The Christmas Turkey Disaster. John R. Erickson

professional…tell you what, let’s restart the story and see if that helps. Ready? Here we go.

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The mystery began in December, as I recall, and all I can think about are turkey scraps.

      Okay, we’re going to have to call a five-minute time-out and shut down all our equipment. Once we power up, please don’t say anything about you-know-what. Got it? See you on the other side.

      Equipment Is Shutting Down

      Blank Screen

      Blank Screen Sequence Is Still In Effect

      This Is Boring

      Equipment Is Ready For Power-up

      Click, Whir, Buzz

      We Have Power-up

      Reconfiguring The Configuration

      Waiting…Waiting

      New Screen Is Loading

      TURKEY SCRAPS!!!!!!!!

      Oh brother. We know who’s behind this: our enemies. They never rest or sleep. They’re always on the prowl, searching for ways of hacking into our systems and planting bogus information that will breed chaos in the Security Division.

      Who are they? We’re never sure: cunning spies, robot monsters, creatures from the Black Latrine, strange beings from another galaxy, raccoons, coyotes, and cats. All we know for sure is that they’re always slipping around and lurking in shadows, and we can never relax our scraps…relax our guard, that is. We can never relax our…

      This is frustrating, but we have to mush on with the story. Getting bogged down in food thoughts is not an option. We’ll just have to grit our teeth and try to crash through all the distractions.

      Okay, after carrying on a depressing conversation with Drover in our office/bedroom, during which he had served as a willing accomplice in the destruction of my bed, I rode the elevator down to the first floor and walked out of the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex.

      The air outside was crisp and clean, and it helped clear my mind of all the fog that had accumulated during my conversation with Drover. All at once, it was clear to me that he was a selfish little cad, too stingy to share his bed with a fellow-dog, and that he needed to spend more time with his nose in the corner.

      But the impointant pork is that it was a new day and I was determined to make it a good one. I marched past the garden with its bare stalks of last summer’s okra, past the fragrant green waters of Emerald Pond (frozen, by the way), and up to the machine shed. There, I went straight to the overturned Ford hubcap that served as our dog bowl, and began crunching tasteless pellets of Co-op dog food.

      Crunch, crack, snap.

      I’ve already expressed my opinions about Co-op, so I won’t take the time to repeat the obvious, that a first-class ranch outfit would have been embarrassed to put out such miserable fodder for its Security Division. It’s bad stuff. I can’t think of a nicer way of saying it.

      So why was I eating it? Because a hard-working dog can’t live on air, and also because eating Co-op served as a kind of vaccination against…well, temptation. You probably think that by the time a dog rises to the rank of Head of Ranch Security, he’s beyond the reach of the kinds of temptations that torment ordinary dogs.

      Nice thought, but I’m sorry to report that it isn’t true. I live with it day and night, and if you’ll swear an Oath of Secrecy, I’ll reveal the most dangerous form of temptation in the whole world—even more dangerous than turkey scraps.

      Come closer so I can whisper this, and don’t forget that you’ve taken a Solemn Oath of Secrecy.

      Chickens.

      There it is, and don’t you dare spread this around. See, when a dog works around CENSORED every day of his life, it’s best if he’s not in a crazed condition and thinking about food. What we’ve found is that if he chokes down a few gulps of Co-op, it will soften his savage instincts and allow him to maintain a professional attitude about the CENSORED.

      I’m sure you can imagine how important this is in the Overall Management Stragedy of the Ranch. Crucial. Extremely important. I mean, you wouldn’t hire a bank robber to guard the vault of a bank, right? Well, it’s the same deal on a ranch, because if the dog…

      That’s probably all we should say about this. You know how I feel about the little children. I wouldn’t want them to think…enough said.

      The point is that eating Co-op dog food wasn’t a form of entertainment, but rather a standard procedure in our Overall Management Strategy. We endure a few moments of mild displeasure to avoid weeks of extreme discomfort with the Lady of the House.

      Hencely, after experiencing a spell of Food Seizures, I thought it best to douse the fires of temptation, shall we say, and get on with my life, which included a routine walk around of ranch headquarters. It’s something I do every day, even holidays—of which, by the way, the Security Division has none of which of which.

      We get no holidays, no days off.

      I walked through the corrals, stuck my head into the feed shed, checked out the saddle shed, the machine shed, and the chicken house.

      Slurp.

      Excuse me, and I hope you’ll disregard that, uh, little outburst. It meant nothing, almost nothing at all. No kidding.

      It took me two hours to do the Walk Around. A lot of dogs would have rushed through it and finished up in half an hour, but you know me. I’m pretty particular about these things and can’t relax until I know that all is well on my ranch.

      At that point, I noticed that a car was coming down the county road from the west. Near the mailbox, it slowed and made a right turn onto the road that led to the house. I narrowed my eyes and activated our Traffic Sensing Devices.

      Was it the mail truck, the UPS man, one of the neighbors? We ran those options through Data Control’s main system and got a negative. That left open the possibility that it might be some kind of unmanned probe that had been launched by The Other Side—our enemies, in other words.

      Don’t laugh. It happens. They’re clever beyond our wildest dreams and just when you think, “They’d never do something like that,” they do it. Unwary dogs get sandbagged every day, and some of them lose their jobs.

      I hadn’t planned on working Traffic, but this needed to be checked out. I switched on Sirens and Lights and went ripping around the north side of the house, just in time to intercept the unidentified vehicle as it approached the house.

      You’ll never guess who was inside the vehicle. You’ll be shocked.