The Mopwater Files. John R. Erickson

taste?”

      “Well, that makes sense to me.”

      “I’m shocked, Drover, shocked and dismayed and disappointed that you would . . . okay, just for the sake of argument, how did it taste?”

      He grinned. “Well . . . it was pretty good.”

      “See? I gave you a chance to express yourself and what did you do?”

      “Well . . . I told the truth.”

      “No, you didn’t tell the truth. You contradicted my Theory of Grasshoppers, is what you did, and if you can’t give the right answer, what good is freedom of speech?”

      “Well, I don’t know. But I ate a grasshopper and it was pretty good. And you ought to try one yourself.”

      I curled my lip. “I will never eat a grasshopper. Bird dogs will fly before I eat a grasshopper. Hogs will ride sidesaddles before I eat a grasshopper.”

      “They’re better than you think.”

      “No sale, Drover.”

      “And they’re better than dry dog food.”

      “I don’t want to hear it.”

      “They taste kind of like chicken.”

      “Well, of course they do, because that’s what chickens eat.”

      “Yeah, and you like the taste of chicken, don’t you?”

      “No, I . . .” All at once it appeared that my mouth was watering, as I, uh, recalled several delicious ultra-secret chicken dinners I had . . .

      I licked my chops, so to speak, and was unable to answer the question.

      Drover grinned. “See? I said ‘chicken’ and you licked your chops, and that’s proof that you like chicken.”

      “I did not lick my chops, and even if I had, it would prove almost nothing, for you see, Drover, ranch dogs are forbidden to eat . . . slurp . . . chickens—for good and obvious reasons.”

      “Yeah, but that’s my point.”

      I gave him a hard glare. “Your point? Who or whom do you think you are, and when did you start putting points into your pointless conver­sations?”

      “Well, I don’t know, but I’ve got one now. You want to hear it?”

      I heaved a sigh. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

      His grin faded. “Gosh, I just lost it. I can’t remember. Oh darn.”

      “Will you hurry up? I’m a very busy dog.”

      “Okay, here we go, I’ve got it. The point is that grasshoppers taste like chicken, so when you eat a grass­hopper, it’s almost like eating a chicken.”

      I licked my chops. “Hmmm. Not a bad point, actu­­ally. And you know, Sally May hates grass­hoppers.”

      “Yeah, ’cause they eat up her garden.”

      “Exactly. So we’re looking at possible bonus points here. Hmmm.” I ran that one through my data banks. “I find only one major flaw in your ointment, Drover. The back legs of a grasshopper are known to have spurs or barbs, which might lodge in the throats of certain dogs.”

      He grinned and shrugged. “Well, they didn’t bother me. I guess you have to chew ’em up, is all.”

      “Hmmm, yes. But we still have one problem, Drover. I don’t have the energy to catch a grass­hopper. It’s this heat. It drains me of all energy and ambition. I don’t want to do anything but sleep. It’s very discouraging.”

      “Well, maybe a couple of fresh grasshoppers would help. They always seem to have plenty of energy, and so do the chickens.”

      “Hmmm.” I heaved a sigh and pushed myself up on all fours. “Okay, Drover, I’ll give it a shot. But if this doesn’t work, I’ll have to put it on your record.”

      We made our way down to the yard gate. I happened to know that Sally May was out working in her yard, for I had seen her there before my nap . . . that is, before I had checked into the shade for, uh, treatment of extreme exhaustion and loss of precious bodily fluids.

      I knew she was out there, working and slaving in the heat of the day, in a heroic effort to beautify her house and therefore the ranch itself. I admired her dedication to greenery and beauty and so forth, and would have done almost anything to help her out.

      You’ll notice that Slim and Loper were nowhere in sight. Bring out a shovel or a rake and those guys disappear. It’s like showing a cross to an umpire.

      They vanish like dewdrops in August.

      But there was Sally May, working and slaving in the hot sun; digging holes and planting tender little shrubberies and flowers around the yard fence. And what was the mainest threat to her tender little shrubberies and flowers and plants?

      Grasshoppers.

      You work and slave to put out your stuff, and the minute you walk away, the grasshoppers move in and start mowing ’em down. They’re a plague, a pestilence, a minutes to society, and they’ve been known to break the heart of many a courageous ranch wife.

      As Head of Ranch Security, I considered it my duty—nay, my privilege—to rush to the defense of my master’s wife and to protect her yard and greenery from all villains, monsters, and pests.

      And especially the hated grasshoppers.

      I was the first to arrive on the scene. I did a quick visual sweep and . . . hmmm, there was her cat lurking nearby. When our eyes met, he arched his back and hissed.

      Why? It had nothing to do with fear. Pete wasn’t smart enough to be afraid of a dog. No, he hissed out of sheer spite and jealousy. See, he thinks he’s Sally May’s precious kitty and he can’t stand the thought of sharing her attention with anyone else.

      So he hissed at me. Perhaps he thought this would throw me into an inflammation; that I would bark and give him the pounding he deserved, and that Sally May would rush to his defense.

      He thought, in other words, that he could use a cheap cat trick to get me in trouble with the lady of the house, but Pete had used that trick too often in the past and it happened that I was prepared for it.

      Hencely, instead of barking and causing a scene, I gave him a, shall we say, toothy smile. I thought that would be the end of it. I was wrong. It turned out to be just the beginning.