LITMIR.BIZ

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. They were creatures like we’d never seen before. I had no idea who they were, where they’d come from, or what they were doing on my ranch; but I knew right away that they didn’t belong to this world.

      I also had reason to believe . . . Wait, hold everything, stop, halt. I’m not sure I should go public with this next piece of information. I mean, a guy should never put too much scary stuff at the first part of the story.

      Why? The little children. You know where I stand on that issue. I don’t mind giving the kids some excitement or even a little scare now and then, but I’ve got problems jumping into deep, scary stuff right away.

      Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You think you can handle the scary stuff because you’ve survived stories about the Silver Monster Bird, the Phantom in the Mirror, the Halloween Ghost, the Vampire Cat, and all the other monsters and goblins we’ve encountered on this ranch. Well, maybe you survived those deals, but don’t let it cloud your judgment.

      The truth is, you don’t know what’s coming in this story but I do, and I’m not ready to reveal any information about Prehistoric Dinosaur Birds, so don’t even ask. In the first place, you wouldn’t believe me; and in the second place, if you believed me, you’d be too scared to read the rest of the story.

      So there’s Ground Rule Number One: no mention of . . . Wait a second. Did I already . . . Okay, here’s Ground Rule Number Two: In the event that I already flubbed up and broke Ground Rule Number One, you will disregard anything I might have said. You heard nothing about any kind of Unmentionable Something or Other.

      That should take care of it, and now we’re ready to mush on with the story.

      It all began one morning. No, wait. It all began one evening; yes, I’m sure it was evening . . . or was it in the middle of the day? You know, I can’t remember when it began and I don’t care, because it began sometime and that’s all we need to know. If it hadn’t begun, we wouldn’t be talking about it.

      Now . . . what were we talking about? Hmmm. I know it was important, and it was right on the tip of my tock . . . the tip of my tongue, let us say. That’s usually the best place to leave things, on the tick of your tock, because you can always come back later and find it. I mean, how can you lose something on the tang of your tongue?

      It’s impossible. On the other hand . . . you know, this is really embarrassing. All at once I’ve just . . . uh . . . drawn a blank. I have no idea what we were talking about, yet I have this feeling that it was very, very important.

      I know what’s causing this. Years of working around Drover has caused deposits of plaque to form around my brain cells. You know what plaque does to your teeth, right? Bad stuff. It causes tooth decay and root rot, so you can imagine what it does to brain cells. It causes us to babble and wander, so don’t forget to brush those teeth twice a day and use dental floss.

      And don’t swallow the floss. Floss is string, and nobody needs dental string in his gizzard. Ask a guy who knows. I once swallowed a piece of string that had a fishhook tied to it and . . .

      How did we get on the subject of string and fishhooks? This is crazy. You know, before I began working with Drover, I had no trouble carrying on a normal conversation or following a train of thought, but now . . .

      Wait! I just remembered. Forget about fishhooks. It was morning on the ranch, and you know what big event happens around here in the morning. Here’s a hint. It begins with “Scrap” and ends with “Time.”

      Scrap Time. Did you get the right answer? Good. Yes, in this outfit a normal day begins around eight o’clock when our Beloved Ranch Wife, Sally May, comes out the back door with a plate of luscious breakfast scraps.

      Even on a bad day, Scrap Time brings meaning and focus into a dog’s life. It gives us a break from the crushing routine of running the ranch’s Security Division twenty-four hours a day, and we’re talking about crinimal investigations, bark­ing at the mailman, Chicken House Patrol, Monster Watch, and all the other things we do around here.

      Heavy responsibility, and it’s very important that we have a few precious moments every morning to, you know, keep ourselves pumped and excited about Life, work, and all the so-forth.

      At an ordinary Scrap Event, we can expect a few morsels of scrambled eggs and several pieces of burned toast. But on a good day, we’ll get egg scraps, burned toast, plus five or six fatty, juicy ends of bacon.

      You know where I stand on the Issue of Bacon. I love the stuff, absolutely love it, and that’s why Drover and I always try to arrive early for Scrap Events. We want to be first in line so that we can protect our bacon scraps from the local cat.

      Have we discussed cats? Maybe not. I don’t like ’em, and I especially don’t like the one we’re stuck with on this ranch. Pete. He’s a sneak and a slacker, and he spends all his waking hours lusting for fatty, juicy ends of bacon.

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