The Mopwater Files (4 page)

Chapter Six: I Prepare to Thrash the Neighborhood Bully

B
y the time Billy stepped out of the pickup, I had already done Date and Mark on all four tires. I could tell that he was impressed.

He walked over to Slim, who was still sitting in the shade with a handful of grease and trailer bearings. “What have y'all been feeding that dog? In this heat, I can hardly get mine to scratch a flea. Old Hank's running around like a pup in January.”

Slim shrugged. “Beats me. A little while ago, the crazy outfit chased the cat up this tree—and fell on top of me. I liked to have had a stroke. What's up?”

“Oh, I need to borrow some 6011 welding rod. You got any?”

“Well,” he grunted and pushed himself up, “let's go see. Boy, it's hot. Makes a guy wish he could rent a big watermelon and move into it for the rest of the summer.”

They shuffled into the machine shed. It was then that I turned my attention to the back of the pickup and saw . . . mercy! There she was, the girl of my dreams, just as I had seen her so many times in my slumbering sleepiness.

The dewberry eyes. The long collie nose. The flaxen hair. The perfect collie ears . . . holy smokes, my heart stopped beating and I forgot to breathe.

It was the lovely Miss Beulah.

After almost dying of joy and excitement, I snatched myself back from the brink of the edge and regained my composure. I wiggled my eyebrow three times and gave her my most swavv . . . swaav . . . swwaav . . . most charming smile.

“Well, my goodness! Hath the sun risen before us in the middle of the day or is this Miss Beulah the Collie?”

I shall never forget her words. She said, “Hello, Hank.”

Beautiful. Pure poetry. I could sense that she was still madly in love with me and that our romance would begin just where it had left off, just as though we had spent every minute . . .

Bird dog? There seemed to be a bird dog sitting on the opposite side of the pickup. He was giving me a lopsided grin.

“Hi Hank. By golly, it's great to see you again. How about this weather? You ever seen such heat? I haven't worked out all week.”

That was Plato, of course, Plato the stick-tailed spotted bird dog. He spent his time pointing tennis shoes and retrieving sticks and thinking about birds. And what really ripped me was that Beulah seemed to like him.

I gave him a nod. “Yes, the heat has been ter­rible.” I knocked off three back flips in a row, did a forward flip with a half-twist, and landed on my feet. “I've had to cut back on my work sched­ule too.”

You should have seen his eyes! They almost bugged out of his head. “Good gravy, Hank, that's very impressive, very impressive. Beulah, did you see that?”

She did. I knew she did because I could see and almost feel her adoring gaze on me. So, just for the heck of it, I knocked off three forwardses, two back­wardses, landed on my front legs, did five push­ups, and ended with five carbuncles. Cartwheels.

Plato almost fell out of the pickup. He couldn't believe his eyes. “Wow. By golly. Hank, I'm really impressed. No kidding. I mean, in this heat the rest of us just drag around and try to survive, but you . . . did you see that, Honey Bun?”

“
Quit calling her Honey Bun.
”

I froze and cocked my ear. Was I hearing voices? Unless I was badly mistaken, I had just heard someone say, “Quit calling her Honey Bun.”

I shot a glance at Plato. His expression had changed. His eyes showed . . . fear. I shifted my gaze toward Beulah. She was looking away, as though . . . hmmm. Very strange.

Plato cut his eyes from side to side and motioned for me to come over. When I did, he glanced over his shoulder and dropped his voice to a whisper.

“Hank, there's something I must tell you. Remember Rufus, Billy's Doberman pinscher? He's sitting up there on the spare tire.”

“Oh. So that was his voice I heard?”

“Right. Yes. Exactly. He forced me and Beulah to sit in opposite corners. He doesn't want us to be friendly, if you know what I mean, because he thinks Beulah likes him.”

“Hmmm. Does she?” I turned to Beulah.

“I can't stand him,” she whispered. “He's an ugly toad, and he's a bully and a brute, and he's so mean to poor Plato . . . oh, I hate him!”

“I'll be derned. Well, maybe I need to have a talk with old Rufie.”

Plato's eyes grew wide, and he shook his head. “No, don't get involved, Hank. I know you mean well, but this is just something we have to live with. We can stand it another day, can't we, Honey . . . 'er, can't we, Beulah?”

“Stay on your side, birdbrain, and quit talking to my sweetie pie.” It was The Voice again.

“Okay, Rufus, sorry. It won't happen again.” Plato turned back to me. “You see what I mean? He's the meanest, most overbearing dog I've ever known. And I'll be honest, Hank. He scares me.”

“I wonder what he'd do if I yelled . . . honey bun.”

Plato flinched at the words. “Oh, I wouldn't do that, Hank, really. No kidding. To you it might be a joke, but Rufus has no sense of humor at all. And let me remind you, Hank, this guy has hurt a lot of dogs. He's vicious.”

“I'll swan.” I threw back my head and called, “Honey bun, here, honey bun. Oh honey bun. Here a honey, there a bun, everywhere a honey bun.”

Plato gasped. “No, Hank, please . . .”

“Honey bun, honey bun, honey bun!”

Plato's eyes rolled back in his head. Beulah's eyelids sank. The pickup lurched and bounced, and Rufus's ugly head appeared above the tailgate.

I gave him a lazy grin. “Hi. How y'all today?”

He spoke in a deep booming voice. “Who said ‘honey bun'?”

“Well, let's see. It wasn't Plato. It wasn't Beulah, so perhaps 'twas I.”

“Who are you?”

“Fine, thanks. How about yourself?”

He roasted me with his eyes. “I said, WHO are you, smart guy. I don't care how you are.”

“Oh, sorry. Hank the Cowdog. You're on my ranch.”

“Oh yeah. I whipped you once—on your ranch. It was fun but it didn't last long.” He aimed a paw at me. “Don't say those words again. I don't like 'em.”

“You mean ‘honey bun'?”

“That's right. I hate 'em.”

“Honey bun.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, “Are you trying to be funny or are you just stupid?”

“No, every time I see Beulah's lovely face, I think of honey buns. Odd, isn't it?”

“I ought to knock your block off. Don't ever say ‘honey bun' to my honey bun.”

“Oh, she's yours, huh?”

“Right.” He turned to Beulah. “Aren't you, Honey Bun?” She turned away and didn't answer. He laughed. “She's crazy about me, and even if she ain't, that's too bad. She's mine, so butt out before you get hurt. You got that?”

“Nope.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Rufus, there's something we need to discuss. I don't like you.”

A grin spread over his mouth. “Yeah? That's nice.”

“And it's not just because you have the ugliest face I ever saw.” His smile began to wilt. “You can't help it that you're ugly and stupid. What I don't like is that you're rude.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh. And you're being rude to a lady friend of mine—on my ranch. That's not very nice.”

“Big deal.”

“If you'll apologize to Beulah and promise to be a good little doggie for the rest of your life, I'll forget the whole thing.”

“You must be crazy.”

“If you aren't dog enough to apologize to the lady, I'll be forced to thrash you right here in front of everyone. It's up to you.”

Beulah stared at me with terror-stricken eyes. Plato was shaking his head and wheezing and trying to motion me to be quiet.

Rufus leaned over the tailgate and narrowed his ugly bloodshot eyes. “Say, bub, I beat up cowdogs just for exercise, and then I move on to the tough guys. Be kind to yourself and get lost.”

“Honey bun.”

There was a long throbbing moment of silence as we glared into each other's eyes. Plato couldn't stand it any longer.

“Settle down, Rufus, easy now. Hank has a great sense of humor but sometimes . . .”

“Shut up. Get back in your corner.”

“Right, okay, but let me emphasize . . .”

“Shut up!”

Plato did as he was told. Rufus's terrible eyes swung back to me. “Where would you like your whipping, up here in the pickup or down there on the ground?”

“Tell you what, Rufe, let me get a drink of water and I'll think about it. Don't go away.”

As I turned to leave, I heard him laugh. “Wave good-bye to your hero. He won't be back.”

I trotted down to the yard gate. Heh, heh. Little did old Rufus know that I had a secret weapon. Heh, heh. A couple of slurps of root stimulator and . . .

The bucket was gone!

Chapter Seven: Poisoned by Mopwater

C
old fear began working its way down my back and out to the end of my tail. Behind me, I heard Rufus laughing and calling out insults.

“Hurry up, Hero. I'm gettin' bored.”

Gulp. Now what? Who had moved my bucket? Where did it go? My eyes searched the entire backyard area. I could feel my reserves of energy slipping away, and all at once I became aware of the heat. It was so hot!

I had to find the bucket. My reputation, my whole career was at stake because . . . holy smokes, I had just spent the last fifteen minutes mouthing off to one of the meanest dogs in Texas!

I was on the brink of despair and desolation when the back door opened and Sally May stepped out on the porch. In her right hand she carried . . . the bucket. Yes, the very same bucket. I identified it at once.

She set it down on the porch. Boy, what a relief! There for a minute, I had feared the worst, that she had poured out my supply of precious root stimulator and wasted it on a bunch of idiot plants.

But there it was, safe and sound, and now all I had to do . . . mop? Why was she dipping a mop into my . . .

And then the terrible truth came crashing down upon my head. She had poured out my Precious Root Stimulator and was using the container as a MOP BUCKET!

Oh, what a cruel fate, to be brought down in the prime of my life by a mop!

“Hurry up, cowdog. We're waiting.”

Sally May squeezed out the mop with both hands and went back into the house. She left the bucket on the porch. I found myself . . . staring at it.

It was the same bucket I had drunk out of before, right? It contained mopwater instead of root stimulator, but both were liquids, composed primarily of water, which means they were very similar.

If root stimulator and mopwater were very similar, then perhaps they were almost the same. Who would know the difference? Not a plant. Not a mop.

I mean, the little cotton strands on a mop were almost identical to the roots on a plant. Both were long and stringy, both extended downward, both were attached to a longer stalk or stick, which extended upward.

Hencely, by following the twisted path of logic, I had arrived at the startling conclusion that mop­water and root stimulator were exactly the same stuff, which meant that mopwater would restore my reserves of energy just as the plant food had.

Gee whiz, what a breakthrough, what a triumph of scientific thinking over the rubble of ordinary experience.

Only one small problem remained, and it was only a small problem. I would have to make a penetration of Sally May's yard. That was no big deal. I'd done it before, many times, and though it posed certain risks, I knew I could do it—because I HAD to do it.

“Hey cowdog, snap it up, will ya?”

I coiled my legs under me and went flying over the yard fence. I landed on silent paws, stopped in my tracks, and listened. I could hear Sally May's voice inside the house. She seemed to be discussing something with Little Alfred . . . yes, they were discussing spilled milk.

She would never know that I had broken into her yard and borrowed some, uh, Mop Stimulator.

I crept forward. Two steps. Stop. Listen. Three steps. Stop. Listen. Four steps. And suddenly I was there, standing on the porch with the bucket looming before me.

I shot glances over both shoulders, plunged my head into the bucket, and began lapping the . . . stuff tasted pretty awful, but it's common knowledge that good medicine always tastes bad, and . . .

BONK!

Who would have thought that she would finish her mopping and spilled milk lecture so soon? Not me. I was totally shocked when the screen door flew open and struck me on the left shoulder, and it appeared that I had been caught with my head in the, uh, cookie jar.

Mop bucket.

Our eyes met. I licked a drip off of my chin and tried to squeeze up a smile that would . . . uh, well . . . explain exactly what I was doing there . . . in her yard . . . on her back porch . . . in her mop bucket.

Hi Sally May. I know this looks odd—even strange—but I think I can explain everything.

She stared at me for a long throbbing moment. Then she leaned down and spoke. “You. Are Drink­ing. Mopwater.”

Yes, I, uh, knew that.

“And before that, you were drinking my plant food.”

Right, and there was a reason for that too. No kidding.

“What is wrong with you? Can't you find a drink of plain water on this ranch?”

Sure, but . . .

“There's a creek right over there and it's full of fresh drinking water.”

Yes, I . . . I was aware of the . . . uh . . . creek.

She brought her face right down to the level of my nose. “Will you please stop behaving like a moron?”

I knew in my deepest heart that she wouldn't approve of a mopwater kiss at that particular moment, but some strange urge caused my tongue to shoot out and give her a big juicy lick on the . . . well, on the nose-mouth region of her face.

Good grief, you'd have thought she'd been bitten by a cobra, the way she drew back. And screeched. Yes, she screeched at me, and then came the mop. Splat! Right across my face.

Well, I could take a hint. If she didn't want me around . . . SPLAT! . . . I would just . . . SPLAT! . . . run for my life and let the chipmunks fall where they would.

I made it over the yard fence just one step ahead of the Murderous Mop and took refuge in some tall weeds. There, I heard her say, “I'll swear, that is the dumbest dog!”

Boy, that hurt—not as much as the mop, but it opened wounds deep inside my heart and soul.

Wounds that might never heal.

She went back inside the house. She probably didn't realize that her cutting remarks had inflicted irreruptable damage to our relationship.

And she probably didn't even care.

“Hey cowdog, we're waitin'.”

The sound of Rufus's voice brought me back to the other crisis in my life. Had the mopwater done its job? I had to know the truth.

I turned to Data Control for a report on all internal systems. My heart sank as I scanned the report flashing across the screen of my mind. It showed low readings in all departments: heart rate, blood sugar, oxygen-acetylene supply, energy, ambition, and cellular phonography.

Even more disturbing was the presence of high levels of toxic mopwater in the stomach area. Burp. My poor stomach had certainly been tested: a gooey green grasshopper, root stimulator, and now mopwater.

Did I feel sick? Sure, but I didn't have time to be sick. My career and reputation were hanging in the ballast. I had talked my way into a fight I couldn't possibly win, yet I couldn't walk away from it either.

Well . . . obviously it was time for a song, right? I mean, there comes a time in every dog's life when he bursts into singing because, well, the other things he might be doing aren't so great. Have we ever done “The Mopwater Song?” Maybe not. Here's how it goes.

The Mopwater Song

I never should have drunk that mopwater,

Never should, never should, mopwater.

Never should have tried that mopwater.

Mopwater, slopwater, sick as a horse.

Mopwater is low in calories,

But it's also low in taste.

It will fill your daily requirement

Of spider webs, dirt, and various wastes.

Never should have sampled yucky dirty mopwater,

Silly dog, stupid dog, mopwater.

A bellyache can come from drinking mopwater.

Belly trouble, tummy rumble, stomach upset.

If you're preparing to fight a gorilla,

Exercise caution and stay on your toes.

If somebody says mopwater will help you,

He's telling a lie, so punch him in the nose.

I never should have drunk that mopwater,

Never should, never should, mopwater.

Never should have tried that mopwater.

Mopwater, slopwater, sick as a horse.

Not bad, huh? I mean, for a song that I just threw together at the last moment, it was pretty derned good.

Well, I gathered my few remaining shreds of energy—boy, it was hot—and made the long trudge up the hill. There was Billy's pickup, just where I had left it.

Rufus spotted me right away. His pointed ears shot up and a wicked sneer worked its way across his toothy mouth.

“Well! Look who's coming back. How was the water, pal? I hope it was good, 'cause it may be the last drink you'll ever get.”

I felt the harsh glare of the afternoon sun as I dragged myself to the rear of the pickup. I caught a glimpse of Plato and Beulah. Their eyes showed the terror of what was about to happen. They knew, just as I knew, that I was about to march into a Battle of No Return.

It had to be done. I had talked my way into this deal and I couldn't back down. It was rotten luck that my supply of root stimulator had lasted just long enough to get me into a world of trouble, but that was life.

When you're Head of Ranch Security, you don't make excuses.

I jumped up into the pickup. The effort of getting there left me drained. The sun was burning me up, wilting me, sucking the energy out of my muscles and bones.

I lifted my head and looked Shark Face in the eyes. “Okay, Rufus, I guess it's time.”

His laugh sent shivers down my spine.