Slim's Goodbye. John R. Erickson

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Who would have ever thought that Slim would quit his job on the ranch and leave? Not me.

      Pretty sad, huh? I mean, Slim and I were special pals. We’d spent years working together on the ranch. I never would have dreamed . . .

      But I’m getting ahead of myself. Where were we? Oh yes, the beginning of the day. Morning. It appeared to be a normal morning in December—cloudy, cold, gray, wind blowing out of the north. Drover and I were sleeping late that morning, when all at once my ears shot up and I was awakened by the sound of a door slamming up at the house.

      Do you realize what this meant? Maybe not, if you’re not a dog.

      Scrap Time!

      If you’re a dog, very few moments in the history of this world have more meaning or importance than Scrap Time. It gives purpose and direction to our lives, fills them with meaning and hope. And so it was that, upon hearing the slamming of the screen door, I came roaring out of deep sleep, leaped out of my gunnysack bed, cranked open the outer doors of my eyes, and shouted the news to Drover.

      “Hurry, Drover, it’s tinted feathers, and they all weigh a ton!”

      By that time he had joined me in an upright position. “Who? What? How many?”

      “I don’t know, Drover, I didn’t have time to count them, but two thousand feathers weigh a ton.” We stared at each other. “What did I just say?”

      “I don’t know. Something about . . . feathers. I think that’s what you said.”

      “I did not say anything about feathers.”

      “Oh, okay. Maybe it was me.”

      “Of course it was you, and I must warn you not to talk about feathers.”

      He yawned. “How come?”

      “Don’t yawn while I’m speaking to you.”

      “Sorry. I just woke up.”

      “It gives the impression that you’re bored.”

      “Not me. I just woke up.”

      “You already said that.”

      “Oh. Sorry. I’m liable to say anything. I just woke up.”

      I glared at the runt. “That makes three times you’ve said that.”

      “I’ll be derned. I must have been asleep.”

      “Of course you were. If you just woke up, it follows from simple logic that . . . something woke us up, Drover, something very important. What was it?”

      “Well, I heard a bunch of feathers.”

      “Feathers? How can you hear feathers?”

      “Well . . . I don’t know. I can’t hear ’em now.”

      “There were no feathers, Drover, except the ones where your brains ought to be.”

      “Maybe that was it, ’cause I’m almost sure I heard ’em.”

      “You did not hear them.”

      “That’s what I meant. I didn’t hear any feathers, and maybe that’s what woke us up.”

      “Hmmm. Could be, although . . . wait, I’ve got it now. I had just heard the screen door slam up at the house. Do you realize what this means?”

      “Well, let’s see. Someone came out of the house?”

      “Right. Keep going.”

      “Someone came out of the house through the door?”

      “Good. Excellent. Keep going. Put your clues together. What do they add up to?”

      “Let’s see here. Five?”

      “No.”

      “Ten?”

      “We’re not looking for a number.”

      “Oh. I thought you wanted me to add up all my clues.”

      “No, I wanted you to follow your clues and tell me why someone came out of the house.”

      “Okay, I’ll get it this time.” He rolled his eyes and twisted his mouth around. I could see that the effort of concentrating was taking its toll on him. “Twelve?”

      The air hissed out of my body. I walked a few steps away and tried to clear my head. I’ve always tried to help Drover, to bring him along and teach him the Security Business, but sometimes I’m not sure he can be helped. I returned to the spot where he was sitting. He gave me his usual silly grin and began wig-wagging that stump tail of his.

      “Drover, let’s go back to the beginning. Review your list of clues. Don’t count them. Review them, and follow them to a logical conclusion.”

      “Well, let’s see here. Clues. Door. House.”