The Almost Last Roundup - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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there you are, a pretty neat song about a bad subject. I wish I could report that it brought us a big rain, but it didn’t.

      But life goes on, doesn’t it? In spite of the stinking drought, my day began in its normal fashion. I was up before daylight, staked out my usual position on that little hill north of headquarters, and barked up the sun.

      Once I had that done, and while most people and dogs were still in their beds, I launched the Second Phase of my morning’s routine, a complete and thorough walk-around of ranch headquarters. I checked it out from top to bottom: saddle shed, feed barn, machine shed, sick pen, garden, Emerald Pond, and every square inch of the corrals.

      It took me two hours, and I saw no signs of the Charlie Monsters who showed up later and took Sally May as a hostage. I mean, those guys really caught us…

      Wait. I wasn’t supposed to say anything about that, so let’s pretend that I didn’t. I was misquoted, how does that sound? If anyone asks about the you-know-whats, we know nothing about them at this point in the story and have no comment for the press. I think that’ll work.

      Anyway, after two solid hours of pretty intense sniffing around, I was feeling tired and thirsty, and made a Water Stop at the stock tank in the corrals. As I stepped up on the cement apron, my eyes caught sight of something lying on the shady side of the tank.

      I froze.

      It had a beak, two eyes, and a wild shock of something red on top of its head. In certain respects, it resembled a chicken or maybe a rooster, but I waited for Data Control to run Identity Scan. In my line of work, we have to be very cautious. Our enemies are clever and often use disguises, don’t you see, and sometimes they come creeping into ranch headquarters, wearing chicken suits.

      If this was an enemy agent in a chicken disguise, I needed to know about it.

      A message clicked across the screen of my mind: “Carbon-based organism with feathers. Chicken. Male. Have a nice day.”

      I allowed myself to relax. It was J.T. Cluck, one of our local bird-brains, loafing in the shade, and I didn’t want to waste half an hour of my life listening to him yap about whatever insignificant thoughts were floating through his little rooster mind.

      I began backing away from the tank, in hopes that he might not have seen me. Too late. He cocked his head to the side and squawked, “Oh, there you are. It’s about time you showed up.”

      “Sorry, J.T., I didn’t mean to disturb you. I need to move along.”

      “Not so fast, mister. Every chicken on this ranch has been wanting to talk to you.”

      “I’m a busy dog.”

      “Yeah, I’ve noticed—busy sleeping. Every time I look around, you’re spread out on that gunny sack bed, pumping out a line of Z’s.”

      “Maybe you should find something else to do, besides snoop on me.”

      “It ain’t snooping. Somebody needs to stay awake and pay attention.”

      “Are you finished?”

      “No, as a matter of fact, I’m just getting cranked up.” He stood up on his skinny legs and leaned closer to my face. “Pooch, we’ve got a crisis a-brewing on this ranch!”

      Chapter Two: Okie Dokie Doodle

      Well, I had been trapped into a conversation with J.T. Cluck, so I figured I might as well make the best of it and hear about the latest “crisis” on the ranch.

      “Okay, talk, and try to skip the boring parts.”

      “Pooch, me and every chicken on this ranch want to know what you’re going to do about this grasshopper shortage.”

      “I’m going to get a drink of water.”

      “Well, whoop-tee-doo. Listen, doggie, we ain’t seen a grasshopper since last October. How’s a chicken supposed to make a living around here?” I lapped water. “Course, you don’t give a rip, ‘cause they give you all that high-dollar grow-pup in a bowl. You might have a different attitude if you had to hustle your own grub.”

      “What are you complaining about? Sally May throws out grain for the chickens every morning.”

      “I know she does, but that stuff gives me heartburn.”

      I groaned. “Don’t start the heartburn stories. I don’t think I can stand it today.”

      He patted his chest and out came a ridiculous little chicken burp. “There, you see? I pecked that grain twenty-four hours ago and it’s still giving me fits. Elsa says I need more gravel in my craw, but that ain’t it. I need good old, honest American grasshoppers. A rooster can’t make a living on stink bugs and scorpions. You ever eat a scorpion?”

      “No.”

      “Well, you’ve never had heartburn ‘til you eat one of them little heathens. Son, they’ll bring tears to your eyes. They bite and sting all the way down the pipe. Why, the last time I ate a scorpion…”

      “J.T., is there a point to this?”

      “Huh? A point? Well, sure there is, and I’m a-getting there.” He glanced over his shoulders and dropped his voice. “Pooch, I’ve been a-meaning to talk to you about this. Elsa thinks there’s more to this grasshopper situation than meets the eye.” He waited for me to show some interest. “Are you going to listen to this or spend the rest of your life lapping water?”

      I had drunk my fill, so I sat down beside him. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

      “Well, this is important stuff and it might take longer than that.”

      “If it does, I’ll get up and leave. Hurry up.”

      “All right, I’m a-hurrying.” He leaned toward me. “Pooch, Elsa thinks she knows who’s behind this grasshopper shortage. It’s the British.”

      “Who?”

      “The British. It’s a plot. They’re stealing us blind!”

      I laughed. “That’s ridiculous. We’re in a drought. No rain, no grass, no grasshoppers. It’s all about the weather.”

      He looked up at the sky. “Well, that’s what all the smarties say, but some of us look a little deeper. And maybe you’d better do some checking on it yourself, since you’re the guard dog around here.”

      I heaved a sigh. “Okay, who are the British?”

      “That’s where it gets a little hazy. We ain’t entirely sure.”

      “Oh brother.”

      “But if you’ll hush your mouth for a minute, I’m a-coming to the best part of the story.”

      “Hurry up.”

      He rocked up and down on his toes, and stroked his chin with the tip of a wing. “Pooch, years ago when I was a little chickie, a storm come up from the northwest, big old storm, terrible storm, crash and boom, and I remember it like it happened yesterday. My granddaddy come into the chicken house, a-flapping and a-clucking, and I’ll never forget the words he said.”

      He looked up at the sky. “He was a wonderful gentleman, and you know, he tried to warn me about eating scorpions and centipedes, but like a darned kid, I didn’t pay him any mind, thought I knew everything, and I can trace my heartburn back to the very first time I ate a scorpion. Hadn’t thought of that in years.”

      “He rushed into the chicken house. What did he say?”

      “Huh? Oh, that. Yes, well, he come a-flapping into the chicken house and all of us little chickies was scared to death. There was a bunch of us in that hatch. I had thirteen brothers

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