The Case of the Car-Barkaholic Bog. John R. Erickson

      “Okay.” At last, silence. But then, “I’m sorry.”

      I could have . . . but wringing his stupid neck at that particular moment would have only created more of a stir, and that was precisely what we didn’t need.

      “We’re in Stealthy Crouch Mode, you little dunce, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

      “Okay.”

      “That’s better.”

      I turned my attention back to Slim. Hmmm. He appeared to be removing the lid from the pickup’s gas tank and placing the nozzle of the gas tank hose into the gas tank. In other words, he appeared to be . . . yes. Filling the pickup with . . . well, gas.

      Or, to be more precise, gasoline. There are many types of gas floating around in our atmosphere, but only one type of gasoline: regular and unleaded. That’s two, actually.

      And gasoline doesn’t float. It moves from one tank to another through a hose and a nozzle and so forth.

      I hadn’t expected this turn of events. It takes your average cowboy several minutes to fill the gas tank of his pickup, and I don’t need to tell you how difficult it is for a dog to maintain Stealthy Crouch Mode over a period of several minutes.

      It’s tough. It wears you out. Your ordinary dogs will break discipline at this point. Your better dogs will maintain S.C.M., whatever the cost.

      Slim was tapping his toe and singing a song, as he waited for the tank to fill.

      Doe dee doe doe doe,

      Dee dee deedle dum

      Doe dee doe doe

      Diddle diddle diddle dum.

      Ho fiddly diddly dum

      Hey diddle riddly rum

      Diddly riddly fiddly fum

      Doe dee dee, dee diddly dum.

      Pretty boring song, if you ask me. I could have come up with a better one—blindfolded and with one paw tied behind my back.

      Well, Mr. Songbird got so involved in singing his masterpiece that he forgot that he was filling the pickup with gas. And you can guess what happened. The tank filled up and gasoline went flying in all directions.

      That woke him up. “DAD-gum gas tank! Now look what you’ve done. Stupid pickup.”

      He hung the nozzle back on its special patented baling wire hook and scowled at his hands. For a moment he stood there muttering to himself. It appeared that he considered wiping them on his jeans but changed his mind.

      It was then that his gaze fell upon me.

      “Hank, come here, boy. Good dog. Come on, boy.”

      HUH?

      I, uh, tried to blend in with my surroundings, so to speak, in hopes that he might . . .

      “Hank, come here!” The softer tone of his first call had disappeared, replaced by a certain sharp quality. “Come here!”

      “Drover,” I whispered, “you’re being called for special duty. Slim needs you.”

      There was no answer. I turned around and . . . I don’t know how that little dope always manages to . . .

      “HANK, GET OVER HERE!”

      I swallowed and pushed myself up to the Full Erect Position.

      “Come on, hurry up!”

      I began the slow walk toward the pickup. There are some parts of this job that I have never learned to enjoy.

      “Come on, atta boy.”

      I hate the smell of gasoline, always have.

      “Come on, Pooch, I’ve got places to go.”

      There are times when a dog’s loyalty to the ranch is put under a terrible strain.

      “There we go. Come here. Good dog.”

      I sat down at his feet, wagged my tail, and gave him my most wounded look. Perhaps if I . . .

      He wiped his hands on my back. That much came as no surprise. But then he SCRUBBED HIS FINGERNAILS ON MY EARS!

      That really hurt my pride. That was a low blow. I mean, a guy spends hours and hours cleaning himself up and trying to keep up the kind of neat personal appearance that you’d expect in a Head of Ranch . . .

      “Good dog, Hankie.”

      Two pats on the head and good-bye, Charlie.

      In many ways, this is a lousy job, and I made up my mind then and there that if I ever got my paws on Drover . . .

      He climbed into the pickup and started the motor. Slim did, not Drover. Drover had jumped into a hole and pulled in behind him, the dunce, the back-stabbing little . . .

      The pickup pulled away from the gas tanks. I had not a moment to spare, for the moment of truth had arrived.

      In a flash, I switched from Wounded Dog Mode over to Syruptishus Loaderation Mode. I began oozing along behind the pickup and slipped into the blind spot—the spot near the hitch ball, which just happened to be outside the view of the side mirrors, ho ho.

      That’s why we call it the Blind Spot, because the driver can’t see back there, don’t you see.

      As the pickup gathered speed, I initiated the countdown.

      Three.

      Two.

      One.

      Blastoff, liftoff, bonzai, charge!

      As graceful as a deer, I launched myself from the caliche drive in front of the house and landed on silent paws in the back end of the pickup. Don’t know as I had ever done the procedure any better, and Slim never suspected a thing.

      And so it was that I smuggled myself onto the pickup bed and hitched a ride into town. Yes, I did smell of gasoline, and yes, my personal appearance had taken a serious blow.

      But it could have been worse. Consider the wind, for example. It blows all the time.