LITMIR.BIZ

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Why would anyone send the Head of Ranch Security to Obedience School? It beats me, and let me go on the record as saying that it was one of the dumbest decisions ever made on this ranch.

      On any ranch. In the whole world.

      Just think about it. After a dog has climbed the ladder of success and achieved the position of Head of Ranch Security, does he need to go back to Doggie Kindergarten? No sir. He needs to be turned loose and left alone so that he can hunt down the various monsters, spies, enemy agents, and crinimal villains who lurk in the darkness and plot evil schemes against the ranch.

      Oh, and he needs to be working day and night to humble the local cat. That’s a huge point right there. If the Head of Ranch Security isn’t around to humble the cats, who’s going to do it? Nobody. And then you know what happens? The cats try to take over the ranch and run the whole show, and before you know it, the place has gone straight to pot.

      You know who needs to go to Obedience School? CATS. They never take orders, and if you don’t believe me, just hunt up the nearest cat and tell him to sit down. Ha. He’ll give you one of those arrogant smirks and walk away with his tail stuck straight up in the air.

      That’s a cat for you, arrogant and selfish to the bitter end, but does anyone ever talk about sending cats to Obedience School?

      Sorry for the outburst, but this thing really has me worked up. Actually, you’re not supposed to know about the Obedience School yet. It comes later in the story. See, every story is composed of two parts: the First Part and the Second Part. If you knew what was coming in the Second Part, you might not read the First Part, and that wouldn’t be good. First Parts should always come first and Second Parts should always . . .

      Maybe this is obvious, so let’s move on.

      It began, as I recall, on a normal average day on the ranch. Wait. It wasn’t exactly a normal day. It was a roundup-and-branding day in the spring of the year, which means that it wasn’t normal at all. It was one of the biggest workdays of the year.

      Yes, it’s all coming back to me now. I knew something was cooking when, at first light, I heard the sounds of unauthorized vehicles approaching ranch headquarters. After a long night of patrol work, Drover and I had just returned to the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex beneath the gas tanks, and were in the process of fluffing up our stinking gunnysack beds.

      You know why our gunnysacks smelled bad? Because the cowboys on this outfit were too cheap to buy us new ones. You can buy those gunnysacks at the feed store for fifteen cents apiece, and would it break the ranch’s bank if they gave us fresh bed linens every six months or so? Heck no, but they don’t. Those guys are so cheap, they’d skin a flea for the hide and tallow, but we can’t get started on all the injustices in life.

      The point is that we were fluffing up our beds, and yes, they smelled pretty rank. Just as I had completed the Three Turns Around the Bed Maneuver and was about to collapse into the loving embrace of my gunnysack, my Left Earatory Scanner leaped up and began pulling in mysterious signals from the vaposphere.

      Your ordinary mutts call them “ears.” We call them Earatory Scanners because . . . well, they’re quite a bit more sofissicated . . . suffiticated . . . saffistocated . . . phooey . . . quite a bit more impressive than ears. They’re very sensitive scanning devices that can snag the tiniest of sounds out of the air—or the “vaposphere,” to use our technical word for the air around us.

      Anyway, my Left Earatory Scanner had so-forthed and was so-forthing the whatever, and suddenly a red light began flashing on the control panel of my mind. I turned to my assistant.

      “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you, but I just received an alarm from Data Control.”

      “No thanks, I’m stuffed.”

      “Come back on that?”

      “Murgle skiffer alarm blossom snicklefritz.”

      I narrowed my eyes and studied the runt. He was stretched out on his bed and appeared to be half-asleep. “Drover, I’m sounding General Quarters. Report to the bridge at once.”

      He sat up and pried open his eyes, revealing . . . well, not much, two empty holes. Those holes stared at me for a long moment before he spoke. “Oh hi. Was someone talking to me?”

      “Affirmative. We have a problem.”

      “Oh drat, I hate problems.” He struggled to his feet, swayed back and forth, and yawned. “You know, I just had the weirdest dream.”

      “I’m not interested in your dreams.”

      “Thanks. Yeah, there was this important general who’d built a bridge across troubled waters. And he was standing on the bridge . . . with an alarm clock.”

      “Was his name General Quarters?”

      “That’s the one. What was he doing with that clock?”

      “Drover,

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