The Case of the Dinosaur Birds - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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We wait our turn in line. Cats don’t even know that rules exist, and given the slightest opportunity, they will cheat every time.

      Show me a cat and I’ll show you a cheater.

      That’s why it’s so important that we dogs arrive early at our Scrap Events. It gives us an opportunity to set the proper tone: rules and manners; no scuffling, hissing, pushing, shoving, or bickering over the scraps.

      Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. I mean, food is important, but we can’t allow it to rule our lives. If a guy wins all the scraps but loses his poise in the process . . . well, what’s the point? He’s no better than your average cat.

      And speaking of cats, when Drover and I arrived at the yard gate—five minutes early, mind you—we found that the cat was already there, sitting with his tail wrapped around his backside, beaming a gluttonous look toward the house, and purring like a little . . . something. Like a greedy little motorboat.

      When he heard us coming, he turned and flashed his usual smirk. “My, my, it’s Hankie the Wonder Dog . . . and you’re late.”

      I thundered up to him. “We’re not late, Kitty. We came five minutes early so that we could be first in line.”

      “Well, darn the luck. I guess it didn’t work.”

      I stuck my nose in his face. “I guess it did work, you little pestilence.”

      “No, no, Hankie. As you can see, I’m first in line.” He batted his eyes and snickered. “And you’re not.”

      “Oh yeah? Well, here’s some bad news. The line you started was the Cheater’s Line. We’re starting a new line, the Line of Good Behavior. Go to the back of the line.”

      “But Hankie, I won fair and square by coming earlier than you. Tee hee.”

      “Right, and that’s cheating.”

      “That’s the way the game is played, Hankie.”

      “That’s the way the cheater’s game is played. This is a new game, and we’re going to play by the rules.”

      He licked his paw with a long stroke of his tongue. “Oh, really? What rules are we talking about?”

      “The Rules of Justice, Pete, and Rule Number One is that cats always go last. Go to the rear. Move!”

      His gaze drifted around. “You know, Hankie, this won’t work. It never works because . . .” He fluttered his eyelids. “. . . Sally May brings the scraps, and I’m her special pet. You know what will happen if you make a scene.”

      I heard a growl rumbling in the darkness of my throat. “Pete, you’re despicable.”

      “I know, and sometimes it really bothers me. But not today. Tee hee.”

      For a moment of heartbeats, my finger twitched on the Launch Button. It would have been so easy to dive right into the middle of the little snot and give him the thrashing he so richly deserved. But at the last second, I canceled the launch and took a step backward. I mean, one of us had to show some maturity, right?

      “Okay, Pete, just this once I’m going to let it slide.”

      “I thought you’d see it that way.”

      “And I hope you get indigestion.”

      At that very moment, the back door opened and out stepped . . . holy smokes, I couldn’t believe my good fortune . . . out stepped my very best pal in the whole world.

      Little Alfred!

      Do you see the meaning of this? Heh heh. I did, and so did Kitty-Kitty.

      Chapter Two: Strange Birds in the Sky

      See, here’s the deal. Little Alfred was a fine young man, fair and honest, and best of all he had no history of pampering cats, unlike his mother who . . .

      I would be the last dog in the world to say a critical word about the Lady of the House, but let’s be frank. There had been times in our long and stormy relationship when I had looked into Sally May’s eyes and had gotten the feeling that, well, she wasn’t fond of dogs.

      Or was it just me? Surely not. No, our troubled relationship grew out of the fact that she had a weakness for cats, and that’s a very sad state of affairs. People who don’t understand the true crooked nature of cats . . . Maybe we’d better leave this subject alone.

      The point is that Little Alfred wasn’t as likely to fall for Pete’s trickery; and when Kitty saw him coming out the door with the plate of scraps, that insolent smirk on his face dropped dead. He swung his eyes around to me and gave me a hateful glare.

      I was beside myself with joy that the Cause of Justice had been served. “Hey, Pete, what do you say now, huh? Ha ha ha! Where’s Sally May?”

      “This isn’t funny, Hankie.”

      “Of course it is. It’s hilarious. Go to the back of the line.” He didn’t move, so I did what any normal dog would have done. I gave him a loud burst of self-righteous barking. We call it our Train Horns Application.

      BWONK!

      Heh heh. I love doing that, especially when Sally May isn’t around with her broom. Kitty responded just as I had hoped. He jumped three feet in the air, turned wrong side out, hissed, spit, shrieked, and humped his back. Okay, maybe he landed one lucky punch with his claws, but I hardly even . . .

      Actually, it stung like crazy, but never mind. The important thing is that a spoiled, pampered, rinky-dink little ranch cat had been humbled and the Cause of Justice had been served.

      Kitty gave me the Cobra Eye and began slinking toward the rear of the line, the very spot in Life where every cat belongs. “Very well, Hankie, but things have a way of coming back around.”

      “Do they? That’s great. This time I gave you Train Horns, and next time I’ll show you Ocean Liner Horn. I guarantee you won’t like it.”

      At that point, I whirled away from the sulking cat and prepared myself for the Scrap Event. You’ll be impressed by this. See, a lot of your ordinary dogs would have gone into a wild celebration—jumping around, thrashing their tails, barking, drooling, making a big scene.

      Not me. I made a special effort to control my savage instincts because . . . well, when you know that you’ve won the big game, you don’t need to gloat. Gloating can be a lot of fun, but it’s only icicles on the cake. Winning is enough.

      And so it was that I turned to the control panel in my mind and began flipping switches.

      Leaps and Dives: OFF.

      Wild, Exuberant Swings on the Tail Section: OFF.

      Dripping Tongue: OFF.

      Eyes Blazing with Food Lust: OFF.

      As the boy came down the sidewalk, I sat on the ground beside the yard gate, first in line, a perfect doggly gentleman waiting to receive his scrap award.

      He gave me a smile. “Hi, Hankie. You want some skwaps?”

      I was trembling with excitement but didn’t let it show. He opened the gate and held the plate under my . . . BACON! Holy smokes, I had won the lottery! Six or seven fatty, juicy, fragrant ends of bacon!

      Yes, I wanted scraps, but I would be a gentleman about it. I was first in line, so there was no need to behave like a slob. I held tight to my emotions and beamed him a look that said “Just any morsel will be fine.”

      He was impressed. He should have been. He gave me a pat on the head and looked at the food line, which consisted of me first, Drover second,

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