The Quest fort the Great White Quail - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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and I must tell you that I’m astonished by this burst of destructive behavior. We were hired to protect this ranch, Drover, not to chew it up.”

      A tear slid down his face. “Well, I couldn’t help myself. I saw it and I just . . . I just had to chew it!”

      I paced a few steps away and tried to plot my response. Getting mad, yelling, and fuming wouldn’t accomplish anything. It was obvious that the runt had a problem. He needed counseling and, well, who could handle that job better than me?

      I returned to his bedside. “Drover, you’ve become a slave to your darker side. It’s called Com­pulsive Chewing, and it’s a serious problem.”

      He let out a wail. “Ohhh! I knew something was wrong! I’d never chewed up a truck in my whole life. What can I do?”

      “You can do exactly what I tell you. If you follow my instructions, I think we can break this pattern of silly, destructive behavior.”

      He stared at me with pleading eyes. “Gosh, no fooling? There’s hope?”

      “Yes, but only if you’re ready to seize control of your life and put this shabby episode behind you. Are you ready?” He gave his head a nod. “Good. Now listen carefully. First, you must repeat the Words of Healing.”

      “I don’t remember the words.”

      “I haven’t told you the words.”

      “Oh. Sorry.”

      “The words are—and please pay attention—the Words of Healing are as follows: ‘Trucks are yucky, violets are blue/Anyone who’d chew one belongs in a zoo.’ ”

      He gave me an empty stare. “That’s all, just say the words?”

      “That’s correct, once before meals and twice at bedtime.”

      He frowned. “What if I forget the words?”

      “Then the deal is off. You’re on your own. It’s your life, Drover, and you can either take control of it or let it spin out of control. If we don’t get this thing stopped now, it’ll only get worse.”

      He swallowed hard. “Well, I guess I can try.”

      “That’s the spirit. Oh, and one more thing. For your own protection, I’ll have to confiscate the truck.” Suddenly, he grabbed up the truck in his mouth and turned away from me. “Drover, listen to me. You’re showing all the symptoms of a full-blown case of Compulsive Chewing. You have to give it up.”

      There was a moment of tense silence, then the truck fell from his mouth. “It was the best truck I ever chewed.”

      “I know, but it’s turned you into a maniac. Step aside.” He moved out of the way. “You’ll be glad, believe me.”

      “What’ll you do with it?”

      “I’ll return it to the yard. If we’re lucky, no one will ever suspect that you damaged the toy of an innocent child.”

      “I wish you wouldn’t put it that way.”

      “But it’s true, Drover. You see, that’s what makes this disease so tragic. It causes dogs to steal from their best friends.”

      “Should I go with you?”

      “Absolutely not. It might cause you to slide into a deadly relapse.”

      He stared at the ground and nodded his head. “I guess you’re right. Better not take the chance.”

      I laid a paw on his shoulder. “Son, in a month or two, this will all be behind us and we can laugh about it. But today, I’ve got to get this thing out of here.”

      I snatched up the toy in my enormous jaws and hurried out of the office. The sooner I got rid of that thing, the better we would all be.

      Chapter Two: The Texas Bone Famine

      I trotted past the garden, past Emerald Pond, up the hill north of the gas tanks, and to the front of the machine shed. There, I paused to reconoodle the situation down at the yard.

      I didn’t mind returning Drover’s stolen property, but I sure didn’t want to be observed by our people in the house. See, I had every reason to suppose that if they saw me with Alfred’s truck in my mouth, they would assume that I was the one with the deadly Chewing Disorder. Even worse, they might accuse ME of being the thief.

      It sounds crazy, doesn’t it, the Head of Ranch Security being accused of chewing up toys, but let me remind you that such mistakes have happened before. Just when you think you’ve won their trust, they’ll catch you in an awkward moment and start piling on the charges.

      Sally May was the worst offender. I mean, there seemed to be no end to her suspicions. Did I need to add fuel to the fires of her suspicion? No sir, and that’s why I did a Visual Sweep of the entire area: the west side of the house, the back-yard, the porch, the flower beds, all the places where Sally May had been known to lurk.

      I hate to put it that way—lurk—but after a dog’s been nailed eight or ten times, after Sally May has suddenly appeared out of nowhere and caught him in an embarrassing situation, he gets a little punchy.

      See, one of the valuable lessons I had learned about Sally May was that she often works at the kitchen sink. While peeling potatoes or washing dishes, she looks out the window and does surveillance of the backyard area. Just when you think the coast is clear and nobody is watching, she’ll catch you in some little mistake. Then her voice will pierce the silence, causing every hair on your body to stand on end, and things start sliding downhill in a hurry. We sure didn’t need any of that.

      And, you know, the longer I thought about this deal, the less interested I was in getting blamed for Drover’s crimes. What was in it for me? Nothing. But what would I do with the stolen property?

      I submitted the problem to Heavy-Duty Analysis and arrived at a sensible solution. Instead of returning the truck to the yard, I would simply haul it off to a quiet spot and dump it. Somebody would find it eventually, and my name would never appear on anybody’s list of suspects.

      Great idea, and I was a little surprised that I hadn’t thought of it sooner. I turned away from the house and trotted around to the north side of the machine shed. Once there, out of the view of prying eyes, I dropped the thing on the ground and heaved a big sigh of relief. At last, we were rid of it! Now I could get back to the business of . . .

      I glanced around in a full circle. I didn’t think that Drover had followed me, but you never know. His compulsion was very compulsive. I saw nothing and nobody, so I . . . uh . . . began staring at the toy truck. Why? Well, it’s hard to explain to someone who’s never been a dog, who’s never experienced the . . .

      How can I say this? Normal dogs sometimes find themselves attracted to certain substances, don’t you see, and notice that I said normal dogs. We’re not talking about your perfect little do-right poodles and yip-yips that stay inside a house, wear perfume and ribbons, and never have a wayward thought.

      We’re talking about real dogs, normal, healthy, red-blooded American dogs that go to work every day, eat Co-op dog food out of a hubcap, and keep the country running. See, when a guy works eighteen hours a day, every once in a while he yearns for some entertainment. We’re not talking about anything lavish or expensive, just simple pleasures that satisfy a tiny need, such as . . .

      I found myself staring at the toy truck. It was a pretty shade of red and made of soft plastic, not the kind that breaks into splinters and hurts your teeth and gums. I could almost understand why Drover had been attracted to it. I mean, chewing soft plastic isn’t the same as chewing a bone, but in times of bone shortages . . .

      Did I mention that we were in the midst of a terrible Bone Famine? Maybe not, but we were. It

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