The Garbage Monster from Outer Space
John R. Erickson
Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes
Maverick Books, Inc.
Publication Information
MAVERICK BOOKS
Published by Maverick Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070
Phone: 806.435.7611
www.hankthecowdog.com
First published in the United States of America by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 1999.
Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2013
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Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1999
All rights reserved
Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-132-2
Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Contents
Chapter One Prowlers in the Night
Chapter Two I Tear Down a Whole Tree and Thrash Several Coons
Chapter Three Eddy Runs but I Get Caught
Chapter Four I’m Accused of Terrible Crimes
Chapter Five I Embark on a New Career—as an Outlaw!
Chapter Six Holy Smokes, a Lovely Coyote Princess!
Chapter Seven I Enroll in Rip and Snort’s Wilderness School
Chapter Eight I Am Forced to Eat Grub Worms
Chapter Nine Garbage Barrels Again
Chapter Ten Beware! This Is the Scary Part
Chapter Eleven Arrested by the Park Police
Chapter Twelve Banished from the Ranch? Oh No!
Chapter One: Prowlers in the Night
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. It all began innocently enough. Never in my wildest dreams would I have supposed that I would run away from the ranch, join up with a band of wild cannibals, and then be attacked by a Garbage Monster from Outer Space.
Pretty heavy-duty stuff, huh? You bet it was. A lot of dogs couldn’t have handled all that adventure, and a lot of dogs would have been scared to death by an invasion of Garbage Monsters from Outer Space. For me, it was just another job on the ranch.
Have I mentioned that I’m Head of Ranch Security? I am, and it’s a very dangerous job. When monsters from outer space land, I’m the one who gets the call.
Anyways, it must have been around 0600 on the morning of September the something. The fourteenth or fifteenth, I guess. It was still pitch-black outside and the air had the smell of fall. Drover and I had spent most of the night doing Sweeps and Patrols of headquarters.
We were exhausted. Who wouldn’t have been exhausted? We had checked out the machine shed, the chicken house, the corrals, and the saddle shed. We had routed a couple of Night Monsters out of those bushes near the cellar and barked a reply to a bunch of noisy coyotes.
Drover was ready to call it quits. So was I. We’d done our job. We’d brought the ranch through another dangerous night and it was time to warm up our gunnysacks. We fluffed up our sacks and collapsed. Within seconds, we were both . . . I almost said “sound asleep,” but at that very moment, I heard a sound.
Was that some kind of clue? Think about it. “Sound” and “sound asleep.” Maybe not, but the point is that just as I was standing on the diving board of life, preparing to go soaring into the swimming pool of . . . something . . . sleep, I suppose . . . just as I was so-forthing, I heard an odd sound.
Clunk.
I responded at once. I lifted one Earascope and used it to probe the darkness for other soundatory patterns. Sure enough, there were more sounds: scratching, rattling, and rustling sounds. Something was going on out there, and even though we were worn out and exhausted, we had to respond. After all, we were the elite troops of the Security Division, the ranch’s first line of defense against . . . well, you name it. Anything and everything.
“Drover, I’ve just picked up some strange signals on E-scope. You’d better go check it out.”
I heard new odd sounds, these coming from Drover: “Mork snirk buzz bumble.”
“Drover, wake up. You’ve been chosen for an important mission. Congratulations and wake up.” No answer, just more incoherent grunts and wheezes. “Drover, I’ll give you a count of three to wake up. One. Two. Porkchop sizzle pizzle buzzbomb murgle.”
Okay, maybe I dozed off in the middle of the . . . hey, who wouldn’t have dozed off? I was exhausted, wiped out, worn down to a nubbin from all the cares and worries of protecting the ranch. But it was a short doze. I was jerked from the warm vapors of sleep. E-scope was picking up more signals out there in the darkness.
Clunk. Scratch. Rustle. Rattle.
Okay, that did it. I hit the Exit Sleep button and kicked all the Wake-up Circuits over into Data Control’s master program. I jacked myself up to a sitting position and . . . well, yawned. That’s what we do when we’ve been yanked out of a peaceful sleep. It’s very important. It loosens up the jaw muscles and the tongue muscles, and it also rushes fresh air into the body cavity.
I yawned and then beamed a hot glare at my sleeping assistant. “Drover, wake up.” Nothing but grunting and wheezing. I would have to go to sterner measures. “Drover? Scrap Time!”
Now get this. His head shot up and he leaped to his feet and began staggering around in a circle. “Scraps! Oh my gosh, it’s dark, I’m blind! Hank, help, I can’t see, and somebody stole one of my legs!”
“Easy, son. You’re not blind.”
“Then how come I can’t see anything?”
“It’s still dark. I haven’t barked up the sun yet.”
“Oh my gosh, what day is it? Who’s on first? Where’s my leg?”
Waking up Drover was always an interesting experience. “Your leg is just where you left it, and so is the day. Just relax.”
“Oh, okay.” He collapsed into a heap, I mean, went down like a rock.
“Hey, get up. You’ve got work to do. Get out of that bed or I’ll have to growl you out.”
He staggered to his feet again. “No, don’t do that, you know I can’t stand criticism in the morning.” He blinked his eyes and looked around. “Gosh, it’s dark. I thought you said it was Scrap Time. You lied.”
“I did not lie, Drover. I told a small fib to wake you up. There’s a huge difference between a fib and a lie.”
“Like