LITMIR.BIZ

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quiet while I did the talking. I moved a few steps closer and gave the frog a friendly smile.

      “Good morning, froggie. Nice day, huh? Listen, bud, I’ve got a little favor to ask. I wonder if you’d mind moving out of our pond and never coming back.” No response. I mean, the frog didn’t even look at me. He just sat there. “Smart guy, huh? Okay, pal, we tried the course of reason. Now we’ll go to sterner measures. Drover, get him!”

      Drover stared at me. “Me? What about the mud?”

      “The mud is muddy. So what? Jump in there and beat him up!”

      “Well, you know, this old leg’s been giving me fits, and I’m not sure—”

      “Drover, this is your big chance to rack up some Combat Points. It’ll look great on your record.”

      “Yeah, but . . . what if he’s really a handsome prince?”

      I couldn’t believe my ears. “A handsome prince! Drover, look at him. Is he handsome?”

      “Well . . .”

      “No. He’s a frog, and he’s even uglier than you.”

      “Yeah, but they can change—I’ve heard all those stories—and if he turned out to be a handsome prince . . . they have swords and knives and . . . oh, my leg! It’s killing me!”

      He began limping around in a circle and then—you won’t believe this part—and then he fell over on his back and began kicking his legs in the air. I heaved a sigh and shook my head.

      “Drover, I’m very disappointed in your behavior.”

      “I know, I’m a failure, but this old leg—”

      “It’s disgraceful beyond words. Okay, I’ll do your dirty work, but I must warn you. This will go into my report.”

      “Oh no, not that!”

      “Yes, Drover, every word of it. I’m sorry, but the world must know that you’re not just an ordinary weenie. You’re a chicken weenie who’s afraid of a frog.”

      “Oh, the guilt! Oh, my leg!”

      “Now pay attention and I’ll give you a few lessons on beating up fat arrogant frogs.” I turned my massive body forty-three degrees to the left and began punching in the targeting data. Behind the computer screen of my mind, I could hear Data Control chewing on the numbers. Then the secret targeting information flashed across the screen.

      Do I dare reveal our targeting codes? They’re pretty complicated and highly classified. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give you a little peek, but don’t go blabbing this stuff around. Here’s the very message that flashed across the screen of my mind:

      “JUMP.”

      There it was! Data Control had crunched all the numbers, and we had our plan of battle locked into the computer, and now it was time to launch the weapon.

      I went into a Deep Crouch Position, sprang upward and outward, and launched myself right into the middle of that . . .

      SPLAT!

      . . . Green yucko mud where the alleged frog had been only seconds before. Do you see the meaning of this? The frog had cheated! Perhaps he had broken into our data systems and desniveled our launch codes and . . .

      He jumped into the water, the hateful thing.

      Okay, this meant War! I pried my nose out of the green yucko mud and whirled around to my assistant. “All right, Drover, we’re moving into Stage Two! Get up off the ground and prepare for Ultrasonic Barking!”

      “You’ve got a mud ball on your nose.”

      “That’s your opinion, Drover, and I’m not interested in your opinions. The impointant pork . . . the imporkant point . . . the important point is that we will surround the pond and unleash a withering barrage of Ultrasonic Barking that will blow the stupid frog right out of the water. Ready? Bark!”

      Boy, you should have seen us in action. It was very impressive. Maybe that frog thought he was safe out there in the middle of the pond, but he’d never seen the elite troops of the Security Division in action. The foolish frog.

      Drover set up his firing position on the north shore of the pond, while I set up on the south shore. Facing each other across the expanse of green water, we loaded up and began launching round after round of deafening, ear-shattering Ultrasonic Barks.

      Minutes passed. Leaves and birds fell from the trees nearby, and one big cottonwood even split in half, no kidding. And out in the middle of the pond, that poor frog . . . well, just floated around and didn’t actually . . .

      “All right, Drover!” I yelled over the roar of the battle. “We’ve given him Stage Two, and now we’re ready to move into Stage Three. Circle the pond and fire off a bark every ten steps. Ready? Let ’im have it!”

      The Stage Three Procedure was even more awesome than Stage Two. I mean, it was thunder and lightning, bombs going off, earthquakes and tornadoes! And would you believe that our barking even produced a huge tidal wave? Well, maybe not. But it was some awesome barking. And after a mere two hours . . .

      We, uh, regrouped on the south shore. Our eyes were wooden, our limp tongues hung out of exhausted mouths, our legs were shaking from the effort of absorbing all the recoil of our barking.

      Drover was the first to speak. “He’s still out there.”

      To which I managed to say, “He’s still out there, Drover, but we’ve made our point.”

      “What was the point? I’ve already forgotten.”

      I grabbed several deep breaths, filling my exhausted lungs with a fresh supply of carbon diego. “The point is that we don’t allow frogs in our pond. What we couldn’t have known was that this frog is too dumb to understand. I think we can notch this one up as a huge moral victory and go on to more important business.”

      And with that, we stuck out our tongues at the moron frog, gave him monkey ears, and marched away in a triumph, leaving the frog shattered, beaten, and totally humiditated. Humiditied.

      Humiliated. There we go. Humiliated.

      At this point, you’re probably wondering if I’ve forgotten about the Long-Snouted Road Monster. Not at all. It was a hectic morning, see, and we had a lot of business to take care of. I mean, we’re very busy dogs.

      And I should probably point out that a lot of your ordinary ranch mutts wouldn’t have bothered to do Frogs and Ponds. They would have considered it a waste of their time. Not me, fellers. When it comes to the business of Ranch Security, I figure that no job is too small to be insignificant.

      No job is too big to be small.

      No job is too small to be . . . phooey.

      Where were we? Oh yes. We had just spent the early-morning hours putting down the Frog Rebellion. We had smashed a plot by the United Frog Front to steal Emerald Pond and haul it away to the island of Cowabonga, where they planned to . . . do something with our precious pond.

      But we got that stopped just in the nip of the tuck, and as you might expect, the hours and hours of combat had left us exhausted. Yes, we were exhausted but proud, very proud of our team’s performance in the heat of battle. Con-gratulating ourselves on a job well done, we marched away from the smoke and ruins of the battlefield and made our way back to our office on the twelfth floor of the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex.

      There, we rolled into our gunnysack beds and prepared to indulge ourselves in a few hours of much-needed sleep—sleep that would heal our wounds and prepare us for another dangerous night on Life’s front lines. Little did we know or suspect that our period of R&R (Rest and Revitaminization) would be court shot . . . cut short, let us say, or that we would soon be jolted out of our beds by the approach of . .

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