The Secret Pledge - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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BIRD DOG!

      Getting trounced in the Arena of Love would have been bad enough in itself, but getting trounced by a skinny, stick-tailed, pea-brained bird-merchant was almost more than I could bear. And, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re talking about Plato.

      I’m sure you remember Plato, a spotted bird dog with about as much sense as fishing bait. He and Beulah lived on the same ranch, and where you saw one, you usually saw the other. They went places together. They were friends.

      Actually, they were more than friends, and that was the crutch of the crust of my problem. I won’t say that it made me jealous. Everyone knows that jealousy is a petty emotion, so let’s just say that I was…no, by George, let’s go ahead and dive right into the truth.

      I was jealous. There. It’s out in the open for all the world to see.

      How could she care about such a goofball? It was beyond reason…and, actually, therein lay my only hope. See, Beulah’s affection for the dumbbell was so crazy and out of character, I clanged to the belief that I was only one step away from Sweet and Ultimate Victory.

      Some days, that’s all that got me out of bed and kept me going, no kidding, the flick flimmer…the flim flicker…the faint flicker of hope, there we go, that one day, her eyes would open and she would come to her senses.

      One trick, that’s all I needed—one song, one blast of romantic poetry, one drop of a magic love potion behind my ears—and she would be MINE.

      So there you are, a glimpse into the secret dungeon of my heart. It helps to explain why I stampeded across Slim’s lap and dived out the window, and why I didn’t give a rip if I had torn his shirt.

      A little humor there to lighten the atmosphere. Did you get it? See, I didn’t give a rip about tearing his shirt. Ha ha. Rip and tear. Ha ha. You know, humor is very important to the over-all so-forth, and we must never get so swept up in our sorrows that can’t pause to....

      Never mind. I had caught a glimpse of Miss Beulah and it appeared that this might be my Big Chance. Was it, really? To find out, you’ll have to keep reading.

      Chapter Two: A Bad Start

      I clawed my way over Slim and dived out the window, hit the ground and sprinted around to the back of Billy’s pickup. There, I drew myself up into a Pose of Dignity, took a wide stance, and gazed up into the face of my…

      I gazed up into the face of Plato the Bird Dog, my second-worst enemy in the world (after the cat). He stood at the back of the pickup, looking down at me with that big, happy bird dog grin on his face—the one where his long sloppy tongue hangs out one side of his mouth.

      “Hank! By golly, great to see you again. Hey, first day of bird season, what do you think, huh? Great, you bet. You know, Hank, I’ve been on a new training program this year and I think I’m coming out of the pre-season in the best shape of my life. Pecs and abs, Hank, that’s where it starts, and I’ve been building up the bottoms of my feet, too.”

      “I’d like to speak to Beulah.”

      “Those feet are so important, Hank, so important. The thing is, you forget how much cactus we have in these pastures, and if you don’t get your feet toughed up, by golly, two hours in the field and you’re done. How about your feet, Hank, how are they holding up?”

      “They take me where I want to go.”

      He laughed. “Good line, I like that. ‘They take me where I want to go.’ Ha ha. But, seriously, Hank, we all get so busy, we overlook the…”

      “I’d like to speak with Beulah.”

      “Beulah? Oh. Great. She’s here.” He turned toward the front. “Honey Bunch? Guess who’s here. Old Hank, by golly.” He turned back to me and gave me a wink. “She’ll be right with you. She’s fixing her ears.”

      “What’s wrong with her ears?”

      “Well, she’s…you know how she is, Hank, every hair in place, always looking like a million dollars. Isn’t she something? Whoa, hang on, Bud, here she comes!”

      The nitwit stepped aside and…gasp…there she was in all her glory and splinter. The pittypatapations in my heart struck again, and we’re talking about a heart that was banging like a bass drum. I tried to speak but the words seemed frozen in my mouse.

      In my mouth, that is. I had already taken care of the mouses. The meese. The mooses. Skip it.

      She had fixed her ears, all right, and her nose and her eyes and every single hair, and the total effect left me speechless, so I stared. I gawked. She gave me a smile. “Hello, Hank. You’re looking well.”

      It took me a moment to unthaw my speech mechanisms. “Thank you, ma’am, but looks don’t always tell the story.”

      “Oh? Have you been ill?”

      You know, I had walked into this situation, thinking that I would pursue a Go Slow Program—recite a poem, sing a song, talk about flowers or something—but now that she was right in front of me, I tossed caution out the window and went plunging toward the bottom line.

      “Of course I’ve been ill! Since I saw you last, I haven’t been able to eat or sleep. I walk around at night like a ghost. I’ve lost twenty pounds. My hair is falling out. I’m losing teeth. Even the fleas are moving out.”

      Her mouth fell open. “Oh Hank, that’s terrible! What seems to be the problem? Do you have a disease?”

      “No, Beulah, you have a disease.” I stabbed a paw in the air toward the bird dog. “HIM. He’s worse than mange. He’s worse than cholera. How can I lead a normal, healthy life when you’re wasting your time with him?”

      Plato had been listening, of course, and thought it was time to open his big yap. “Hank, if I may intrude here, you’ve raised several points that we should…”

      “Dry up.” Back to Beulah. “There’s a simple solution, right before your eyes.”

      “Hank, please…”

      “I’m the solution. Me, the cowdog of your dreams.”

      “It’s not that simple.”

      “Of course it is. Ditch him, get rid of him, send him down the road!”

      “Are you finished?”

      “No ma’am, I’m just getting warmed up.”

      “Well, you’ll have to excuse me, I have things to do. Maybe we can talk about it another time.”

      I couldn’t believe it. She stuck her snooty nose in the air, and left me and the Quail King alone in a poisonous silence. Plato shrugged and grinned. “Well! Perfect weather for a hunt, Hank, and they say the quail numbers are up this year.”

      I roasted him with a glare. He didn’t notice and went right on blabbering.

      “You know, Hank, and when bird season’s over, by golly, we ought to sit down and, you know, have a real heart-to-heart talk, just me and you. Guy-talk.” At that moment, Billy started his pickup and pulled away. Plato waved a paw. “Well, here we go, Hank, opening day! Great to see you again! I hope you get to feeling better.”

      Oh yeah? Well, we didn’t need to talk about what I hoped for him.

      As the pickup sped off to the west, I studied the lonely figure sitting near the cab. Was she weeping? Looking back at me through tear-drenched eyes?

      No. Bummer.

      I made my way back to the pickup, knowing that I would

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