The Case of the Vampire Vacuum Sweeper (5 page)

After all, she had come to visit me, right?

Chapter Seven: Slim Gets Trapped in the Bathroom

“O
ops, sorry Drover, you can run along now.”

Heh heh. His nose had come in pretty handy as a stepping stone, to tell you the truth. I never could have made it all the way into her loving arms if he hadn't been there. That just goes to prove that we all have our function and purpose in this life.

Well, I guess I had put a little more oomph into my Adoring Leap than I had supposed. It caught her off guard and sent her staggering backward several steps. She tripped on Slim's boot jack and might have gone all the way to the floor if she hadn't bumped into the wall and caught herself.

“Here, here. Down, boys, contain yourselves.” She laughed, straightened herself up, and began taking off her coat and hat. Then, suddenly, she froze. She seemed to be staring at . . . something on the ceiling. “Am I getting cataracts? Or is this room filled with . . . dust?”

Oh. She was looking at the light bulb. Yes, the light bulb and the halo of dust particles that surrounded it.

She coughed and fanned the air and looked down at me. “Is it dusty in here? What happened?”

Well, that was a little hard to explain with wags and barks, and there wasn't time for it anyway, for at that very moment we all heard the bath­room door rattling. Miss Viola pulled a little white hanky out of her purse and covered her nose with it. Then . . .

“Slim? Is that you in there?”

“Yes ma'am, it sure is, and this is a little em­barrassing.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Well . . . see, I come in here to clean myself up before you got here and I forgot that the dadgum doorknob was stripped out. It'll close but then you can't get it open. Threads are stripped.”

“Oh my.” She tried to cover a little grin with her hanky but I saw it. “How annoying.”

“Right. Well, I meant to fix it six months ago but I never got around to it.”

“Oh dear.” She bit down her smile and shook her head. “And now you have company and you're locked in the bathroom.”

“Yes ma'am, it sure looks that way. I may have to bust down the door.”

Her eyes sprang open. “Oh don't do that. Surely there's an easier way. Can you climb out the window?”

“Dunno. Let me check.” We waited for several minutes. “No, it's painted shut, won't budge.”

“What about the hinge pins? Can you drive them out and take the door off the hinges?”

There was a moment of silence. “That might work, only I ain't got the tools to do it with, and there's no way you can slip me a hammer and screw­driver under the door.”

“Could you do it with a table knife? Just be patient, Slim, and don't do anything drastic. I'll find a table knife and slip it under the door.”

She left her coat and hat on the couch and went into the kitchen. Naturally, as her Chosen Escort, I followed. Drover tried to follow but I, uh, talked him out of it.

“Buzz off, Drover, you're not invited.”

“But I think she likes me and . . .”

“She was just being polite, but then you threw yourself all over her and knocked her into the wall, and I don't think she's gotten over it yet.”

“But I thought . . .”

“It wasn't the worst thing that could have happened, Drover, but it was crude and rude, and what you need to do right now is to go stand in the corner for fifteen minutes and think about Manners for Nice Dogs.”

“Yeah but . . .”

“Good-bye. We'll have a test on manners later in the evening.”

“Oh drat.”

He left, hanging his head and looking pitiful. I couldn't feel sorry for him. At his age, there was no excuse for a dog to be totally ignorant of manners and culture and civilized forms of behavior.

And besides that, I wanted Miss Viola to myself, heh heh.

We went into the kitchen. She stood in the center of the room, the cup of her left hand holding her right elbow and the cup of her right hand holding her chin. It was a thoughtful pose.

There for a second, I couldn't imagine what she was finding in Slim's kitchen to be so thoughtful about, but then I remembered. Slim had spent so much time chasing me with the vacuum sweeper that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning it.

I sat down at her lovely little feet and assumed a thoughtful pose just like . . . well, no, it wasn't just like hers. All that chin-and-elbow stuff doesn't work for us dogs, but it was a pretty good thoughtful pose. And together, we took in the sight of Slim's kitchen.

The sink: The faucet had several drips, I noticed, and Slim had tried to patch one of them with electrician's tape. The sink itself was a nice mellow shade of brown and it was heaped with unwashed dishes. Viola leaned forward and took a closer look. I don't know what she saw, but it caused her lip to curl.

The counter: Tracking Slim's activities in the kitchen was as easy as tracking a buffalo, because he had left a complete history of his work on the counter. There were two empty bean cans, four empty Vienna sausage cans, an empty jar of peanut butter; three Saltine cracker packages, as well as a number of crumbs and cookie wrappers; and a whole assortment of drips and spots of every color you could imagine.

After pondering these mysteries, Viola noticed two pots on the stove. She leaned forward, lifted one of the lids, and peeked inside. A second later, the lid slammed down on the pot, making a crack that caused me to jump. She bolted upright and a shiver passed through her entire body, and she said, “
What is that?
” She peeked again. “Oh. Red beans, covered with white hairy mold. Yuck!”

Yes, it was shameful. Shocking. Outrageous. All at once I began to re-examine my position on Staying Inside the House on Cold Winter Nights. The woodstove was nice but maybe I needed to factor in the risk of catching some dreaded disease that might court shut my career.

It was something to ponder.

Cut short my career.

Miss Viola's shivers passed and she spent a moment rearranging her face. She even worked up a smile. “Well! We need to find a knife, don't we? Where would he keep his knives?” She spotted a drawer beside the sink and pulled it out. She bent closer and stared into it, while keeping a safe dis­tance away, just in case something might jump out at her.

Not a bad idea, actually, considering the mouse population at that time of year. They moved inside during the winter, don't you see.

She reached inside the drawer and pulled out . . . hmm, how odd. She pulled out a small pipe wrench.

“Slim, did you know you had a Stilson wrench in your silverware drawer?”

From inside the locked bathroom, we heard him say, “Huh. I'll be derned. I've been looking for that thing for six months. Reckon you could hurry up with that knife? I've read all the wallpaper twice. Don't look too close at my kitchen. It's kind of a mess.”

Miss Viola and I traded wise glances. Yes, we had noticed.

She found a kitchen knife and slipped it under the bathroom door. It took Slim about three minutes to pry out the hinge pins. Then he removed the door and was a free man at last.

It was kind of a funny scene. I mean, here was a bachelor cowboy, wearing a clean shirt and his hair slicked back and his teeth brushed and smell­ing of bay rum, coming out to greet his lady friend. But to tell her hello and welcome her to the house, he'd had to remove the bathroom door.

I'll bet that hasn't happened many times in history.

Oh yes, and he was barefooted and had a rag tied around his wounded ankle.

Miss Viola happened to be the one woman in a million who saw the humor in all of this. I mean, she had to be the calmest, easy-goingist, forgivingest . . .

She was one heck of a fine old ranch gal, is the point, and when she saw Slim standing there with the unhinged door in his hands, the cowlick sticking up at the back of his head, and a silly grin on his face, she laughed and said, “You know, Slim Chance, visiting your house is always an adventure.”

He parked the door against the wall, ducked his head, and grinned. “The house looks pretty bad, Viola, and I'm sorry. I tried to get 'er cleaned up but . . .”

But you played Vampire Vacuum with the dogs.

“. . . next time maybe you'd better give me twenty-four hours' warning. This place kindly goes to seed, and it happens so quick, it always catches me by surprise.” He must have noticed that she was staring at his bare feet. “I didn't have time to put on my boots.”

“And the rag?”

“Oh, that's a bandage. For my ankle.”

“What happened to your ankle?”

“I was hoping you wouldn't notice.”

She burst out laughing. “Wouldn't notice! Who wouldn't notice?”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

She cocked her head to the side and smiled at him. “What happened?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and squinted one eye. “It sounds crazy. I stepped on a turkey neck bone and twisted my derned ankle.”

Her eyes popped open and she tried to smother her laughter, but she didn't quite get it done. Out came a big rollicking laugh. “A turkey bone! What was a turkey bone . . . oh never mind, I'm not sure I want to know anyway.”

He shrugged. “It was in the middle of the living room floor, that's all I can say. I've got an idea that your friend Hank had something to do with it.”

Huh? All at once I found myself out in the open and exposed, and everyone was staring at me. I, uh, whapped my tail on the floor and gave them a friendly smile that said, “I don't know anything about this, no kidding.”

It must have worked, because they went on to other matters. Whew! Innocent Looks had saved me again.

Chapter Eight: We Go on Stray Dog Alert

M
iss Viola clapped her hands together. “Well! I came for some coffee.”

“Oh yeah, but can't you stay a while? Me and the dogs went to a lot of trouble to clean this place up. It'd be a shame for you to leave so soon. You want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

“No thanks, Slim, I'd better get back down the creek.”

He was disappointed, I could tell. So was I. Having Miss Viola on the place was a pretty special event.

Slim limped into the kitchen and began searching for the can of coffee. It took him a while to find it, and guess where it was: in a grocery sack on the floor beside the ice box. He'd bought it two months before and had never gotten around to putting it up on a shelf.

“You save shelf space that way,” he explained to Miss Viola.

Well, she had fulfilled her mission. She put on her coat and hat, and Slim and I walked her to the door. Just before she walked out into the night air, she stopped.

“Oh, I almost forgot. On the way over here, I saw a pack of dogs crossing the road.”

Slim's face became serious. “A pack of dogs?”

“Yes, four of them, and I don't think they belong to anyone on the creek. I thought you'd want to know.”

“You bet I do. I've got a hundred and forty-six calves in the weaning trap, and what they don't need is a pack of stray dogs runnin' 'em through fences. We had a little incident with them dogs about two hours ago. Thanks, Viola, we'll be on the lookout for 'em.”

She said good night and left. Slim watched at the window until she was gone, then he heaved a sigh and turned back to me.

“That's a mighty fine lady right there. If I had any sense, I'd ask her to go dancin' some time . . . only I can't dance. Oh well, after seeing this house, she probably won't speak to me again anyways. I don't know how it gets in such a mess.” He scowled and glanced around the room. “We'd better go check them calves. I wonder where my boots ended up.”

He went to the hall closet and opened the door. It burst open and all the things he'd stuffed in there came spilling out. He muttered something under his breath and picked through the rubble until he found two boots that matched. He pulled on the right boot and tried to pull on the left one—and we're talking about serious grunting and tugging—but his swollen ankle wouldn't fit.

He kicked the boot across the floor—in my direction, by the way, and if I'd been half a second slower, it would have hit me—and said in a growling tone of voice, “Thanks a bunch, Hank. What do I do now?”

Me? What . . . had I asked him to step on the turkey bone? Had I planted it there, just so he could . . . oh well. Part of a dog's job is to take the blame for everything that goes wrong in the world.

This was followed by another round of muttering and aimless wandering around the house, until he found a sheepskin house shoe that was floppy enough to hold his swollen ankle. Then he dug out his oilskin coat and hat, gloves and wild rag, and we were ready for business.

He called us dogs and we went out into the cold night air. Slim limped along in his one-boot-one-slipper arrangement. I trotted beside him, a loyal dog to the end, and tried not to notice that he looked fairly ridiculous.

We reached the corrals and Slim draped his arms over the top board. I sat down beside him and together we studied the Calf Situation. We could see their dark forms in the moonlight. Some were still snatching bites of hay from the feeder, while others had bedded down nearby. They knew we were there, but our presence didn't seem to frighten them.

We watched them for ten or fifteen minutes. I was about ready to get back to some serious Stove Guarding, when suddenly and all of a sudden, the silence of night was fractured by . . .

What was that? Barking in the distance?

Slim heard it too. “That ain't a coyote's bark. That's the bark of a dog.” He cocked his head and listened. “Several dogs. Viola was right. Them dogs may try to come back. The question is, what do we do about it?”

Well, that was simple enough, wasn't it? He and Drover could camp out near the cattle. That would leave me to, well, guard the stove, so to speak. That stove sure needed guarding. You never know when someone might break into the house and try to steal the, uh, stove.

It sounded like a good plan to me.

Slim pulled on his chin and chewed his lip. He was a slow thinker, but at last he spoke.

“Dogs, I know what needs to be done. I ought to drag my bedroll and shotgun down here and camp with the livestock. That's what a real cowboy hero would do. Trouble is, I ain't as heroic as I ought to be. I don't like sleeping on the hard ground and I hate being cold. That stuff's for the young bucks, which I ain't.”

He grinned at me and winked one eye. “Us older bucks have to use our heads. You see these gray hairs?” He pointed to several gray hairs in his beard. Yes, I saw them. “Well, each one of them gray hairs comes from me making a dumb mistake. Now, it just happens that I've got exactly the right number of gray hairs so that I ain't fixing to camp out on the cold hard ground. I'm gonna break with tradition and use my brain on this deal.”

Hmmm. Well, that would be something new, sure enough, but I wondered what he had in mind. If it involved me sleeping on the cold hard ground, I was sorry to inform him that I had other plans for the evening.

“Let's go to the house and think this over next to the stove. My brain works better when it's warm. Come on, dogs.”

Hey, that sounded more like it. Good old Slim. What a fine ranch manager he was turning out to be. Over the years, I'd had a few doubts about him, but yes, age and experience had put a sharp edge on his mind. I agreed one hundred percent with his decision not to camp out with the cattle.

He was a very wise man—not overly clean in his personal life, but a very wise man and an outstanding ranch manager.

Drover and I went streaking up to the house. Slim limped along at his own pace. We reached the front door at least two minutes before he did.

As you might expect, Drover was moaning. “Oh, I'm so cold! I'm not sure I can make it through another winter.”

“Will you dry up? Just be glad we don't have to sleep outside tonight.”

“We don't? Oh good. I thought we might have to camp out with the cows.”

I glared at him. “They're not
cows
, Drover. They're
calves
. Cows are adult breeding females. Calves are the offspring of cows. If you're going to live on a ranch, for crying out loud, you ought to know the difference between cows and calves.”

“Okay. What's the difference?”

“I just told you.”

“Yeah, but I'm so cold I can't think straight. And my leg's killing me.”

“Drover, you have a morbid preoccupation with your leg.”

“Yeah, it's killing me.”

“It's not killing you. If it were killing you, you'd be dying. You're not dying. You're moaning and complaining.”

“Yeah, but that's the first step. First you moan, then you die.”

“Drover, you've moaned enough in the last month to kill off a hundred dogs.”

“Yeah, I'm just lucky to be alive.”

“If you're so lucky, then quit moaning about it.”

“I can't. I'm freezing out here.”

Fortunately, Slim arrived on the porch just then and opened the door. That was good, because I had run out of things to say to Mister Moan and Groan. Make no mistake about it, that's a weird little dog. Sometimes I think . . . skip it. Thinking about Drover is a bottomless pit.

He opened the door—Slim did—and Drover and I had a little pushing and shoving match to see which one would be the first inside. Somehow Drover won, and he flopped down in my spot right in front of the stove. I had to go to Fangs and Growls to move him out. Then . . .

Ahhhh! I did a quick circle of the spot and collapsed. It felt wonderful! No dog could wish for more than to . . . snork murk the honking murgle.

Perhaps I dozed. I mean, the warmth coming off that stove just seemed to reach out and enfold me in its warm embrace, and before I knew it . . .

Slim was sure making a lot of noise. What was the deal? Didn't he know that some of us were trying to sleep? I raised up and beamed him a glare that said, “Would you please knock off the noise and quit banging around?”

Oh. He had just dragged his mattress from the bedroom and was . . .

“Move, pooch.”

Move pooch?
No thanks. I had won my spot in front of the stove, fair and square, and . . .

“Okay, don't move.”

Would you believe that he dumped the mattress right on top of me? I was shocked, astonished, outraged, but . . . okay, okay, if he was so determined to . . . I scrambled out from under the stupid mattress and . . .

Hmmm. Had he brought that mattress for me? Maybe so. What a nice guy. It didn't smell so great, but what the heck, it sure beat the floor. I moved my camp onto the mattress, did a little Digging and Fluffing to get it just right, and was about to . . .

“Get off my bed, you clam-brain.”

Huh? Okay, maybe he'd brought the mattress for himself, and I sure didn't have any problem with that. The floor was fine with me. I staked out another spot near the stove and flopped down.

See, I happened to know that Slim was a sound sleeper and it had occurred to me that, once he was asleep, I could, shall we say, restake my claim to the mattress.

Heh, heh.

But what was he doing with a ball of string? He'd just come out of the kitchen with a ball of string. That struck me as odd. What could he pos­sibly want with . . .

You'll never guess what he had in mind for that string. It turned out to be a whole lot worse than anything I could have dreamed.