that Billy had left the door open a crack. I gave Drover the signal to move out, and we went into the hallway to investigate.

Sure enough, the door was open just a crack. I managed to hook a front paw around the door and pulled it open a little wider, and we stepped outside into the storm. I took several deep breaths and gave myself a good shake.

“Drover, a ranch dog has no business spending time inside a house. That stuffy air can ruin a dog quicker than anything.”

He was shivering. “Yeah, but that's the kind of ruin I've always wanted to be.”

“I'll try to forget you said that, son. Has it occurred to you that Billy's pickup is sitting right in front of us and we haven't marked his tires?”

“Not really. I was thinking about how cold I am.”

I shook my head. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and mark the back tires. I'll take the front.”

“But I'm so cold! And this old leg of mine . . .”

“Never mind the leg, Drover. Do your job. I'll meet you back on the porch in two minutes.”

I nudged him off the porch with my nose and went right to work. I sniffed out the left front tire and ran a field analysis of the various scents and chemical compounds it contained. My analysis turned up a powerful showing of . . . rubber?

No big surprise there. After all, most tires are made of . . .

I hurried around to the right side and gave it the same careful laboratory analysis. This one proved more interesting. It tested positive for snow, caliche dust, ragweed, sagebrush, and another scent I couldn't quite identify.

It might very well have come from another dog, so I wasted no time in erasing his phony mark and adding one of my own.

In case you haven't already guessed, I take great pride in my ability to lay a good strong mark on a set of tires. When a vehicle leaves my ranch, I want the world to know where it's been.

Well, it didn't take me long to mark those two front tires. I mean, I'm the same dog who's accustomed to knocking out an entire pickup and stock trailer all by myself, and then rushing to the yard gate to bark at the driver.

That's an eight-tire job. A lot of dogs wouldn't even attempt a job that big, but it's nothing special to me. On your bigger assignments, like the eight-tire deals, a dog's overall physical condition and endurance become a major factory.

Factor, I should say. A major factor.

So I knocked out my tires in record time and went to the porch to wait for Drover. He didn't come. And he didn't come. I looked toward the rear of the pickup and didn't see him.

What was the little mutt doing back there? What was taking him so long?

I hate to wait, so after waiting and hating every second of it and getting bored, I pushed myself up and swaggered to the rear of the pickup. I figgered I'd end up having to mark his tires for him.

I passed the right rear tire and noticed his mark. Well, at least he'd done something. I continued around the back end of the pickup, and there I found him—sitting down and gazing up at the swirling snow, or something in that general direction.

“Drover, if I'd known it was going to take you five minutes to perform a simple procedure, I would have done it myself. What's the deal?”

“Well, I got distracted, Hank.”

“I see. In that case, let's talk about distractions. Distractions are one of your problems. You shouldn't allow yourself to be distracted by distractions.”

“What about girls?”

“They shouldn't be distracted either. Distrac­tions are a problem for everyone, regardless of age, gender, breed, or national origin.”

“Yeah, but what if I got distracted by a girl instead of a distraction?”

“That's no excuse. In our line of work . . . why do you ask?”

“Oh, I just wondered.”

“I see. No, when we're on a job, Drover, we've got no time for . . . you're not listening to me.”

His gaze seemed to be directed up toward the pickup bed.

“What?”

“I said, you're not listening to me.”

“I can't hear you, Hank, I'm being distracted.”

“Drover, this is the very problem I'm trying to help you with, but I can't help you if you continue to be distracted.”

“I know, but I can't help it.”

“In that case, I have no choice but to . . .” I swung my gaze around and in an upward direction and locked in on . . .

HUH?

Holy smokes, my heart raced, my head swimmed, swammed, swummed, swum, whatever the fool word is. My legs grew weak, my entire body began to tremble and shake and quiver and quake.

My pulse shot up, my breaths came in short bursts, I felt hot and cold at the same time, and little pins and needles of excitement moved down my backbone and out to the end of my tail.

I was losing control of my own destiny. My eyes crossed and I began speaking in tongues.

Fellers, all of a sudden I forgot about giving Drover a lecture on distractions, because all of a sudden I had stumbled onto one of the biggest distractions in the entire world.

I found myself looking up into the big brown eyes and the adoring gaze of MISS BEULAH THE COLLIE!

She was standing at the rear of the pickup bed, looking down at me. Even though it was pretty dark and snowing hard, I could see the light of love shining in her eyes.

“Hello, Hank. Hello, Drover.”

At the mention of his name, Drover lost control of himself. He began rolling around on the ground and kicking his legs in the air.

“Oh my gosh, it's Beulah, I heard her voice with my own ears, and there she is in the back of the pickup!”

These strange spasms that Drover has from time to time never fail to embarrass me. I mean, a guy should make every attempt to keep his feelings under control, especially if his feelings reveal emotions that are basically chilly and stylish.

Silly and childish, I should say.

On the one hand, I could understand the powerful effect that Miss Beulah's voice had on Drover. Even I felt a certain tingle of excitement. But on the other hand, a guy must resist the temptation to reveal all his cards, so to speak.

In the game of love, if you reveal all your cards, you will soon reach a point where all your cards have been revealed.

I stepped over the little mutt and let my eyes drift up to Miss Beulah's face. “Oh my goodness, I believe we have company. And my goodness again, it turns out to be Miss Beulah!”

Heh, heh. This was the opening shot of what would surely prove to be the final battle for the fortress of Miss Beulah's heart.

And best of all, her stick-tailed bird-dog friend was nowhere in sight.

Chapter Five: Drilled by a Flea in Front of Miss Beulah

“H
ello, Hank,” she said in that honey-smooth voice of hers.

“Hello, Beulah. I must say that I'm surprised to see you out at this time of night, and I'll even admit that it's a pleasant surprise. But I hope you understand that seeing you here tonight is just one of many surprises that I've experienced today.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. This has been a day full of surprises, Beulah, but that's fairly routine. In my line of work, I see many ladies during the course of an average day.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. I couldn't possibly keep a count. Many of them come for advice. Many come for sympathy. And many more come for . . .” I arched my left eyebrow. “Well, it seems that I have a small reputation amongst the ladies. In spite of my best efforts to keep my exploits and adventures a secret, the word just seems to get around.”

“How interesting!”

“Yes, indeed.” Drover was still rolling around and I stepped on his nose. “Oops, sorry about that, son.”

“Oh, my heart's about to bust!” he squeaked.

“That was your nose, Drover, and I would appreciate it if you would stop making a spectacle of yourself.”

“I can't help it! I saw her face and it struck me deaf and dumb!”

“Her face might have stuck you deaf, Drover, but you were dumb long before she got here.” I stepped over him and let my eyes drift up to Beulah again. “You'll have to excuse Drover, ma'am. Unlike me, he lives a sheltered life and rarely comes into contact with, shall we say,
mem­
bers of the female species.
”

“What a clever way of saying it!” said Beulah.

“Thank you, thank you, but I really can't take much credit for being clever. You won't believe this, Beulah, but those clever remarks just pop into my head and roll off of my lips. I mean, they come without any effort at all—just like raindrops falling from the prairie or wildflowers springing up on the sky.”

A small chirp of laughter came from her lovely mouth. “Oh Hank, sometimes I can't tell whether you're teasing or trying to be serious.”

Heh heh. Good. Great. Perfect. You don't ever want 'em to know all your tricks.

I tossed my head to one side and chuckled. “Ha, ha, ha. Yes, all the ladies seem to wonder about that, Beulah: ‘Is Hank being serious or is he just a naughty teaser.' Ha, ha, ha. Oh my, isn't this life a wonderful mystery! But if I were to reveal the answer, the mystery would vanish, POOF! And . . .”

At that very moment, just as I had the lovely Miss Beulah eating my hand—eating OUT of my hand, I should say—I was drilled by a flea.

This was a cruel twist of fate. It couldn't have come at a worse time. At first I tried to ignore it. I mean, ignoring pain was nothing new to me, but hey, this was pain of a new dimension and a higher order of majesty.

Anyways, I tried to carry on. “If I were to reveal all my secrets, Miss Beulah, the flea would vanish in a poof of yikes!”

The flea would not be ignored.

Let me pause here to say a word about fleas. Yes, they are very small. If a flea is small and if a flea makes his living by drilling holes in innocent dogs, then it follows from simple logic that a small flea uses a small drill to inflict a small hole upon his victim—which, following the same line of simple logic, should cause only a small hurt.

Under ordinary circumstances, simple logic is not only simple but also logical, and therefore true. In this case, simple logic is WRONG. Small fleas cause
big hurts.
Don't ask me how or why, but they do, take my word for it.

So there I was, poised beneath Beulah's balcony, so to speak, and charming her with my words and charms, when all at once—WHAMO! This sniveling flea drilled me in the right dorsal hiney, and fellers, he got my attention.

My head shot up, my tail shot up, and suddenly I found myself rolling around on the ground, withering in pain. Writhing in pain, I should say.

Oh hurt! Oh pain! Oh humiliation!

And of the three, the humiliation was the hardest to bear. Just think about it. You're Head of Ranch Security. You run the place, you're in charge, you're the guy who barks up the sun in the morning and barks it down at night. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, happens on that ranch without your say-so.

A very serious job and a heavy responsibility, in other words, which not only requires courage and intelligence, but also a certain amount of dignity.

And something happens to a guy's dignity when he's brought to his knees by a BUG.

And to have this happen in front of one's True Love and Fondest Desire is a foolish crate.

A cruelish fate.

A cruel fate.

If you've ever been drilled by a flea, you'll understand. If you haven't, you can take my word for it: a drilling flea can take a grown dog to the mat and leave his dignity in scrambles. Real quick.

Okay. I hit the deck, so to speak, and launched my posse of teeth and went after that sneaking, overbearing little pipsqueak of a flea.

It might surprise you to know that dogs—even your higher bred blue-ribbon top-of-line cowdogs—have places on their bodies that cannot be defended against drilling fleas. It's true. A flea that strikes near the base of the tail cannot be stopped by ordinary means.

I had to go to extraordinary measures to combat this dog-eating flea. “Excuse me just one moment, Beulah, I have this . . .”

After running in circles and chasing my hiney for several seconds, I realized that I would have to change tactics.
That microscopic flea was armed with a six-foot drill bit, fellers, and he was doing incredible damage to my body!

You're probably thinking that the cause was lost, that the alleged flea had succeeded in running his eight-foot tempered steel diamond-tipped gigantic drill bit through the entire length of my body, causing my precious fluids and liquids to leak out on the ground.

Is that what you thought? Well, you're in for a big surprise. As the old saying goes, “It's always darkest before it gets any darker.”

What that flea didn't know about cowdogs was that when Emergency Defense System One fails, we don't quit. We initiate Emergency Defense System Two and go right on fighting!

We have our tricks, see. Many tricks. Tricks that no flea has ever thought of.

Okay. You've got a flea drilling you from behind. You've launched several waves of tooth posses and they've been repealed. Repelled. And it appears that the situation is hopeless. You've been struck a deadly blow in a bodily zone that cannot be defended by conventional means.

So here's what you do. You sit down and lift both hind legs off the ground and raise them to a 45 degree angle. This concentrates all the weight of your body upon a small area near the base of your tail—which just happens to be the same small area where the pain, the terrible pain, is centered.

With the weight of your body concentrated over the area of pain and misery, you are ready to begin the most difficult part of the procedure. Pay close attention because I'll go over it only once.

Back legs up, tail down, weight on back end. Now,
scoot forward, using front legs to pull rest of
body around in a small circle, some 3–4 feet in
diameter.
Repeat the procedure two or three times, as necessary.

I'll admit that, to an outside observer, a dog going through this procedure might appear a little silly. And it might have looked even sillier because, while I was attacking the flea problem, Mister Spasms-of-the-Heart was still rolling around on the ground.

But silly or not, my procedure worked, and nothing works better than something that works.

Okay. At last I had conquered the flea problem and rubbed him off the face of the earth, the hateful little snot, and was ready to turn my full attention back to the Department of Love.

I jumped to my feet, gave myself a good shake, and threw my gaze back to the pickup bed.

“Excuse the little diversion, Miss Beulah, but I'm sure you can . . .”

HUH?

Bird dog? A spotted bird dog?

That made no sense at all. Miss Beulah was a collie, not a . . . oh, it was HIM. Plato the Spotted Dumb-Bunny Bird Dog.

And he was laughing.

“By golly, Hank, that was one of the funniest routines I've seen in years!”

“Is that so?”

“Right. It was terrific! I don't know where you keep coming up with your material.”

“It's pretty awesome, I guess.”

“Right, it sure is, and Beulah loved it! I mean, she just loved it. I haven't seen her laugh so hard in years. Why, she's flat out on the floor right now.”

“Isn't that wonderful.”

“By golly, yes! You have a tremendous sense of comedy, Hank, and I mean that sincerely.”

“Yeah? Well, you're fixing to see the second act.”

I had already made up my mind to leap into the back of the pickup and show the bird dog the rest of my “routine,” which would consist of me doing incredible damage to his face.

But just then Billy came out of the house. He waved good-bye to Slim, jumped into the pickup, and drove away.

Just before they disappeared into the storm, Plato yelled, “Terrific job, Hank, really terrific! It'll be a long time before Beulah and I forget this night!”

“Same here, Bird Dog, and that should cause you to lose a lot of sleep!”

And with that, they vanished into the night, leaving me alone with a huge crater in my heart.

And tail.