“Exactly. The clues are beginning to pile up.” I stopped pacing and whirled around to face him. “Drover, has it occurred to you that mauling suggests brawling?”
“No, but they rhyme.”
“They rhyme, but never mind.”
“That rhymes too. Almost.”
“Please stop talking about rhymes and listen carefully to my analysis of your problem.”
“Gosh, I didn’t know I had a problem.”
“Of course you have problem, a very serious one.” I marched over to him and looked deeply into his eyes. “Don’t you get it? Mauling and brawling suggest an alarming shift toward aggressive behavior. Could it be that a little rebellious streak has suddenly burst out into the open?”
“Well . . .”
“Don’t argue with me. Just look at the clues and follow the evidence. Yesterday, you were a happy little mutt. Today, you’re talking about getting into fights and tearing the ears off your fellow dogs. What’s happened, Drover? What has brought on this plunge into fantasies of violence?”
He stared at me for a moment, then grinned. “You know, I think you misunderstood what I said.”
“Oh, so that’s it. Now you’re blaming me, huh? You’re in the Nile, Drover, and you’re in water over your head. For once in your life, face the truth.”
“I said I was ALL EARS. That’s all I said, honest.”
“Huh? You said . . .” I marched a few steps away and tried to absorb this latest piece of news. “Let me get this straight. You said you were all ears?”
“Yep, that’s what I said. I was ready to hear your question.”
“You said nothing about brawling or fighting or tearing the ears off your fellow dogs?”
“Nope. You know me. I’m scared of fights.”
“So . . . I might have . . . well, misunderstood your words?”
“I guess so.”
I took a big gulp of air and let it hiss slowly out of my lungs. “So . . . this whole conversation has been more or less . . . pointless?”
“Looks that way to me.”
I eased over to him and laid a paw on his shoulder. “Drover, I think it would be wise for us to keep this conversation . . . well, a secret between the two of us. Don’t you agree?”
“Well . . .”
“Good. I mean, we must do everything possible to protect the good name of the Security Division. If word ever leaked out that we were carrying on a loony conversation, it would do our cause no good. I’m sure you agree.”
“Well . . .”
“Thanks, soldier. There just might be a little promotion in this.”
“Oh goodie! A promotion! When?”
“Later. Now let’s get out of here.”
And with that, we re-formed our column and resumed our march through ranch headquarters, holding our heads and tails at proud angles. Once again, we had overcome the forces of . . .
I came to a sudden stop and turned to Drover. “Wait a second. You said you were ‘all ears’ and waiting to hear my question. What was the question?”
“Well . . . I don’t remember, ’cause you didn’t ask it.”
“Hmmm. Good point.” I furrowed my brow and probed the depths of my memory. Suddenly it came to me. “Ah, yes. We were marching along on frozen feet. I glanced back and saw that you were wearing a silly grin. The question is, Drover, when it’s so cold and miserable out here, why were you grinning?”
The silly grin returned. “Oh yeah. See, you said I had to choose between having cold feet and a cold tail, but I gave myself a third choice.”
“This isn’t making sense. Hurry up.”
“I gave myself the choice of having warm feet, and that’s the one I chose. Now I feel warm and happy. Are you proud of me?”
I gazed into the abyss of his eyes and found myself wondering . . . never mind. There’s no future in wondering about Drover. He’s . . . odd. Oh well. If he wanted to believe he had warm feet, if that brought a ray of happiness into his boring little life, that was fine with me.
We resumed our march through ranch headquarters. My feet had turned into blocks of ice but I didn’t dare mention it or complain. Drover had ruined that option with his . . . never mind.
That’s a weird little mutt.
We haven’t come to the good part yet, my new technique for escorting vehicles out of ranch headquarters, but it’s coming right up. Just be patient.
Chapter Two: The Winter Ski Patrol
Where were we? Oh yes, we were marching through headquarters on frozen feet, except Drover’s feet weren’t frozen. They were warm because he had chosen to believe they were warm, and that’s pretty strange.
As we reached the southwest corner of the machine shed, I cast a glance down toward the house and noticed a very interesting detail. Sally May’s car was parked beside the yard gate and the motor was running. It appeared that the car was being warmed up, almost as though someone were preparing to make some kind of trip or journey—perhaps into town.
But why would Sally May be going to town on such a cold and blustery day? This needed to be checked out and I was just the dog for the job.
Have I mentioned that I’m Head of Ranch Security? I am, and very little happens on this ranch that I’m not aware of. If Sally May was thinking of driving into town on snack-poked roads . . . snow-packed roads, let us say, then I needed to check out the car and, you know, make sure everything was ready for the trip.
I gave the signal to turn our column in an easterly direction and we picked our way down the icy . . . PLOP. Oops, I slipped. We inched our way down the . . . PLOP . . . we made our way down the stupid hill which was a solid sheet of ice, don’t you see, and the footing was very . . . PLOP . . . treacherous. No dog on earth could have made it down that icy slope without . . . PLOP . . .
Phooey. I stopped trying to walk and skied the last ten feet to the bottom of the slope. This was no big deal. Have we discussed our Winter Ski Patrol? Maybe not. See, the Security Division has its own Winter Ski Patrol and during periods of snowy weather, we activate WSP. And, well, I’m the leader. Maybe you’re shocked that a ranch dog could have mastered all the skills required to glide down an icy slope, but let me remind you that . . . PLOP.
I made it to the bottom of the hill, is the point. There, I picked myself up off the . . . that is, I turned my skis to the side and negotiated a perfect sliding plop . . . a perfect slopping stop, that is, while Drover skidded down the hill with no more grace than a cow on a frozen pond.
Once I had reached level ground, I marched straight over to Sally May’s car and began making a thorough check of all the . . . HUH? A cat?
A smirking purring cat was sitting beside the yard gate. Would you care to guess who or whom it might have been? The main clue here is “smirking” and you’ve probably guessed Pete the Barncat. “Smirking” gives it away, doesn’t it? It’s one of the few things Pete does well. He never does any work on the place, but he seldom misses a chance to smirk.
And it drives me nuts.
I stopped in my tracks and beamed him a look we call “Nails and Broken Glass.” The purpose