The Case of the Most Ancient Bone - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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is just, well, perfect. So green, so cool, so inviting. Terrific.

      “And . . . well, maybe you’ve noticed that it’s very hot today, and maybe you’ve noticed that I’m wearing a fur coat. Perhaps you’ve even been worried about me. I mean, everyone knows that you’re the kind of lady who worries about her pets and animals, and let me say right here that I’ve always admired that quality in you—the fact that you CARE so much about animals and doing the right thing.”

      I held my breath and waited. Her eyes swung around again. And she said, “You’re still in my yard.”

      That didn’t sound so good, but let me point out that she said it with a smile. Hey, this was going pretty well, and it was time to make a dash for the Bottom Line.

      “Yes, Sally May, and speaking of the yard, let me take this opportunity to express some thoughts and feelings that are . . . well, close to my heart. I know we’ve gone through some rocky times, you and I, and we’ve had our share of . . . well, misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Failures to communicate our, uh, deepest feelings about each other.

      “I’ll admit that I’ve made a few . . . that is, a few mistakes have been made, and I know that they’ve damaged our relationship. Sometimes I’ve even had the feeling that . . . well, you don’t trust me. In your yard, for example. And this has really bothered me. Deeply. No kidding.

      “But I want you to know that I’m a changed dog. An older dog. A wiser and more mature dog. And I feel that our relationship has progressed to the point where you can trust me in your yard, trust me to do the right thing, to care for all your precious little flowers and shrubberies and blades of grass.

      “Anyway, it’s hotter than blue blazes today, and since you care so much about the, uh, welfare of animals and helpless creatures and so forth. I was wondering . . . hey, what would you think if I moved into the yard for a couple of days? Huh?”

      I beamed her my broadest and most sincere smile. She studied me for a long moment, and I had a feeling that the ice in her heart was beginning to melt. Any second now, she would . . .

      HUH?

      What happened next almost broke my heart. I mean, after all the time and care I had poured into my presentation . . .

      Here’s what happened. She said, “Hank, you know the rules. No dogs in the yard.”

      Yes, but I was wondering . . .

      “Hank . . . out!”

      Sure, but maybe this time we could . . .

      And then she . . . SHE SPRAYED ME WITH THE GARDEN HOSE!

      Okay, fine, if that’s the way she felt about it. If I wasn’t welcome in her yard, I would just . . .

      Battered and wounded by the piercing spray of the garden hose, I made a dash to the fence and went sailing over the top. Safe on the other side, I paused long enough to beam her a look we call “My Life Is Ruined and You’re the Cause.” It’s a facial expression we save back for the very darkest moments, and it should have caused her to . . . I don’t know, cry or feel awful or something.

      But I guess it didn’t work, because she chirped a little laugh and said, “Hank, I’m sorry, but what can I do? You don’t take hints, and I’m not going to let you trample and dig up my yard. Period.” She turned off the water hydrant and started toward the house. At the door, she turned and said, “Stay out of my yard.”

      Those words cut me to the crick. After all the time I’d spent trying to win her heart and convince her . . . what does it take to please these women? What does a dog have to do to convince them that . . .

      Suddenly I had to face the crushing reality that my presentation—my very best and most sincere presentation—had fallen into the dust like a...something. A crippled buzzard. A wounded goose. A ruptured duck.

      I had opened my heart to her, exposed my deepest and most secret feelings, and she had washed them all away with one splat of the garden hose. I was so wounded and damaged, I wasn’t sure I would ever . . .

      Oh well. It had been a long shot anyway. Sally May had always been a tough sell, so getting the bum’s rush from her wasn’t exactly the biggest surprise in the world. And getting sprayed with water had felt pretty good.

      Huh?

      A cat was standing on the other side of the fence, grinning at me and flicking the end of his tail back and forth.

      Chapter Four: A Conversation with the Cat

      It was Pete the Barncat—who, for your information, never spent any time catching mice in the barn or anywhere else. He spent his whole life lounging in the shade of the iris patch and making a nuisance of himself.

      Have we discussed cats? Maybe not. I don’t like ’em, never have. And the cat I dislike the most in the whole world is Pete, who has some kind of genius for showing up at the very worst of times.

      Such as now. And there he was, giving me that simpering grin that drives me nuts. “Hi, Hankie. Did you get sprayed?”

      I gave the little snot a withering glare and marched away. He probably thought he could provoke me into a childish display of temper. Ha! The foolish cat. Little did he know that I was a very busy dog and had more important . . .

      On second thought . . . I whirled around and marched back to the fence. “What did you just say?”

      “I said,” he grinned and blinked his eyes, “you got sprayed.”

      “That’s correct, kitty, I got sprayed. Perhaps you think that’s funny.”

      He snickered. “Yes, yes, it was very funny. You should have seen that look on your face when she . . . hee hee . . . turned the hose on you!”

      I felt my lips curling up into a snarl, but I caught it just in time and turned it into a calm, pleasant smile. See, I knew what the cat was trying to do: provoke me into an “incident,” let us say, right there in front of Sally May, which would get me into even more and deeper trouble with the Lady of the House.

      But I knew Pete’s tricks and I wasn’t going to fall for this one. I beamed him a sweet smile and said, “You’re right, Pete, I got sprayed, but I wanted to get sprayed. That’s why I went into the yard, so that Sally May could cool me down with a nice little shower of water.”

      “Oh really?”

      “That’s correct. Why else would I have gone into the yard? It was part of a clever plan, Pete, and as you can see, it worked to perfection. See? I’m wet, cool, and refreshed.”

      “Hankie, I think,” he began purring and rubbing on the fence, “you’re jealous because I get to stay in the yard, and you don’t.”

      “No, not at all.”

      “And it just eats your liver that I’m Sally May’s special pet.”

      “Nothing could be further from the truth. For your information, Sally May and I have enjoyed a wonderful relationship.”

      “Then,” he fluttered his eyelids and grinned, “why did she order you out of the yard? Hmmm? See, I’m in the yard and, look, you’re not/Stick your head in a coffee pot/Bring it out, red hot. And that says it all, Hankie. I spend my days in the iris patch, and you have to live out there in the heat and the dust. Poor doggie!”

      I struggled to control my savage instincts. “You’re trying to get me stirred up, aren’t you?”

      “Um-hm. Is it working?”

      “Not even close. You must be slipping.”

      “Oh

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