The Case of the Fiddle-Playing Fox. John R. Erickson

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. You’re probably wondering what I was doing in bed at 8 o’clock on the morning of whatever day it is about which I’m fixing to speak.

      It was in September, seems to me. Hot, still days, nights with just a hint of autumn chill. Kind of a lonesome time of year in these parts.

      Yes, it was in September that I first heard about the Mysterious Fiddle Music in the night. Little did I know that very soon our henhouse would be attacked by a devious, sneaking, outlaw rogue, or that I myself would become a suspect in the case, or that I would soon cross paths with the One Love of My Life, the incomparable, incredible Miss Beulah the collie.

      But I’ll get to that in a minute. I had mentioned something about sleeping late.

      Ordinarily I take great pride in being the first one up on the ranch, don’t you know. For one thing, I like to get a head start on everybody else. For another, I’ve never had complete confidence that the sun would come up without me there to supervise.

      You want to know why I don’t trust the sun? Simple logic.

      The sun is round, right? A ball. If you’ve ever observed a sunrise, you’ve noticed that the sun is moving from the bottom of the sky to the top of the sky. In other words, this ball which we call the sun is rolling uphill.

      It ain’t natural for a ball, any ball, to roll uphill. In fact, it’s impossible. Balls do not roll uphill unless, of course, they’re urged along by an extraordinary outside force.

      Now, I wouldn’t want to come right out and say that I happen to be that extraordinary outside force which barks the sun up into the sky every day of the world and prevents total blackness from enveloping the globe.

      On the other hand, I can’t name anybody else on this outfit who does it, and if cold hard logic singles me out as the Bringer of Light and the Creator of Days . . .

      A guy hates to toot his own horn, so to speak, but if you want to say that I’m the one who causes the sun to rise every day, I guess that’s okay with me.

      Where was I? Oh yes. After saying what I just said about me never EVER sleeping late, I’m going to give you a little shock by revealing that on a certain morning in September . . .

      It was very warm, see, and sometimes on warm lazy mornings even I am tempted by the weaknesses of the flesh. When flesh gets warm, it develops a certain craving for things that are soft and even warmer, such as warm gunnysack beds.

      And I can’t always control my own flesh.

      Oh, I know all the smart remarks you can make about late sleepers. “Studies show that more dogs die in bed than on streets and highways.” Ho, ho. And, “What are you doing, trying to homestead that gunnysack?” Ha, ha. And, “Have you put down any roots in that bed?” Hee, hee.

      Very funny. I slept late that morning and I don’t care what anybody says about it and I don’t feel guilty about it either. So there you are. You’ve got to be tough in this business.

      Well, when I realized what I had . . . what my flesh had done, that is, I jumped up from my gunnysack, threw an arch in my back, took a big stretch, opened my mouth to its fully extended position, threw a curl into my tongue, and yawned.

      I don’t know that I had ever experienced a better yawn in my whole career. Wonderful. I love to yawn.