He walked into the icy beam of my hot glare and stopped. “Oh, hi. Were you barking for me?”
“I called you, yes. You may have thought I was merely barking, but it was actually a downlink microwave transmission from one of the Security Division’s communication satellites.”
“I’ll be derned. It sure sounded like a bark to me.”
“It was more than a bark, but never mind. Did you get my urgent message?”
“Well, let me think here.” He rolled his eyes around. “I think you said that Slim was . . . standing on his head?”
The air hissed out of my lungs. “That wasn’t the message. I said that Slim was in over his head. His pickup quit on him and he needs backup right away.”
“His pickup won’t back up?”
“Affirmative. It won’t back up and it won’t go forward either. It’s broken and he needs a backup from us.”
“You mean . . . we have to pull it backward?”
I stuck my nose in his face. “Drover, listen to me. The pickup won’t start and Slim is a lousy mechanic. He needs our help. Do you understand?”
“Well . . . I’m not sure. How come he’s standing on his head?”
“He’s not standing on his head! Look at him. Is he standing on his head?”
You won’t believe this part. Just as Drover swung his gaze around, Slim bent down and looked underneath the pickup, so that his head almost touched the ground. Drover flashed a grin. “Oh, I see now. He’s standing on his head, trying to figure out how come the pickup won’t back up, only he’s not really standing on his head. Did I get it right?”
What can you say? “Yes. Fine. Very good. Now, let’s march over there and see if we can lend a hand.”
“What if we don’t have any hands?”
I froze. “What?”
“If all you’ve got is paws, how can you lend a hand?”
“Drover, are you trying to be funny?”
“I don’t think so. All I’ve got is four paws, honest. See?” He proceeded to show me his paws.
“Then don’t lend a hand. Lend a paw. Let’s go. We’re wasting valuable time here.” I shoved my way past him and started toward Slim.
“Which paw?”
Again, I had to stop. “What did you say?”
“When?”
“Just now.”
He rolled his eyes around. “Well, let me think. I said that Slim was standing on his head.”
“No, after that.”
“Well, I said . . . I already forgot.”
I could feel my temper rising. “You said . . . you said something about a witch.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you certainly did, and don’t try to deny it. Now, why were you inquiring about witches?”
His eyes blanked out. “I don’t know, but Halloween’s already past.”
“That’s correct. Are you saying that we still have a Halloween witch running around on the ranch?”
“Well . . .”
“Because, if you are”—I began pacing in front of him—“this could lead our investigation into an entirely new direction.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Where did you see this witch? Around headquarters?”
“No, all I said was, which paw?”
I froze in my tracks. “Witch paw? She had paws? Holy smokes, Drover, why didn’t you report this sooner?”
“No, I said . . .”
“A witch with paws! This could turn out to be very interesting.” I resumed my pacing. “Okay, let’s follow up on this. Describe the paws.”
He held up a foot and squinted at it. “Well, let’s see. Four toes and dirty nails, and hair between the toes.”
“Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. This was a hairy witch, the most dangerous kind. Was she riding a broom? Carrying a pumpkin? Did she have a black cat?” I noticed that the runt had collapsed to the ground and covered his ears with his paws. I marched over to him. “Now what? I’m trying to work up this case, Drover, but I must have your cooperation. Was she riding a broom?”
“Who?”
“The witch, of course.”
He let out a moan. “I didn’t see a witch! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You . . . you didn’t see a hairy witch with paws?”
“No!”
There was a long moment of silence. “Drover, if you didn’t see a witch, then what is the point of this conversation?”
“I don’t know. I’m so confused, I want to go back to bed.”
“I see.” I took a slow breath of air. “In that case . . . Drover, what were we doing before you dragged us into a ridiculous conversation about witches?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Hmmm. Neither do I.” I sat down and began scratching my right ear. A moment later, I heard Slim scream, “Piece of junk!” And it all came rushing back. I leaped to my feet and called Drover to action, and we sprinted over to help Slim in his hour of greatest need.
Chapter Two: A Terrible Explosion
Did you understand any of that business about the witch? I never figured it out, but when you work around Drover, you have to expect a certain amount of chaos and nonsense. But the important thing is that we were able to rush two loyal dogs to the scene of Slim’s latest crisis.
We got there just in time. Slim’s face had turned red. There was fire in his eyes and his lips were pulled back in a snarl of rage. He held a ball-peen hammer in his right hand and, well, I got the impression that he was ready to throw it through the windshield.
“Okay, Drover, let’s set the formation. It’s obvious that Slim needs our help.”
“Gosh, what’ll we do?”
“What do you think? We bark, of course, but not ordinary barks. For this deal, we’d better go to Motor Tune-up Barks. Ready? Let ’er rip!”
Boy, you should have been there. It was really something to see and hear—two brave dogs pouring heart and soul into a chorus of barking against rust, corrosion, sludge, and your other evil agents that cause pickups to quit running. I don’t know as we’d ever done a better job with the Motor Tune-up Program, and I think it would have worked if only . . .
I guess Slim didn’t understand what we were doing. (How many times has that happened? Thousands of times.) Maybe he thought we were just barking, just a couple of dumb mutts yapping at nothing in particular. In other words, he missed the whole point of the Motor Tune-up Barking Procedure. Just about the time we had really gotten into a rhythm and were pumping out some outstanding barks, he whirled around and screeched, “Knock off the dadgum noise, will you?”