The Case of the Black-Hooded Hangmans. John R. Erickson
did we get on the subject of cornbread? I thought we were discussing raccoons.
Hmmmm. Very strange.
I mean, once I get locked in on a subject matter, I’m like a heat-seeking guided mistletoe. I go straight to the target and virtually destroy it in a blaze of wit and logic and so forth, and very seldom do I get distracted from my primary mission.
Your ordinary run of mutts have a hard time finishing a sentence or completing a thought. Too many distractions. Drover is a perfect example. His mind is always wandering: to the clouds, to a butterfly, to a flea crawling around on his . . .
You won’t believe this, but at this very moment, I mean, even as we speak, a flea is crawling around on my . . . tee hee . . . crawling up my left hind leg. It tickles. I mean, it REALLY tickles, and if it weren’t for Iron Discipline, I would probably . . .
Hee hee, ha ha, ho ho!
We’re talking about Serious Tickles here, fellers, and I may have to break off in a minute and go to Countermeasures. I’d rather not because I want to finish the business about the cornbread, and once I’ve opened up a subject for discussion, I hate to . . .
Ho! Hee! Ha!
This is tough, but let me try to mush on. See, I gobbled down the cornbread and I can’t stand this anymore. I’ve got to do something about that stupid flea.
Hang on.
I’ll be right back.
Chew chew chew!
Gnaw gnaw gnaw!
Bite bite bite!
Chew gnaw bite!
Gnaw bite chew!
Chew bite gnaw!
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Say good-bye to the flea, for he hath gone to the place where fleas go when they have messed around with the wrong dog.
I hate fleas. Fleas and flies. They’re worthless and they drive me nuts.
What Good Is a Flea or a Fly?
What good is a flea or a fly?
What good is a fly or a flea?
If you flick at a fly, it will try to flee,
If you flick at a flea, it will try to fly,
But won’t.
See, a fly can flee, ’cause a fly can fly,
’Cause a fly has wings and that is why
A fly can flee as well as fly,
But a flea can only try to fly.
Whatever.
A flea can hop or hope to fly,
A fly can fly or hope to hop,
But neither can do them both at once,
And I can’t tell you why.
Don’t you see?
If a fly can fly and a flea can flee,
You’d think that a flea could fly.
Well, maybe it can, I’m getting confused,
And who really cares? Not me.
Good-bye.
Pretty good, huh? I get a kick out of messing around with words and poetry and stuff, and you’ll be proud to know that I got rid of the flea, which brings us back to the important subject we were . . .
What were we discussing? Huh. It just vanished. Had it right on the tip of my tongue, so to speak, but then . . .
The sunset? Maybe that was it. We had a pretty sunset that evening. We have one every evening but some are prettier than others. This one had lots of pink and orange in it, but that’s not what we were talking about.
Hang on, I’ll get it here in a second.
I hate it when this happens.
Okay, I’ve got it now. Cornbread. Drover and I raced for the cornbread and I won, little suspecting that it would come very near to choking me to death. I coughed and harked and wheezed, and finally managed to . . .
Eddy the Rac. Forget the stupid cornbread, also the fleas and flies. I don’t know how you got me talking about those things anyway. Somehow you managed to distract me and I wish you wouldn’t do that.
It makes me look silly, and nothing could be further from the truth. I’m not silly at all. I’m a very serious dog. That’s why you rarely see me smiling, because I rarely smile, because life is very serious.
And if life is very serious, what’s left to smile about? Not much. You think about that whilst I try to get organized.
Coming up: Eddy the Rac. Never mind the cornbread.
Chapter Two: Caution: Toxic Sawdust Cornbread
Okay, here we go.
It was a warm, lazy evening in August. Drover and I were down at the gas tanks, lounging on our gunnysack beds and more or less killing time.
Hold on. It was a cold brittle evening in February. Now we’re cooking.
Lounging and killing time aren’t things I do very often. Drover does it all the time because . . . well, he’s a fairly boring personality and more than slightly inclined to be lazy.
Anyways, for a brief span of time, I found myself killing time. Or to put it another way, I was catching a few moments of rest before darkness fell and I had to go back out on Night Patrol.
Drover had his ears folded back and was looking up at the clouds. I know it was foolish of me, but on a sudden impulse, I said, “A penny for your thoughts, Drover.”
“Oh, it’s fine. How’s yours?”
“Pretty good. It’s been better but it’s been worse.” There was a moment of silence. “What are we talking about?”
He gave me his usual blank stare. “Your appendix.”
“My appendix? Why would you ask about my appendix?”
“I don’t know. You asked about mine and I thought I’d be nice and ask about yours, and I did and you said yours was pretty good. I’m glad it’s better.”
“Thanks. Yes, it’s much better.” There was another moment of silence. “When did I ask about your appendix?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometime.”
“Be more specific please. Yesterday? Today? Tomorrow?”
He twisted his mouth around and scowled. “Well, it wasn’t tomorrow. And I don’t think it was yesterday. Maybe it was today.”
“All right, now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s see if we can narrow it down a little more. What time today?”
“Well, let’s see. I don’t remember.”
“Drover!”
“Let me think. Okay, I think I’ve got it now. It was just a little while ago.”
“You mean this evening, just now?”
“Yep, I’m almost sure it was.”
I shook my head. “Drover, what I said was, a penny for your thoughts.”
“I’ll be derned. I thought you asked about my appendix.”
“No. I did not ask about your appendix.”