The Quest fort the Great White Quail. John R. Erickson

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Some dogs get into trouble for compulsive behavior, did you know that?

      The most common example comes from your bird-dog breeds. Bird dogs are famous for being . . . strange, let us say. One day they’re living the good life with everything a dog could want, and the next day . . . poof, they’re gone, off chasing a bird or who-knows-what. They’re experts at getting lost and total dunces at finding their way back home, and that’s only one of a hundred reasons why I’ve never had any use for bird dogs, especially Plato. More on him later.

      But even some of your non-bird-dog breeds get involved in compulsive behavior—chewing, for example. They see an object lying on the ground and some little voice in their mind says, “I’ve got to chew it!” If the object being chewed happens to be a stick or a bone, it seldom causes major problems, because . . . well, who cares about a stick or a bone? Nobody.

      But these compulsions have a way of getting out of hand. Remember the wise old saying? Hmmm. I thought I remembered it, but all of a sudden . . . okay, let’s skip the wise old saying. We don’t need it anyway.

      The point is that compulsive chewing is a bad habit that scores no points with our human friends. Our people don’t like it when their worldly possessions get mauled by the family dog.

      I knew that. What I didn’t know, what I never would have dreamed, was that Drover had a chewing problem. It came to my attention on the morning of . . . I don’t remember the day or the month, but it was some time in the warm months of the year.

      I had been up most of the night, checking out a few Monster Reports and talking trash with the local coyotes. It’s a little game we play. They come up to the edge of ranch headquarters and howl such things as, “Okay, man, we’re going to raid your chicken house and steal all your chickens, and then we’re gonna beat you up so bad, your own mother won’t know your face!”

      And I bark back a witty reply, such as, “Oh yeah? The last bum who tried that spent six weeks in Intensive Care. You want a piece of that, huh? You want a trip to the emergency room? Well, bring it on!”

      That’s pretty impressive, isn’t it? You bet. Those guys don’t get away with much on my outfit. The good news is that coyotes very seldom venture into ranch headquarters, so a dog is pretty safe mouthing off to them. Heh heh. It’s fun, one of the little pleasures that make this job worthwhile.

      Where were we? Oh yes, Drover. I had been up most of the night, patrolling ranch headquarters and whipping the daylights out of coyotes, and around eight o’clock in the morning I returned to my office in the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex. Strolling into the office, I saw that my desk was piled high with reports, top secret files, satellite photos, and the latest briefing papers on enemy agents operating in my territory.

      I was sifting through the stack of material, when I happened to glance to my right and saw Drover. He was sitting on his gunnysack bed, chewing something and making unpleasant noises with his mouth and teeth. I looked closer and saw that he was chewing a plastic truck.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Fine, thanks, how about yourself?”

      “You’re chewing a truck, did you know that?”

      He gave me a silly grin. “Oh yeah, but it’s not a real truck.”

      “I know it’s not a real truck.”

      “It’s just a toy.”

      “I’m aware that it’s just a toy. I’m also aware that it belongs to Little Alfred. In other words, you’re chewing up one of his toys.”

      “No, I found it outside the yard. Alfred keeps his toys inside the yard, so it can’t be his.”

      I marched over to him and gave him a stern glare. “Drover, have you lost your mind? Any toy truck you find on this ranch belongs to Little Alfred. Do you know why?”

      He rolled his eyes around. “Well, let me think . . .”

      “First, Slim and Loper drive real trucks and don’t need cheap plastic imitations. Second, Sally May doesn’t play with toys. And third, Baby Molly is a girl and doesn’t care about trucks. Who or whom does that leave?”

      “Well, let me think.” He furrowed his brow. “Pete?”

      I let out a groan. “Drover, Pete is a cat.”

      “Yeah, but he plays with things.”

      “He plays with his tail. Cats aren’t smart enough to play with toys. Who’s left?”