The Secret Pledge. John R. Erickson

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. When Drover and I loaded up in Slim Chance’s pickup and headed out on our daily feed run, I expected it to be a normal day on the ranch—driving from pasture to pasture, feeding alfalfa hay to several bunches of ungrateful cows, checking windmills, doctoring twelve yearlings in the sick pen, feeding the horses…the usual stuff.

      Well, we did the usual stuff, but there was more and we’ll get to it in a minute. But first, let’s set the scene. It was in the fall, and what a great fall we’d had! Boy, you talk about delicious weather: cool nights and warm, still, golden afternoons without much wind. The flies were pretty bad, but we expect that in the fall. If a fly can’t deal out a certain amount misery on a pretty autumn day, he’d have no reason to get out of bed in the morning.

      Which brings up an interesting question: Where do the stupid flies go at night? Do they sleep? Do they have beds?

      And I’ll tell you another interesting question, this one about ants. They live in a dark hole in the ground. They have no lights, not even a candle, and they have no clocks. An ant hole is dark all the time, just as dark at noon as it is at midnight, yet at first light every morning, you see ants creeping around. How do they know when it’s time to go to work?

      For every interesting question, there’s bound to be an equally interesting answer, but on this occasion, I don’t have one.

      Now, where were we? Oh yes, flies. No, we finished our discussion about flies. We were talking about something more important, but I’m drawing a blank.

      You know, this is frustrating. A dog takes pride in commanding a tight ship, making lists, keeping priorities, and tending to the business of running his ranch, then something like this comes along and it takes the window out of his sails. What makes it twice as bad is that sails don’t even have windows, and at some point, you begin to wonder…

      Phooey. I’m sorry, I seem to be…wait. We were feeding cattle on the first day of November and met a very important Someone on the county road. Who? Be patient, we’re getting there.

      As I recall, we had loaded twenty bales of alfalfa hay in the back of the pickup. Actually, in the interest of fairness and honesty, I’ll admit that Slim had loaded the hay, but I had taken on the huge responsibility of supervising his work, which meant that every time he lifted a bale, I was standing by to pounce upon whatever form of vermin might be living beneath the bales.

      We’re talking about mice and field rats. They seem to think the hay stack belongs to them. Without anybody’s permission, they build subway tunnels and mouse-towns down there, and it’s my job to set ‘em straight on who owns the hay stacks on this outfit. ME.

      We have regulations. No building permit? Fine. No tunnel, no town, no mouse nests, and no secret stashes of turkey corn. (They steal some of the corn Sally May puts out for the wild turkeys). Every winter, I have to clear ‘em out and send ‘em packing. They never go far, of course, but sooner or later, they run out of hay bales under which to build and burrow, because we feed all the hay. At that point, I don’t know where they go, but they become somebody else’s problem.