LITMIR.BIZ

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Everything about The Case of the Burrowing Robot was strange. It started strangely and it ended strangely, and in between it was . . . well, strange.

      And scary, very scary. This one will test your courage.

      It began one dark night toward the end of . . . was it April? Yes, April. I remember it well, because “April” spelled backward becomes “Lirpa.”

      In the Security Business, we often spell important words backward to confuse our enemies. Have we mentioned this? Maybe not, but it’s true. It drives ’em nuts, heh heh, which is exactly where we want to drive ’em.

      See, we’ve suspected for a long time that they sometimes plant secret listening devices in our headquarters compound. Once in place, these sensitive devices can pick up Top Secret conversations between and among the elite troops of the Security Division.

      You can imagine how serious this could be. Why, if our codes and plans fell into the wrong hands . . . well, it could lead to terrible things, things so grave and dangerous that I’m not even allowed to discuss them. Sorry.

      Where were we? Oh yes, The Case of the So Forth. It all began one morning in Lirpa. I had been out doing a routine patrol of the headquarters compound, when all at once I became aware of . . .

      Wait, hold everything. Lirpa? What the heck does that mean? Hang on a second, we need to check this out.

      Hmmmmm.

      Data Control shows no listing for “Lirpa.” According to our files and records, it’s not a real word. Nor is it the name of any known animal, vegetable, or mineral. So what is this non-word, non-name doing in a classified report of The Burrowing Robot?

      This could be serious. Can I speak openly and honestly about this? Might as well. Okay, here’s the deal. Our enemies are very cunning and sometimes they try to confuse us by introducing garbage words into our communication systems. Perhaps they know that garbage words foul up our systems and that without proper communication, communication is virtually impossible.

      When our language is reduced to garbage, everything we say is nothing but rubbish.

      So, yes, what we have here is an attempt on the part of our . . . wait a minute, hold everything. Weren’t we just talking about . . . ?

      Okay, forget the Security Alert. Remember that business about reversing important names and so forth? Lirpa instead of April? Ha ha. You might say that we stepped in our own . . .

      Skip it.

      The mystery began one warm afternoon around the middle of April, and never mind all that stuff about trying to confuse our enemies. I had just finished checking out a couple of unauthorized sparrows in our elm trees and was on my way back to the office, when I noticed something odd.

      I caught a glimpse of High Loper, the owner of this ranch . . . well, he thinks he owns it, and most of the time we dogs play along with the illusion. It works better when the people around here think they’re in charge, but we dogs know the real story.

      (We’re running things, if you want to know the truth.)

      We give the humans little jobs to keep them happy, don’t you see, and on that particular afternoon I noticed Loper preparing himself for one of those little jobs. Sally May had been hinting that it was time for him to plow up her garden. After the hints had failed, she had announced that it was time for him to so forth, and I found him in front of the shed, glaring down at the dusty Rototiller, which had sat in the machine shed all winter.

      He didn’t look happy at all. He bent over and blew the dust off the top of the engine, but most of the dust came back in his face, causing him to cough and mutter.

      He took hold of the starter rope and gave it a pull. The motor chugged but didn’t start. He adjusted the choke and gave the rope another pull. Same deal. It chugged but didn’t start. He continued pulling the rope for five long minutes. By then his face had turned a deep shade of red and he was talking out loud to the tiller.

      “Stupid pig-nose cantankerous dysfunctional piece of junk!” He kicked the tiller with his left foot. Right foot. Who cares? “Junk!”

      Just then, Slim appeared, wearing a little grin. “What’s up?”

      “Garden time.”

      “How fun.”

      “You want to do it?”

      “Well, I’d love to, Loper, but I’m real busy. And I think Sally May kind of likes your special touch.”

      “Very funny.”

      Slim craned his neck and looked at the machine. “How’s it going?”

      “How do you think it’s going?”

      Slim’s body slumped against the side of the shed

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