LITMIR.BIZ

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The mystery began in the depths of Panhandle winter, as I recall. Yes, January to be exact, the darkest, coldest month of the year. It was in the cold, dark month of January that I delivered Pete the Barncat his most crushing defeat . . . ever.

      Remember Pete? He’s your typical cat: arrogant, selfish, and not so smart. Keeping him humble and off balance is one of my most important jobs on this outfit, and I’m proud to report . . . well, you’ll see.

      I’ll say only that the Cause of Justice was served. Pete got exactly what I deserved.

      Where were we? Oh yes, January. In January, the ordinary routine of the Security Division is interrupted by snow, howling winds, and frigid tem­peratures, as we dogs struggle just to get through the day. It isn’t a month when we complete many investigations or invent new techniques for protecting our ranch. However . . .

      You’ll be amazed by this. Would you believe that during this particular January, I succeeded in inventing a revolutionary new technique for escorting vehicles off the ranch? It’s true, and here’s the very first news bulletin on how that happened.

      Okay, let’s back up a little bit and set the stage. A cold morning in January. Four inches of snow on the ground. Roads slippery and hazardous. All the trees and sagebrush were covered with a layer of frost.

      Some dogs might have said it was a pretty winter scene. Not me. What’s pretty when your gunnysack bed is frozen stiff? What’s pretty when you have to tramp around in the snow, just to keep your gizzard from freezing solid?

      That’s what we were doing, Drover and I, the Elite Troops of the Security Division. We were tramping through ranch headquarters, trying to keep from being frozen into solid blocks of doggie protoplasm, following frozen dog trails that had been previously pressed into the snow by our feet.

      As you might expect, Drover was moaning and whining every step of the way. “Oh Hank, I’m so cold! I’m not sure I can walk another step. My paws are freezing.”

      “Then sit down in the snow and see how you like that.”

      “No, ’cause then my paws would feel better but my tail would be cold.”

      “I guess you’ll have to choose: cold paws or cold tail.”

      “I’d rather choose between warm paws and warm tail.”

      “Fine, Drover. It’s your life. Choose anything you want, but quit moaning and complaining.”

      “I think I’ll choose . . . warm paws.”

      “Great.”

      We continued our march through headquarters. My paws were freezing, but did I moan and groan and make a spectacle of myself? No sir. When a guy has risen through the ranks and has taken over the job of Head of Ranch Security, he leaves the pampered life behind and learns to endure every sort of pain and discomfort. It goes with the job. We take the very worst that the weather can throw at us and . . .

      Boy, my feet were frigid! I quickened my pace and tried to ignore the misery. It was then that I suddenly realized . . . Drover had stopped moaning and whining. I tossed a glance over my shoulder and was shocked to see that he was wearing a silly grin.

      I halted the column. “Halt! Drover, we are conducting a march over frozen snow and brutal terrain, yet I notice that you’re wearing a silly grin on your face. Would you care to explain yourself?”

      His eyes came into focus. “Oh, hi. Were you talking to me?”

      “Of course I was talking to you. To who or whom else would I be speaking?”

      “Well . . .”

      “Hurry up, I’m freezing. Answer the question.”

      “Well . . . I don’t remember the question.”

      I searched for patience. “All right, one more time, and please pay attention.”

      “I’m all ears.”

      I narrowed my eyes and studied the little mutt. “What? You ‘maul ears’? Is that what you just said?”