The Case of the Car-Barkaholic Bog - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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Which just goes to prove my point that you can’t escape pain, no matter how hard you try. Now, why did you bury that horn?”

      “Which horn?”

      “The horn you just buried.”

      “Oh, that horn. Well, I don’t know. I guess I wanted to save it. You never know when you might need a horn.”

      “So far so good, Drover, but that brings us to the most important question of all. Now that you’ve buried it, can you find it?”

      His eyes blanked out. “Well, I think I can.”

      I sat down and gave him a wise smile. “Prove it. Find the horn.”

      He went to several spots, pawed around in the dirt, and came up with exactly nothing. He came padding back, sat down, scratched his ear, and said, “I guess I’ve lost it.”

      “Exactly!” I leaped to my feet and began pacing around him. This was a triumphal moment, don’t you see. “Now let me tie all this together into one Lesson for the Day, Drover. You ran from pain but found it. You found a horn but lost it. That which you tried to save you have no more, but that which you tried to lose you have. Do you see what this means?”

      “Not really.”

      Suddenly it occurred to me that I didn’t know what it meant either, except that it meant something very important. But even more important was that I overheard Slim and Loper talking. They had just stepped out of the medicine shed.

      “We’re out of Pen-Strip and Furison,” said Loper, “and we’ll need both in the morning. While you’re at the feed store, pick up four hundred pounds of horse feed. And stop at the Waterhole and get me a pouch of Taylor’s Pride chew.”

      Slim was writing all this down in the palm of his hand. “Okay, is that all?”

      “Stay out of the pool hall and get back out here as soon as you can. We’ve got two weeks’ work to finish up before dark.”

      Slim nodded. “Seems kind of a waste, making a trip into town and not stopping at the pool hall.”

      “You can handle it.”

      “Well, I don’t know.” Slim looked up at the sky and rubbed the whiskers on his cheek. “There’s something about that pool hall, Loper. I mean, a lot of times that old pickup just heads there on its own and I can’t hold it in the road.”

      “Hold it in the road and get back out here.”

      “Loper, has anyone ever told you that you ain’t any fun?”

      “All the time. It comes from working poor help.”

      Slim smiled and they drifted toward the flat­bed pickup. “Shoot! You’ve got the finest cowboy crew in the whole world.”

      I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, which was okay because it was starting to get a little windy. The conversation, that is.

      Also, I had gleaned enough information by that time to conclude A) that Slim was going into town; B) that I hadn’t been to town in quite a spell; C) that I needed a change in scenery; and D) that Slim probably wanted me and Drover to go along and ride shotgun.

      I turned to my assistant. “Drover, a pickup is fixing to go into town, and we’re fixing to sneak our little selves into the back end and hitch a ride. Let’s go.”

      Drover had stopped and put his nose to the ground. Then his head came up.

      “I found the horn, Hank, it’s right here where I left it. Does that change your Lesson for the Day?”

      I gave him a withering glare. “I deal in concepts, son. What actually happens just confuses the issue. Come on, we’ve got a ride to catch.”

      Chapter Two: Syruptishus Loaderation

      In the Security Business, we have special techniques for special jobs. Your ordinary dogs know nothing of these special techniques because it takes a special kind of dog to apply special techniques. Ordinary dogs use ordinary techniques.

      And to no one’s surprise, they usually fail.

      We have special techniques for catching mice in the cake house. We have special techniques for dealing with chickens. We have special techniques for humbling cats, and special techniques for dodging the rocks that ranch wives, upon hearing their cats being humbled, tend to throw at dogs.

      And we have special techniques for hitching rides into town. The technical term for this procedure is “Syruptishus Loaderation.” Quite a term, huh? I get a kick out of using heavyweight terms every now and then. Course, I don’t expect everyone to remember them, and I won’t take the time to . . .

      Oh, what the heck? We might as well take a short break and have ourselves a little lesson in words, their origins, and their many shades of meaning.

      After all, language is pretty important. Without language, we’d all be at a loss for words.

      Okay. “Syrup-tish-us Load-er-a-tion.” It means, “A secret and rather technical procedure for climbing aboard a pickup that is heading for town, when the driver of the alleged pickup would be less than thrilled if he knew that he was hauling dogs.”

      You’ll notice that the root of the first word is “syrup.” Perhaps you’ve observed the way that syrup moves. It doesn’t run or fall or hop or splash. It oozes along its course, which is a sneaky and stealthy way of moving.

      Things that ooze, such as snakes and snails, are usually up to no good, and by simple logic it follows that most of your syrups are up to no good. Hence, from the root “syrup,” we build a new and exciting word that means “sneaky and stealthy.”

      The root of the second word is “load.” If you’ve ever loaded roots, you know that they can be very heavy, especially if they’re packed in gunnysacks and if they have to be lifted from ground level up to the bed of a pickup.

      Hence, from the second load we find that roots are a major cause of back injury and . . .

      I seem to have lost my train of thought. Some­thing about roots. Or trees. Tree roots?

      Oh well, you get the picture. “Syruptishus Load­­eration.” You might want to jot that one down.

      Okay. Now we’ll give our new term a practical application from Real Life. Loper went on about his business, and Slim headed for the pickup, which was parked directly in front of our bedroom under the gas tanks.

      I gave Drover a secret sign which meant “Switch to Stealthy Crouch Mode and follow Slim.” Because of the highly secret nature of the secret sign, I’m not at liberty to reveal it at this time.

      Nothing personal. It’s just that there are parts of this job that are too sensitive to be revealed to the general public. If our codes were ever broken . . . well, I’m not at liberty even to suggest what might happen if our codes fell into the wrong hands.

      We switched over to Stealthy Crouch Mode, fell into formation behind Slim, and began secretly and stalkingly stealthing him. At the same time, my Data Control began loading the Syruptishus Loaderation program, and I began going through my checklist of procedures and routines.

      I know it sounds complicated. It sounds complicated because it IS complicated. And now you understand that being a ranch dog is no ball of wax.

      Slim walked up to the pickup and stopped. Taking our cues from the visual readout of his movement, we stopped too. Or, to be more precise, I stopped and Drover ran into me.

      “Ooops, ’scuse me.”

      “Shhh, quiet! Pay attention to your business.”

      “Sorry.”

      “Shhhhh!”

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