Lost in the Blinded Blizzard (6 page)

Chapter Ten: Devoured by Coyotes

W
ell, I finished my song and turned to the coyote brothers. They were staring at me with dull brutish expressions on their dull brutish faces.

“What do you think, Snort?” No answer. “Would it surprise you to know that that song was based on a true life experience?” No answer. “It happened to me only last night. I'll bet you'd like to hear the whole story behind it, huh?” He yawned. “Okay, here we go. It all began last . . .”

“Coyote not caring for love or pretty music.”

“Yeah, but all things considered, it's the kind of song that a coyote can really go for. I mean, it was so good, you're probably thinking about letting me go.”

They got a big laugh out of that.

“Or maybe not. Which is just fine, as long as I don't have to listen to any of your lousy coyote songs.”

That got their attention, which is what I had hoped might happen. I had run out of good ideas, see, and was stalling for time, in hopes of postponing supper.

Snort pushed himself up and came lumbering over to me. “What means, ‘lousy coyote song'?”

“It means . . . well, I hate to put it this way, Snort, especially with your hot breath right in my face, could you back up a little bit? No? Okay, we'll just . . . I hate to say this, but I doubt that you guys have a song that's in the same class with ‘Oh Flee, My Love.'”

“Uh. What's meaning ‘class?'”

“Class is something you've never had, Snort, and probably never will. I mean, you guys only know one song, right?”

“Guys know two song.”

“All right, two songs.”

He counted three claws on his right foot. “Coyote know
seven
song.”

“Wait a minute. You counted three claws. How could you come up with seven songs?”

He scowled and counted again. “One. Four. Seven. Coyote know seven song.”

“No, no. You cheated, Snort. One claw plus one claw plus one claw makes
three
claws.”

He stuck his nose in my face. “One claw plus one claw plus one claw make fat lip if dog not shut up.”

“Oh, I see now. You're using Coyote Mathe­matics.”

“Whatsomever.”

“Which means that you count to three, multiply by two, and add one.”

“Uh-uh. Add
two,
not one.”

“No, that would make eight.” He whacked me on the nose. “No, by George, that would make seven.”

“Ha! Hunk pretty smart.”

“Yes sir, that Coyote Mathematics is pretty foxy stuff.”

“Coyote not like fox.”

“That's what I meant. It's not foxy at all.”

“Coyote know seven song.”

“That's certainly the bottom line, isn't it?”

“Uh.”

“Which means that you've got a song or two I haven't heard, and I'll bet you're scared to sing in a blizzard.”

“Ha! Coyote not scared of buzzard.”

“Yeah, but I said blizzard.”

“Coyote eat lizard in one bite. Not scared of lizard.”

“No, you missed it again. I said . . .”

He poked me in the nose. “Hunk talk too much. Coyote not scared of nothing.”

“All right, then sing your old song. I dare you to sing it right now, in the middle of a blinded snow . . .”

He shoved me down into a sitting position. “Hunk shut trap and listen.”

“I can handle that.”

“And after we singing, then we eat, oh boy!”

“I don't think I could hold another bite, Snort.”

“Shut trap!”

“Yes sir.”

I shut my trap and listened to their new song. It turned out to be another low-class musical experience, a little piece of coyote trash called “We Don't Give a Hoot.”

We Don't Give a Hoot

I guess you might think we are dumb and stupid,

And maybe you think we can't sing.

And maybe you think we can't make up rhymes,

And if that's what you think . . .

Then we've got a message for you, mister,

And you'd better listen real good,

'Cause we've got one thing to say to you

And here is what it is . . .

We don't give a hoot,

We don't ever wear a suit.

We're nothing but animals,

Outrageous cannibals,

We don't give a hoot.

I guess you might think that we smell bad

But it's only because we stink.

But who wants to smell like petunias?

Not me . . .

Me and my brother don't want to offend

Anyone with our smell,

So if you should find us offensive,

We will beat you up . . .

'Cause we don't give a hoot,

We don't ever wear a suit.

We're nothing but animals,

Outrageous cannibals,

We don't give a hoot.

Being a cannibal's lots of fun and goofing off,

We don't ever have to take baths.

Or clean up our room or eat any spinach

Or dental floss our teeth . . .

We fight all the time and howl at the moon,

And pick our noses a lot.

And if you don't like what we're singing

We'll beat you up again . . .

'Cause we don't give a hoot,

We don't ever wear a suit.

We're nothing but animals,

Outrageous cannibals,

We don't give a hoot.

Well, when they finished their song, Snort swaggered over to me. He was wearing a huge grin on his face and I could tell that he was proud of himself.

“Uh! What Hunk say now?”

“Well, uh, you might say that I'm at a loss for words . . . so to speak.”

“Better find words real quick, so to speaking.”

“Right. Well, Snort, on the one hand, that is a very, uh, strange song.” He bared his fangs. “But on the other hand, it's strangely beautiful, in a strange sort of way.”

“Not strange.”

“Exactly. Not strange at all.”

“Only beautiful.”

“Right, you stole the words right out of my mouth.”

“Ha! Coyote like to steal.”

“Yes sir, you're quite a thief, Snort, and I say that from the bottom of my . . .”

Oops.

A gleam came into Snort's eyes. “Uh! Coyote hungry for heart!”

“I didn't say that word, honest, cross my heart . . . oops.”

“Coyote not care what Hunk say. Coyote ready for big grub, oh boy!”

They were coming toward me, licking their chops.

“Now wait a second, let's don't . . .” I started backing up. “How about another song, guys? I mean, it would be a shame to quit just when we've . . .”

They were shaking their heads.

I kept backing up until my backside backed into an embackment. Embankment, that is. And there I stopped. I had reached a dead end and was surrounded by cannibals.

In the Security Business, we have developed many escape procedures for many difficult situations, but we have never solved the puzzle of how to escape a dog out of a dead-end situation, surrounded by cannibals.

That's a toughie. All reported cases have ended in sudden death, followed by feasting, singing, and loud belching.

In other words . . . I think you've got the picture. I was in BIG trouble.

Wouldn't it be a shame if I got eaten? Not only would that mess up my plans for the future, but it would just about ruin the story. And what about Little Molly and her cough? Had you stopped to think about that?

If the coyote brothers happened to eat me for supper, then it follows from simple logic that there would be nothing left of me to finish my errand of mercy in the howling blinded blizzard, or to deliver the medicine to Little Molly.

Just think about poor Little Molly. Coughing all night, crying, coughing some more. Can you see Sally May standing over her crib, biting her lip and . . .

When I say “biting her lip,” I mean that Sally May is biting Sally May's lip, not Molly's lip. She'd never do that. Sally May wouldn't bite her child's . . . never mind.

Anyways, can you see Sally May standing over the baby's lip and biting her crib? Her face shows the little web-lines of worry and she's wringing her hands.

Nearby, Loper is pacing the floor. “It's all resting on the shoulders of our Heroic Guard Dog.”

“Yes,” says Sally May. “He's such a wonderful dog!”

“But where could he be? Something terrible must have happened, hon, because . . .”

“I know. Because nothing but a catastrophe could have stopped Hank from bringing the medicine to our sick child.”

“Yeah. What a dog!”

“He's so wonderful!”

“I only wish I had dozen dogs just like him.”

“At least a dozen. Well . . .” She walks to the window and looks out at the swirling terrible frozen blizzard outside. “We can only pray that he makes it.”

Pretty touching scene, huh? I can't tell you for sure that such a scene actually happened, but I'm guessing that it did. Or could have.

Yes, the terrible responsibility of making it through the storm and delivering the medicine to Little Molly was on my massive shoulders, and you're probably sitting on the edge of your chair right now, wondering what happened next, right? Okay, hang on. The coyotes ate me and that's the end of the story.

I already told you, I got eaten by coyotes. You needn't bother to turn the page again.

Chapter Eleven: Just Kidding

Y
ou turned the page again, didn't you?

And by now you've figgered out that I wasn't actually eaten alive by hungry cannibals and the story isn't over yet. But it MIGHT have turned out that way if . . .

You won't believe this. I didn't believe it either, but it happened. Okay, I was backed into a corner and surrounded by Rip and Snort, who were all set to start supper. Things looked real bad for Yours Truly.

Well, all of a sudden a bird-like object poked its head out of a hole in the embankment. The bird-like object resembled, well, a bird, you might say. In fact, it was a bird.

An owl. A little owl.

HUH?

Holy smokes, it was Madame Moonshine, the witchy little owl! The soggy condition of her eyes suggested that she had just awakened from a nap.

“Excuse me,” she yawned, “but by any chance, are you an owl?”

“An owl? No, I don't think so.”

“How strange! I could have sworn that I heard an owl hooting.”

“Oh, that. No, it was the coyote brothers, singing a song about how they don't give a hoot.”

“My goodness. I thought that coyotes howled and owls hooted. Now you're telling me that coyotes hoot. I suppose the next thing you'll tell me is that owls howl.”

“No, I don't think . . . hey Madame, I've got a small problem I need to discuss with you.”

“Did you realize that owl + H = Howl? I find mathematical relationships so fascinating! Don't you? And speaking of you . . .” She blinked her eyes and stared at me. “My goodness! Unless I'm still dreaming, you are Hank the Rabbit.”

“Hank the Cowdog, ma'am, Head of . . .”

“And shame on you for waking me up!”

“Let me get right to the point, Madame. These coyotes are fixing to eat me, and if you've got one trick left in your bag of tricks, I'd be mighty grateful if you'd pull it out, real quick.”

She smiled. “Quick trick. Did you realize that Quick – Qu + Tr = Trick? Oh, these universal principles are just wonderful! Everything is related, you see, which means that we're all relatives.”

“Madame, please hurry.”

“But if all things are relative, then nothing is actually related. Oh, it's all so wonderful but so confusing!”

“Madame, those coyotes are planning to eat me.”

“Coyotes? Oh yes, coyotes. Are these the same coyotes who hoot?”

“They're the same coyotes who don't GIVE a hoot.”

“Oh, then I was mistaken. I thought you said they were some sort of hooting coyotes.”

“Well, yes, they were hooting, but they were hooting about how they don't give a hoot.”

She shook her head and sighed. “I'm confused. How can one hoot when one doesn't give a hoot?”

“Never mind the hoots, Madame, THEY'RE GOING TO EAT ME!”

“Oh rubbish! Surely they wouldn't . . .” She saw their fangs and drooling lips and sparkling yellow eyes. “My goodness. On second thought, I think you have a point. They do look threatening.”

“Right. And when they're finished eating me, they're liable to be looking for a dessert with feath­ers on it.”

All at once her eyes popped wide open. “I think we have just moved out of the realm of abstraction, Hank, and yes, we do need a trick—quick.”

“Thank you, Madame, and please hurry.”

She closed her eyes and concentrated. By this time, the Coyote Brotherhood had gotten close enough so that I was getting a much better look at their bloodshot eyes than I wanted.

“I've got it!” she said at last. “Timothy will save us.” She stuck her head back into her cave and called, “Timothy? Timothy! Come here at once! We are under siege.”

You remember Big Tim, Madame Moonshine's personal bodyguard? He was a great big huge nasty-looking six-foot diamondback rattlesnake, and boy, do I dislike great big huge snakes, and boy, did I have a hard time sitting still when he came crawling out of the cave and coiled up between me and Madame!

He flicked out his tongue at me, and in what I would describe as a weak voice, I managed to say, “Hey, Tim, how's it going, pardner?”

Because I'm scared of snakes, just don't like 'em at all. I mean, I don't allow rattlesnakes around headquarters and I've killed my share of 'em in the yard, but I'd never tangled with one even half as big as Timothy, and fellers, Timothy was pretty muchly free to come and go as he pleased on my ranch.

Biggest rattlesnake I'd ever seen, and hey, when he flicked that tongue out at me, the thought of being eaten by coyotes lost some of its sting, so to speak.

“Uh, Madame, do you suppose you could point your snake in the right direction? He's staring at ME, and my ma always told me to be careful around loaded snakes.”

“Oh rubbish, he wouldn't . . . Timothy, you naughty snake, stop glaring at Hank! And stop sticking out your tongue at him! Shame on you! The enemy is over there.”

She pointed a wing at the Coyote Brother­hood. Big Tim gave me one last glare—and I'm almost sure that he curled his lip at me too—and swung around to face the approaching barbarians.

That made me feel much better. I mean, my favorite rattlesnake pal was fixing to clean house on Rip and Snort, and I was all set to enjoy the show.

Madame stood erect and addressed the brothers. “Excuse me? My name is Madame Moonshine, and this is my cave. I have a few words to speak to you.”

The brothers stopped and grinned at each other. Madame went on with her speech.

“I'm sorry to tell you this, but I do not allow ruffians near my cave. Now, shoo and scat!” They didn't move. “I shall say it one more time: shoo and scat!” They didn't move. “Very well, you leave me no choice. Unless you leave at once, I shall have to resort to drastic measures.”

They just sat there, staring and grinning. Madame continued.

“I perceive that you're not familiar with the different species of serpent, so let me warn you that Timothy is a registered Skull-and-Crossbones Turbo-Diamondback Rattlesnake. He is trained to attack. His venom has been tested and certified by the Bureau of Terrible Things.

“He is armed with two .9MM Uzi fully automatic fangs, with silencers and infrared detection devices, which enable him to perform his duties in total darkness. He is capable of striking a target in .13858 seconds, and,” she smiled, “we have never had the opportunity to time him on a second strike. We keep losing our targets after one shot.”

She patted him on the head and turned back to the coyotes.

“And now, you may leave. I wish you a happy snowstorm and a good day.”

The brothers didn't leave. What they did kind of surprised me. They started laughing. They fell over on their backs and rolled in the snow and kicked their legs in the air, yipped and hollered and hooted and howled, got a heck of a big laugh out of Madame's speech.

Hey, I had always suspected that those guys were a couple of bales short of a full load of brains, but laughing at Big Tim set a new record for Dumb.

Snort jumped to his feet and shook the snow off his coat. “Uh! Coyote ready for play with snake.”

“Does that mean you won't be leaving?”

“Uh! Send snake for big fun in snow.”

“Very well, you have been warned.” Madame Moonshine swiveled her head around to Big Tim. “Timothy, go teach the ruffians a lesson. Charge! Tallyho!”

Tim zipped his head around and glared me again. “Don't point that thing at me, you . . . uh, Mister Timothy. In other words, please go get the coyotes . . . if you please, that is.”

He stuck out his tongue at me one last time—I told you he couldn't be trusted—and he went slithering out to rout the barbarian hoards.

I couldn't help admiring the way that snake moved. I mean, not only was he huge, but he was also quick. I figgered it wouldn't take old Timothy long to . . .

You know, I'd almost forgotten just how tough Rip and Snort were. I've said before that they loved a good brawl above all other things, even eating, and they were no more afraid of that snake than if he'd been a big worm.

You know what they did? While Tim hissed and coiled and struck and put on a demonstration of his Oozie-Turbo-Whatever-It-Was, Rip and Snort simply dodged and weaved and kept out of his fangs—laughing and hooting all the while.

And then do you know what they did? When old Tim ran out of Turbo, Snort picked him up in his jaws and pitched him to Rip, and I'll just be derned if they didn't play pass-and-touch right there in the midst of the blizzard—using Timothy the Turbo-Worm as their football!

I had suspected all along that Timothy was just a big windbag. He sure hadn't impressed me much.

Well, I looked at Madame Moonshine and she looked at me. She was the first to speak. “They're playing football with my bodyguard?”

“Yes, and having a pretty good time, I'd say. Did you have any other ideas for getting us out of this mess?”

“I'm afraid not. Unless . . .” She stared at me with her big owlish eyes. “Is there any reason why we're sitting here, watching this disgraceful folly, when we could probably pick up and leave?”

I shot a glance at the brothers. Snort was running a deep post pattern and Rip was winding up to throw the bomb. They were moving farther and farther away from us.

“No, by George, in his own peculiar way, old Timothy just might have saved our bacon. On the other hand, his own bacon seems to be up for grabs, so to speak.”

She sniffed at that. “Timothy will survive. Whether or not he will keep his job is another question. I had expected dramatic results, but of a different sort. Shall we go?”

“Yes, let's.”

And with that, we turned to the west and went streaking up the creek.

Don't forget, I still had an important mission to accomplish.