The Fling. John R. Erickson

with that, we taxied out of the machine shed. After a brief takeoff sequence, I rammed the throttle down and went straight into Turbo Four. Trees, rocks, and other objects flew past. Halfway down the hill, I saw trouble looming up—a bunch of chickens.

      I barked a warning.

      “Out of the way, you fools!”

      I had to alter my course just a bit to run through the middle of them, but I got ’er done and bulldozed ’em. What fun! What joy! Their squawking and flapping brought a rush of new meaning into my life, and once again I understood why no ranch dog should ever wish to be a truck.

      That’s kind of weird, isn’t it, Drover wishing he could be a truck? Oh well. He’s weird. I’ve said it many times.

      And so it was that Drover and I intercepted the trespassing truck just as it was turning around and getting ready to back up to the loading chute. I roared up beside the cab and began laying down a withering barrage of barking. Drover joined me and added a yip or two.

      “Halt! Stop that thing and park it, buddy. We need to see some paperwork before you back up to our loading chute.”

      The driver stared at me. Description: small guy, young, big black cowboy hat pushed down on his ears, glasses that made him look like a dragon­fly, and a stringy little mustache that I would have been ashamed to wear out in public.

      He stared at me and kept backing up.

      “Okay, pal, we tried it the easy way. Get out of that truck or we’re fixing to disable it.”

      He ignored me. How foolish of him.

      That left me with little choice. I rushed to the left front wheel and was just about to rip it to shreds with my enormous jaws, when . . .

      HUH?