Lost in the Dark Unchanted Forest. John R. Erickson

what else is a cat good for? But this time, with me on the short end of the stick, so to speak, it hurt.

      Oh, it did hurt! My tail is a very sensitive and expressive communication device, and it was never intended to be pecked by chickens, stepped on by cowboys, or pulled by bratty little boys. I mean, Alfred was putting my Cowdog Oath to the test, and if I’d had just a smidgen less of iron discipline . . .

      I squalled. I cried. I moaned. Heck, a guy has to do something to protect himself from these little monsters.

      It was my good fortune that Sally May had good ears. She came flying out the back door, sized up the situation with one sweep of her eyes, and marched over to Little Alfred.

      “Alfred, what on earth are you doing?”

      He gave her a nasty little grin. “I’m pwaying wiff Hank.”

      “You’re hurting Hank. Hank doesn’t like for you to pull his tail. Now let go, right now!”

      The boy let go of my tail. “I don’t wike Hank. He’s a dummy.”

      Oh yeah? Well, I could have come up with a few choice names for him, too.

      Sally May took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake. “If you can’t be nice to Hank, you can’t play with him. You play quietly with your trucks while we put Molly down for a nap.”

      Alfred glared up at her and stuck out his lip. “I don’t wike Mah-wee either!”

      “Hush now. Mommy will be right out to play with you.”

      She went back into the house. When she was out of hearing range, Alfred made a spitting sound with his lips. Then he made another grab for me, but this time he was half a step too slow. I went sprinting out of the yard and picked up Drover at the gate.

      “Come on, Drover, let’s get out of here.”

      I didn’t know what had come over the boy and I didn’t care to find out. I figgered it was time to let Little Alfred stew in his own tomatoes.