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we’re under the gas tanks, and I think you woke up for a minute and fell asleep again.”

      “Ha, ha. I don’t think so. No, I was just planning out the day’s agenda.”

      “Yeah, but it’s the middle of the night.”

      “Exactly. That’s what I mean. No problem.” I pushed myself up on all fours and shook the vapors out of my head. “Where did you say we were?”

      “When?”

      “Right now, you tuna.”

      “Well, under the gas tanks . . . I guess.”

      “Yes, of course. Good. We’re right on schedule. I had scheduled a meeting here under the, uh, gas tanks. Do you know the purpose of this meeting?”

      “Well, let’s see.” He rolled his eyes. “You wanted to hear my new song?”

      “What?”

      “I wrote a song. In my sleep. While I was asleep, I thought of this song, just kind of dreamed it up out of nowhere.”

      I stared at the runt. “You wrote a song in your sleep? That sounds crazy, Drover. In the first place, you don’t even sing. I mean, dogs who don’t sing don’t write songs.”

      “Yeah, I know, but I did, I really did. It came to me in a dream. It’s about tornadoes.”

      “Oh brother. In the middle of the night, you’re composing a song about tornadoes?”

      “Yeah, you want to hear it? I’d better do it pretty quick or I’ll forget it.”

      “And that would be a tragedy, I suppose.”

      “Yeah, ’cause I never wrote a song before.”

      “You already said that.”

      “I’m kind of proud of it.”

      “Yes, of course.” I yawned. “Okay, let’s hear it. Might as well get it over with.”

      “Oh good! But I don’t know what key it’s in.”

      “Just sing the song, Drover, and let’s get on to something else.”

      “Okay. Here I go.”

      In case you’re interested, here’s the song.

      Drover’s Tornado Safety Song

      Never ever bark at a funnel-shaped cloud

      If it’s spinning in a circle and roaring real loud.

      See, it could be a monster or a goblin or a spook

      Or something else entirely worse that mightn’t turn you loose.

      Turn me loose, turn me loose, I’m as silly as a goose

      For barking at a thing that’s bigger than a moose.

      If you bark up a storm, then one might appear,

      You’ll get an education, and knocked on your rear.

      On your rear, on your rear, on your hiniest rear,

      It’ll knock you on your can and stand you on your ear.

      Spin you in a circle and circle all around,

      You’ll fly through the air and skid across the ground.

      Cross the ground, cross the ground, cross the cold hard ground,

      You’ll lose a lot of sleep and hair by the pound.

      There’s quite a bit of difference ’tween a storm and a frog.

      A storm doesn’t have much fear of a dog.

      Here’s the moral to the story of the funnel-shaped cloud

      That’s spinning in a circle and roaring real loud.

      If you bite a big tornado it’ll probably give you hiccups

      So take this piece of good advice: go back to barkin’ pickups.

      He finished the song and sat there, grinning and waiting for me to say something. “What do you think? Tell me the truth.”

      “What do I think? Well . . . it’s a song, Drover, we can’t deny that. I mean, it has words and sort of a melody.”

      “Yeah, but do you like it? I thought it had a pretty deep message: stay away from tornadoes. I guess you could say that it promotes tornado safety.”

      I rose from my gunnysack bed and took a big stretch. It appeared that my rest time was over. I began pacing in front of Young Beethoven. My mind works better when I pace, don’t you see.

      “Okay, Drover, you asked for my opinion and I’ll give it. Number One, the song wasn’t as silly as I had expected. But, Number Two, it was silly enough. Because, Number Three, we have never had a tornado on this ranch. Hence, Number Four, what you have created—if you actually wrote it—what you have there is a tempest in a teabag.”

      He gave me his patented blank stare. “What does that mean?”

      “It means, Drover, that you’ve written a song without a deep underlying purpose.” Suddenly I stopped pacing and whirled around to face him. “If we don’t have tornadoes, Drover, we don’t need a song that promotes tornado safety.”

      “Gee, I never thought of that.”

      I gave the little mutt a pat on the back. “But you tried, Drover, that’s the important thing. There’s an old saying that fits this situation: ‘Better to try and do something really stupid than not to try at all.’”

      “There’s that sound again.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “I heard a sound, kind of like . . . thunder, distant thunder.”

      I lifted my eyes to the sky above and studied the weather patterns and so forth. “Drover, I see stars.”

      “Yeah, but . . .”

      “Let me finish. Stars twinkle but they have never been known to produce thunder.”

      “Yeah but . . .”

      “Hence, it follows from simple logic that . . .” KA-BOOM! “. . . yikes, that we’re being attacked by an enormous thunderstorm . . . holy smokes, look at the lightning in that cloud!”

      “Yeah, and I’m scared of storms!”

      “Battle Stations, Drover, and prepare to defend the ranch!”

      “Oh, my leg!”

      And with that, we went streaking up the caliche hill behind the house and prepared to do battle with one of the most dangerous enormous storms I’d encountered in my whole career.

      And what made it even worse was that I hadn’t slept a wink in days. No kidding.

      Chapter Two: The Scrambled Egg Mystery

      Did I say that we went streaking up the hill?

      I went streaking up the hill. I ran. I threw my entire heart and soul into the effort. Drover, on the other hand, limped and lollygagged, cried and complained every step of the way.

      But we did manage to establish a position near the yard gate. There, I halted the column and prepared our defense of the ranch.

      Most of the time, our spring storms track from the southwest to the northeast, and they usually occur in the late afternoon. In other words, a guy can see them building up and can prepare for them.

      This

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