The Case of the Hooking Bull (3 page)

Chapter Four: Running Scientific Tests on Strawberry Ice Cream

I
t was Little Alfred who had just come out of the house. He was standing on the sidewalk in his jeans and T-shirt and boots, and he was calling our names:

“Here, Hankie! Here, Dwovoo!”

You know, there's something special about a little boy calling his dogs. And it's especially special if you happen to be a dog, as I happen to be. It makes a guy feel . . .

As I went trotting up to the yard gate, I was shocked to see that Little Alfred's mouth was covered with BLOOD! Okay, some unspeakable villain had punched my little pal in the mouth and perhaps even knocked out several of his teeth, and anybody who'd punch a little kid around deserved just what he was fixing to get, and what he was fixing to get was the Head of . . .

On the other hand, he wasn't crying, which was a little puzzling. You'd think a boy who'd just been slugged in the mouth by a bully would have . . .

I went streaking through the yard gate, vaguely aware that the yard was Forbidden Terri­tory but more than vaguely aware that Sally May had left the ranch. In other words, what she didn't know she would never find out.

But even more important, if she had known that I was rushing into Forbidden Territory to defend her little boy against the attack of some heartless bully, she would have been the first to put a thorn in my crown.

I rushed to his side. I barked and wagged my tail, waiting for him to reveal the location of the brute. On the other hand, why was he laughing? And why did he pinch the end of my nose?

Well, the least I could do, it seemed to me, was to clean up his face a little bit, and so I . . . ketchup?

Okay, it appeared that we'd gotten ourselves all stirred up over . . . Drover had jumped to hasty . . . sometimes we get faulty readings on our instruments, don't you know, and . . .

The boy had been eating ketchup, see, and a fair percentage of it had ended up on his face, is all. No blood, no violence, no bully to take care of. I'd sort of suspected ketchup from the very beginning, but a guy can't really follow his hunch until he runs a more detailed analysis.

Don't you see.

Well, that was a nice turn of events and I went ahead and cleaned him up, knowing that his mother would have done the same thing if she'd been around. Ketchup is pretty good stuff, and this little task turned out to be more pleasant than I had expected.

Yes, I just kept cleaning and cleaning until the boy pushed me away and said, “Quit wicking me on the mouff, Hankie!” At that point, I stopped wicking him on the mouff, so to speak, and returned all four paws to the ground.

Sally May would have been proud. The boy's face was spotless.

It was then that he opened the screen door and called us over. And with a twinkle in his eyes, he said, “Come on, doggies, wet's go in the house!”

I looked at Drover and he looked at me. “Did you hear what he said, Drover?”

“Who?”

“Whom do you think?”

“Well, I don't know. Little Alfred?”

“Very good. Did you hear what he said?”

“I think he said the house is wet.”

“No. You garbled the translation. He said, ‘Wet's go in the house.” In kid language, ‘wet' means ‘let.'”

“I'll be derned. What would he say if the house got wet?”

“He would say, ‘The house is moist.'”

“I'll be derned. Do you reckon a pipe broke?”

“What?”

“I said, how'd all that water get in the house?”

I looked deeply into his eyes and wondered what kind of terrible injury had caused such a mess. “Drover, you've missed the whole point of this conversation. Little Alfred has invited us into the house.”

“Not me. I think I'll pass.”

“Sally May is gone for the day and she'll never suspect a thing.”

“Yeah, but you know about me and water. Just give me the good old dry land, that's the place for me.”

I heaved a sigh and shook my head in despair. “Fine, Drover. You stay out here and snap at the flies. I'll accept Alfred's invitation and go inside. You'll be sorry, of course, but you can't help it that you're a total moron.”

I turned my thoughts away from the depressing task of carrying on a normal conversation with Drover. Little Alfred was holding open the screen door and pointing the way inside. I didn't know to what I owed this honor, but it seemed only decent to accept it.

I went through the door and sat down in the utility room. Little Alfred closed the screen, being careful not to let it slam. Oh yes, Slim must have been taking a nap and the boy didn't want to disturb him.

That impressed me. A lot of these kids would just go slam-banging through the house and never give a thought to anybody else. Alfred had his flies . . . flaws, that is, but you could tell that his momma had tried to teach him some manners.

He gave me a wink and a smile and went tiptoeing into the kitchen. Exactly what the wink and smile meant, and why he chose to travel on tiptoes, I didn't know. But I soon found out.

He sneaky-walked through the kitchen and pushed a chair up to the refriginator . . . frigeriginator . . . the icebox door. He opened the top door (there were two: a big one on bottom and a smaller one above it).

Very strange. Fog rolled out of the top compartment. Several clouds of fog. My goodness, the weather must have been changing or something.

He stuck his hand and arm into the foggy compartment and came out with . . . well, with a great big grin on his face, for one thing, but what was that carton in his hand? A round carton.

He left the door open and the fog continued to roll out. He climbed down from the chair and fetched a spoon out of one of the kitchen drawers. Then he sat down in the middle of the floor and told me to sit down beside him.

Okay, I could handle that. I sat down beside him and watched as he pried the lid off the top of the mysterious carton. The lid hit the floor and rolled around. I stared at the contents of the alleged carton.

It was pink. It was hard. It smelled like something a dog might want to, well, eat, so to speak. I scootched a bit closer and watched this procedure with a, uh, higher level of interest.

I mean, I take a special interest in these kids and their activities, whether they're involved in church, school, 4-H, or . . . well, food. Food is a very important component in the development of a child, and it sure did smell good.

Kind of sweet, almost like strawberries and cream.

I watched as Little Alfred took the spoon in his fist and dug into the . . . whatever it was. I watched, with all the concern of a parent or guardian, as he moved the spoon to his mouth.

I moved my paws up and down and whined. I whapped my tail several times on the floor. I scootched even closer. Like any parent or guardian, I wanted to know what the boy was eating. I mean, these kids will put any kind of garbage into their mouths, and a guy sure wants to know . . .

“Want some ice cweam, Hankie?”

Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h, so that was it! Ice cream, huh? By George, it had been a long time since I'd tested any ice cream, and yes, I felt it was my duty to, uh, check it out.

He scooped out a big hunk and I gobbled it down. Strawberry ice cream, and pretty derned good. On the other hand, I'd never been one to leap to any scientific conclusions based on a single test, and I felt a certain craving . . . need, that is, to submit the ice cream to more rigorous testing procedures.

Hence, when he offered me a second bite, I did what had to be done—took it, chewed it up, and swallowed it down.

Boy, was that stuff good! But on the other hand, this was Sally May's child and I sure didn't want to take any chances . . . some kids are allergic to ice cream, see, makes 'em break out in hives and stuff, and they tell me that strawberry is the world's worst about causing hives.

One more test run, just to be sure. I mean, if the boy had broken out in hives, I never would have forgiven myself. I took one last bite.

Then he took a bite, and then he took another bite and that didn't seem fair, him taking two bites to my one, and I whined and thumped my tail until he came across with one last big scoop of, uh, test material.

Boy, was that stuff . . . headache? That stuff was delicious but for some reason it was giving me a headache. I pawed the spot above my eyes where the pain was centered, and after a bit it went away.

Hey, our tests had turned up a possibly dangerous side effect—it caused headaches! Well, you know me, when duty calls, I get with the program. This stuff needed to be tested and tested and TESTED, never mind the cost or sacrifice, and before I knew it, me and Little Alfred had tested the whole entire carton.

Chapter Five: The Spaceship Episode

W
ell, I ended up getting three headaches out of the testing deal, but that was a small price to pay for all the peace of mind it brought.

Alfred looked into the empty carton and grinned. “The ice cweam's all gone, Hankie.”

I burped . . . belched, that is, and listened to a certain creaking noise in my stomach. You'd have thought that I'd just eaten a squeaky gate or something, the way it sounded. And I did notice a certain fullness about my midsection, felt like I'd just swallowed an inner tube. And a squeaky gate.

And half a sack of dog food.

And three bales of hay.

Boy, I was one full dog! Alfred crossed the kitchen and went out into the utility room. Naturally, I followed. Had a little trouble walking, to tell you the truth, but I'm no quitter. I forced my legs to carry the load and they did the job, but I was kind of glad I didn't have to walk very far.

I supposed that we were going back outside, but he stopped in front of his ma's washer and dryer. “Hankie,” he whispered, “you want to go for a wide in a weal spaceship?”

Ride in a spaceship?
Well . . . not really. Ordinarily I thrive on adventure, but I had just done quite a bit of thriving on strawberry ice cream and . . .

Spaceship, huh? I hadn't realized that Sally May owned one. I ran my eyes around and across the utility room and didn't see anything that resembled a spaceship. On the other hand, there might have been a few things I didn't know about spaceships, such as what one might look like.

But as far as me making a trip into space right then . . . well, I had quite a bit of work lined up for the afternoon, and the thought had occurred to me that a nap might fit in there somewhere. I mean, all that lab work and testing and stuff had left me feeling kind of full and drowsy.

And, come to think about it, I wasn't exactly sure where SPACE was or how long it would take to go there. I had never been to space.

Maybe we could ride the spaceship another time.

Alfred opened the door . . . hatch . . . whatever, of the clothes dryer and pointed inside. “Hankie, this is my X-Wing Fighter. It's a weal spaceship, and it can fwy off to the stars!”

No kidding? I peered inside. It looked pretty muchly like a clothes dryer to me, but again, I was no expert on space stuff. I had my hands full trying to run a ranch on Planet Earth.

The boy grabbed me around the chest and lifted me off the ground and tried to poke me into the cabin of the X-Wing Fighter. I, uh, resisted this opportunity.

I mean, let's face it. This kid had been known to pull pranks, and more than once I had been the victim. On the whole, little Alfred was a good boy, but he did have an ornery streak and my trust of his motives did have its limits.

In other words, I wasn't interested in being sent off alone into space in his X-Wing Fighter. Now, if he'd offered to go along and drive the thing, well, that might have been different, but as far as me flying off into space by myself . . . no.

I guess he figgered that out, because after trying several times to poke my back legs into the cockpit, he gave up and set me back on the floor.

He pressed his lips together and frowned at me. “Hankie, what's wong wiff you? Don't you want to wide in my spaceship?”

I thumped my tail on the floor and, well, belched again (sure was full of strawberry ice cream), and avoided the focus of his eyes. I hated to disappoint the kid, but this just wasn't the time for . . .

“Okay, Hankie, I'll get in first. Then you can join me.”

Well . . . maybe and maybe not. We'd just have to take this deal one step at a time, but his offering to go in first was definitely the first step.

Sure enough, he climbed into the cockpit and settled himself into the . . . well, there really wasn't a seat in the thing, just a round something-or-other made of metal, looked kind of uncomfortable to me, but he settled into it and didn't seem to mind.

Then he took the . . . I guess it was a steering wheel, although I couldn't really see it very well . . . he took the steering wheel in both hands, and I'll be derned if that spaceship didn't make a roaring sound—you know, motors or jets engines, rockets, whatever you call those things.

At first I thought Alfred was making the sound. He's pretty good at making loud noises, you know, but then I wasn't so sure. By George, it sounded pretty real to me, so maybe that thing WAS an X-Wing Fighter after all.

I couldn't imagine why Sally May had bought a spaceship and installed it in her utility room, but you never know. Maybe it was one of those new models that served as a spaceship part of the time and as a clothes dryer part of the time.

The boy did a fifteen-second burn on his en­gines and then shut them off. “Come on, Hankie, get in and wet's go for a wide.”

Well . . . why not? I coiled my legs under me and hopped up into the cockpit and took my place in the copilot's seat. Alfred took the controls again, fired his engines, and away we went at a high rate of speed.

After a bit, Captain Alfred came on the radio. “Captain Alfood to Hankie, appwoaching Pwanet Venus!” I gazed out the pothole . . . porthole, I guess it was, gazed out the porthole and sure enough, there was Planet Venus passing before our very eyes.

“Captain Alfood to Hankie, appwoaching Pwanet Okwahoma!” By George, there it was, Planet Oklahoma in all its splinter. “Captain Alfood to Hankie, I'm fixing to weave the ship and make a space walk. You dwive now.”

Roger, Captain!

I took over command of the ship, did a quick scan of the instrument panel just to be sure that all systems were up and functioning. Everything checked out.

While I was absorbed in the instrument check and making double-sure that we didn't fly too close to Planet Oklahoma, Captain Alfred slipped into his space suit and began his spacewalk maneuver. He exited the ship through the pothole and . . .

Slammed the hatch? All at once it was pretty dark in there. Captain Alfred grinned at me through the pothole window and waved. Then I seemed to hear him climbing on top of the ship. Maybe he was checking for leaks or something, or maybe . . .

HUH?

Fellers, something was happening to the ship!

MAYDAY, MAYDAY!!

RED ALERT!

CODE THREE!

DEFCON FIVE!

YIKES!

All at once I lost control of the ship. My controls went dead, my instruments blanked out, the ship went into a deadly spiral dive, and holy smokes, I was tumbling around and around and around.

And around and around, and bumping my head!

The cabin temperature was rising and I caught the scent of heated metal. We had a fire in the cockpit! We were falling out of control! I was tumbling and flying around and getting beat to smith­er­eens!

I don't know how I did it, but at the very last moment I pulled her out of that deadly spiral dive and executed a smooth landing. Next thing I knew, Little Alfred had opened the hatch and was pulling me out of the burning cockpit.

Just in time too. I mean, the smoke and flames had just about gotten me.

He pulled me out of the burning wreckage, boy, what a crash, and let me tell you, he looked scared. I could understand that. It had been pretty tough for both of us, but even tougher for him than for me. At least I'd been inside the cockpit. That poor kid had been up on top of the ship!

We were just lucky we didn't lose him.

At that point, he said something that I didn't understand. He said, “Sowwy, Hankie. I wondered what that button would do.”

Button? Didn't make any sense to me. The kid must have been scared out of his wits, didn't know what he was saying.

Well, you can't believe how glad I was to plant my paws back on good old Planet Earth! It would be a long time before I ever climbed into another one of those spaceships.

I checked my body for damage: no busted bones, no blood, no serious cuts, just a lot of bruises that didn't show. In other words, I had somehow managed to walk away . . .

But I did feel dizzy and noticed a certain queasy feeling in my stomach. All that tumbling around. And around and around, and walking straight seemed out of the question as I staggered across the floor, feeling dizzy and more than slightly queasy in the stomach.

And all at once I thought of strawberry ice cream and wished I hadn't. If a guy knew for sure that he was going to crash a spaceship, the last thing in the world he'd want to eat would be strawberry . . .

You know, I was feeling kind of sick. Course, even your most experienced pilots get a touch of . . . boy, was I feeling lousy! And dizzy. Ran into the trash can and bounced off the kitchen cabinet, and just the thought of strawberry ice cream made me want to . . .

Uh-oh.

In spite of injuries and dizziness, I managed to stagger through the kitchen and into the living room. I needed to go outside, is what I really needed, but the door . . . and there wasn't time any­way, so I . . .

I, uh, found this nice little spot behind Sally May's couch. It was quiet, isolated, dark. I guessed that nobody had ever visited that deserted piece of carpet, and probably nobody ever would. Hence, nobody would ever know . . .

I felt much better now. Most of the dizziness and so forth had vanished, and I made my way around the front of the couch and headed for the back door.

But as I passed the front of the couch, a long bony hand
reached out and grabbed me,
and a mysterious voice said, “What are you doing in here, pooch?!”