The Return of the Charlie Monsters - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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they went shopping for more junk. Sally May was scurrying around the house, trying to get ready for a trip to town. As I recall, she was helping out at Vacation Bible School. Yes, she had volunteered to teach at VBS and this was to be her first day.

      Drover and I had slept late. Let me rephrase that. Drover had slept late. I had been up most of the night, doing Poacher Patrol, but the impointant pork is that around seven o’clock in the morning, we were pulling guard duty in Observation Post 9 in front of the machine shed.

      All at once, I got a call on the radio. “Hank, you’d better wake up. Something’s going on out there.”

      I leaped to my feet and took command of the ship. “Dive, dive! All ahead two-thirds. Level off at fifty feet and rig for depth charges!” One of the men was standing in front of me. I blinked my eyes and took a closer look. “Who are you?”

      “Pretty good. How ‘bout yourself?”

      “Doing fine, thanks. Are we at fifty feet?”

      “Well, I’ve got four feet and you’ve got four, and that makes nine.”

      “Good. Level off at nine feet and let’s take a look. Up scope! Who are you and do you have clearance to be here?”

      He gazed up at the sky. “Well, I’m Drover. Clarence isn’t here.”

      “Hmmm, that’s odd. Do you suppose he went to the engine room?”

      “Where’s that?”

      “Down below, where we keep the engines.”

      “Down below is where we keep the dirt.” He pointed his paw in a downward direction. “That’s dirt.”

      My gaze followed the path indicated by his paw. “Good grief, it IS dirt. We’ve run aground! Why wasn’t I informed? How can I command this ship when nobody tells me…did you say your name is Drover?”

      “Yeah, it’s me. Hi.”

      “Hi. Are you the same Drover who was here yesterday?”

      “Yep, that’s me, Drover with a D.”

      “Roger that. Okay, bring me up to speed. What’s going on around here?”

      “Well, I saw some turkeys.”

      “Rubbish. They must have been seagulls.”

      “No, they were turkeys.”

      I melted him with a glare. “Turkeys don’t live on the ocean. Get your facts straight.”

      “We don’t have any oceans.”

      “That’s absurd. How can this be a submarine if we don’t have any oceans?”

      He moved closer and whispered, “It’s not a submarine. It’s a ranch in Texas and I think you were dreaming.”

      I was about to place him under arrest for making slanderous remarks about his commanding officer, but instead, I cut my eyes from side to slide and noticed…hmmm. Everything in my field of vision bore a strong resemblance to…well, a ranch in Texas.

      I marched a few steps away and filled my lungs with three big gulps of air. Slowly my head began to clear and I was ready to deal with this latest crisis.

      Keep reading. You’ll want to hear what happened to the ship.

      Chapter Two: A Turkey Alert

      I marched over to Drover and gave him a stern glare. “All right, let’s go over the details of your report. You said something about seagulls, but if this ranch doesn’t have an ocean, they couldn’t be seagulls.”

      “Yeah, they were turkeys.”

      “Maybe they were turkeys.”

      “That’s what I said.”

      “Make up your mind and stick with the facts. Why are you rolling your eyes?”

      “I don’t know. I need some exercise.”

      “Then why don’t you walk or run, jog, jump, or chase a ball? You never DO anything, Drover, except sit on your duff and snap at flies.”

      “I take naps.”

      “Yes, and look what it’s done to you. Is this why your mother scrimped and saved and sacrificed? So you could become a stub-tailed little hypocardiac who rolls his eyes all the time?”

      He grinned. “Good old Mom. I wonder what she’s doing today.”

      “Never mind. Finish your story about the seagulls and quit rolling your eyes. I’m a very busy dog.” I began pacing, as I often do when I’m trying to extract information from a rewitless luctant.

      A reluctant witness, let us say. I began pacing, while Drover knotted his face into an expression of deep concentration. “Well, let’s see. Once upon a time there was a seagull and his name was Sparky, but everyone called him Barky ‘cause he had a bad cough, and he lived near the ocean and one day he saw a submarine…”

      “Wait. Stop.” I paced back over to him. “If you saw turkeys, why are you talking about seagulls?”

      “I thought you wanted to hear a story about seagulls.”

      “I did NOT want to hear a story about seagulls. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on around here, and do you know what I think?”

      “No, what?”

      I moved my mouth closer to his ear. “I think someone in this department is losing his marbles. Now tell me about the turkeys.”

      He pointed his left paw toward a flat patch of grass south of the house. “There’s seven of ‘em.”

      “Yes, I see the turkeys. Big deal.”

      Have we discussed wild turkeys? Sally May enjoyed watching them. She put out feed for them and encouraged them to come up close to the house, where she could observe them through her kitchen window. In other words, those turkeys brought joy and pleasure into the life of our Beloved Ranch Wife.

      What was so special about watching turkeys? Frankly, I don’t get it. My take on turkeys is that they’re unusually large birds that spend an unusually large amount of time looking ridiculous. If you ask me, they live hollow, boring little turkey lives, and watching them would be a waste of time.

      But that’s just a dog’s perspectum. Sally May doesn’t feel that way. She thinks they’re beautiful. That strikes me as a little weird, but I would be the last dog in the world to say a critical word about the Lady of the House. By George, if she enjoys watching the turkeys, our Security Division will do everything in its power to chase them.

      Let me rephrase that. The Security Division will do everything in its power to protect them. We protect them from coyotes and cannibals, from raccoons and monsters of the night, and we do it for Sally May.

      Back to my conversation with the runt. “Drover, I’m finally seeing a pattern here. They must be turkeys, not seagulls.”

      “Yeah, and the cat’s chasing them.”

      “What!”

      “Look.”

      I did a quick sweep with field glasses and saw…holy smokes, seven turkeys, and they were being stalked by a cat—a scheming, sulking, spoiled little ranch cat named Pete.

      Boy, you talk about righteous anger! I was almost overwhooped by righteous anger, and whirled back to my assistant. “Those birds are being harassed by the local cat. Why wasn’t I informed?”

      “I tried to

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