The Case of the Perfect Dog. John R. Erickson

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The mystery began one day in August. Yes, it was August because oftentimes in August, the wind quits blowing and we have water problems on the ranch. See, when the wind quits blowing, the windmills don’t turn and the cattle run out of water in the stock tanks.

      When you’re operating a ranch in the Texas Panhandle, the one thing you can’t do in the summertime is run out of water. Cattle can live for weeks without feed, but let ‘em run out of water and they start dropping dead. That has never happened on this ranch, but only because…

      Actually, that water business came up later in the week, so forget that I brought it up. The day of which we are speaking began as most days begin—in the morning. All our days follow a regular schedule, don’t you see. We have morning, then afternoon, then evening, then night, and it doesn’t matter whether it is raining or Tuesday.

      On that particular morning, Little Alfred came out of the house around ten o’clock. The slamming of the screen door woke me up.

      Wait. Let’s rephrase that. I’m never in bed at that hour of the morning, so I couldn’t have been awakened by the slamming of the screen door. I was at my desk, doing paperwork and going over a stack of reports. As usual, I’d gotten about three hours of sleep. I mean, the work never ends on this ranch: night patrol, Monster Watch, Bark at the Mailman, coyote alerts, and taking care of the kids. We squeeze in a few hours of gunnysack time when we can.

      So, yes, I was at my desk, and heard the slamming of the screen door. Drover, my assistant, heard it too, and said, “Sniffle tricky turnip blooms on the back door piffle.”

      I looked up from the report I was reading. “Hardly ever murky snap foggy bottoms.”

      “Red suspenders?”

      “I agree, or donkey underpants in the green tomatoes.”

      We stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then Drover said, “Oh, hi. Did you just wake up?”

      “Absolutely not. I’ve been acroak for hours.” I glanced around. “Where are we?”

      “When?”

      “I’m not sure, right now, I guess.”

      “Well,” he yawned, “I’d say we’re still in bed.”

      “Rubbish. It’s almost noon.” I leaped to my feet and took a step…and fell on my face. “Where did I put my legs last night?”

      “Well, I think you’re still wearing them.”

      “In that case, they’re not working properly. Have you been tampering with my legs?”

      “I think you’re still asleep. Try ‘em again.”

      “Please don’t tell me what to do.” I rose to my feet and took several steps. “Okay, they’re working now.”

      “See? You were asleep.”

      “I was not asleep.” I narrowed my eyes and studied the dog to whom I was speaking. “Wait a second, who are you?”

      “I’m Drover, remember me?”

      “Oh yes, it’s coming back to me now. We used to work together, right?”

      “Still do.”