The Case of the Tricky Trap. John R. Erickson

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The mystery began on a cold gloomy day in February, as I recall. March. No, it was February, because February begins with an f and ends in a y, and has twenty-three letters in between.

      So, yes, it was a warm day in March. Drover and I had brought the ranch through another dark and dangerous night, had caught a few winks of sleep on our gunnysack beds, and had ventured out to do a routine patrol of ranch headquarters.

      We were down by the corrals when I noticed several sprigs of winter grass that had popped out beneath the bottom board of the corral fence. Maybe you think that a few sprigs of greenery should be no big deal, but it was. On our ranch, the first appearance of green grass is always a welcome sign, an omen that the dull brown grip of winter will soon fade into the soft days of spring.

      I paused and sniffed the grass. Drover noticed, and seemed surprised. “What are you doing?”

      “I’m stopping to smell the roses.”

      “Yeah, but it’s just grass.”

      “Drover, today we have grass and tomorrow we’ll have roses. This is the first green grass of the year and spring is on its way.” He gave me a blank stare. “What’s wrong with you? For three long months our world has been drab and brown, and here is a little splash of color. I’d think you’d be excited.”

      “Yeah, but I’m not.”

      I turned away from him and sniffed the greenery. “Who cares? I love the smell of this stuff. I mean, all winter we’ve lived with the smell of dust and dead leaves, but now . . .” I filled my lungs with the fragrance. “This is delicious! Wonderful! It smells almost good enough to eat.”

      I sniffed the grass again and all at once . . . well, the notion of eating some grass sounded pretty appealing, and you know what? Right then and there I nipped off the tender shoots of grass and swallowed them down.

      Drover’s eyes grew wide. “You ate grass?”

      “Of course I did. For your information, it’s not uncommon for dogs to eat grass, and do you know why?”

      He shook his head. “I can’t imagine.”

      “Then let me explain.” I began pacing back and forth in front of him, as I often do when I’m forced to expand his tiny mind. “Number one, green grass cleans our teeth and freshens our breath. Number two, it’s good for the digestion. Number three, after eating Co-op dog food all winter, we need some salad in our diet.”

      He stared at me. “Salad! I hate salad. It’s for rabbits.”

      “Drover, what’s good for rabbits is sometimes good for dogs. For your information, green grass contains many of the fillomens and mackerels that build healthy bones, hair, and muscle.”

      “You mean vitamins and minerals?”

      “That’s what I said.”

      “No, I think you said something about mackerels.”

      I stopped pacing. “Drover, I said nothing about mackerels. Mackerels are fish. Fish live in water and they don’t eat grass.”

      “Yeah, but . . .”

      “I’m trying to give you a lesson on diet and nutrition. I’d appreciate it if you’d pay attention and stop talking about fish.” I resumed my pacing. “Now, where was I?”

      “Fillomens and mackerels.”

      “Yes, of course. It’s common knowledge that Co-op dog food is made of sawdust and grease. Our people buy it because it’s cheap, but it contains just the bare minimum of fillomens and mackerels to keep a dog alive. That’s why we need salad in our diet from time to time.”

      “Yeah, but . . . eating grass?”

      “Drover, there’s more to this life than steak bones and meat. Doesn’t your body ever cry out for something green and nourishing?”

      He gave me a silly grin. “Nope. My body cries out for ice cream.”

      “Ice cream! No wonder you’ve turned out to be such a runt. Well, go ahead and be a stub-tailed, malnourished, half-starved little husk of a dog. I don’t care. I’m going to eat my vegetables and then we’ll see who’s sorry.”

      “Fine with me.”

      Why do I bother trying to help Drover? I don’t know. Experience has proven that it’s a waste of time, but for some reason . . . oh well.

      I had wasted my lecture on him, but that wasn’t going to keep me from attending to my own dietary needs. The still, small voice inside my body had informed me that, after a long drab winter, I needed greenery in my diet. So I left Drover to dream of ice cream and proceeded to harvest every tender sprig of green grass I could find.

      If he couldn’t learn anything from my lectures, then maybe he could learn from the force of my example. That’s the best way of teaching anyway, through example.