Bitter.

  And loss of body heat can be a serious problem for a dog in this climate, why, if we didn’t raise our hackles once in a while, the entire countryside would be littered with . . . well, frozen dogs.

  It’s that serious, so it should come as no big shock or surprise that I had my Thermal Hair Panels raised to collect the first warm rays of the sun.

  It would have been foolish of me NOT to have initiated the THP procedure. In cold weather, we just can’t run the risk of a total freezedown, and that’s why . . . I think we’ve covered the Thermal Hair Panels.

  Okay. There we were, Loper and I, together on the front porch, enjoying another glorious Pan­handle sunrise. He was lavish in his praise of my handling of the Coyote Crisis and congratulated me for running the scoundrels off the ranch.

  Then he informed me that I would have to handle all the ranch’s business that day because he had been “drafted,” to use his word, for . . . how did he put it? “Operation Honeydew,” which meant that he would spend the entire day helping Sally May get the house, yard, and so forth ready for the church choir’s Christmas party.

  “Honey, do this. Honey, do that.” Honeydew. Get it?

  No problem there. I mean, running the entire ranch was no big deal for me, and I assured him through wags and barks that everything would be just fine.

  I was about to leave when he said, “Hey, Killer, what’s this?”

  He seemed to be pointing a finger down at . . . hmmm, was that a small puddle of water? Yes, his finger seemed to be directed at a small puddle of water on the, uh, porch.

  Our eyes met. “Is that some of your work? It ain’t mine.”

  I, uh, gave my tail a slight wagging motion and . . .

  Okay, remember those Thermal Hair Panels? You won’t believe this but every so often, or actually more often than you’d think, they form tiny clouds of condensation, and under the right conditions, these tiny droplets of water will condense and fall to the earth—or to the porch—and actually form pools.

  Or puddles.

  Puddles consisting of natural mist and tiny droplets.

  And so what we had there was just a simple case of water condensation caused by the raised . . .

  It WASN’T what you think.

  Chapter Three: The Phantom Dog in the Mirror

  I left Loper to his “Operation Honeydew” business and got away from Sally May’s yard as quickly as I could. I mean, this might have been the Christmas season and all, but a guy didn’t want to take too many chances with her “peace and goodwill,” not where the yard was concerned.

  Now, it was okay for the cat to come and go as he pleased. He could lounge around the porch, sharpen his claws on the trees, rub on the legs of everyone who came out the door, and beg for scraps all day long. But let a dog set foot in the yard and suddenly the air was filled with sticks and rocks and harsh words.

  It sure wasn’t fair, and when I rounded the northwest corner of the yard and saw Pete up ahead, sitting in front of the machine shed, I decided to strike a blow for Fairness and Justice.

  He was parked there on the gravel drive in front of the big double doors, see, had his tail wrapped around his hindquarters and was staring at a bird perched on the tin roof. Oh, and the last two inches of his tail were moving back and forth, a sure sign that he was up to no good.

  No doubt he had it in his mind to capture and eat this bird, this poor innocent little sparrow. No doubt this poor innocent charming little songbird had planned for months and months to fly south with all her little birdy friends, but perhaps she had learned at the last minute that one of her little wings was damaged and wouldn’t carry her south with all the rest of her friends and relatives.

  And her family. In a tearful ceremony, she had said good-bye to her five lovely children . . . her husband of many years . . . her devoted father who now cried teaspoons of tears . . . her poor old grand­mother . . . the mother who had fed her worms and bugs and watched her grow into a beautiful charming lovely innocent little songbird.

  Oh, what a sad day that had been, as all the birds on the ranch had gathered for the long and dangerous journey to . . . wherever it is down south that birds go . . . South America, South Africa, South Texas, Abilene, somewhere down there . . . oh, what a sad day that had been!

  And now Pete was staring at that same bird with his cunning yellow eyes, his heartless cunning yellow eyes, and flicking that last two inches of tail.

  This touching scene almost broke my heart, and since Rip and Snort had almost broke my face only minutes before, it seemed only fair and right that I should, heh heh, strike a blow for Fairness, Motherhood, and Wildlife, and give the cat the kind of pounding he deserved.

  Because I never had much use for Pete in the first place. Have we discussed cats? I don’t like ’em, never have, for reasons too numerous to mention.

  So I went into Stealthy Crouch Mode and slipped up behind old Pete—he never saw it coming, never suspected a thing, tee hee—and I jumped right in the middle of him.

  HISS! REEEEEEER!

  Hee hee, ha ha, ho ho. He sprang into the air and turned wrongside-out . . . did manage to tag me in several spots with his claws, right on the end of my nose, in fact, which brought tears to my eyes, but they were tears of joy . . . I mean, a guy can’t expect to get free entertainment in this life.

  Yes, I did pay a small price, but hearing him hiss and yowl made every scratch worthwhile. And then I chased him up the nearest tree.

  That was fun too. Wouldn’t this be a sad old world if we couldn’t chase cats up a tree every once in a while?

  “Well, Pete, how’s the bird business today?”

  He looked down at me with his big cat eyes. “Mmmm, my goodness, I believe Hankie the Wonder Dog has just arrived.”

  “That’s correct, Kitty, here to protect our National Wildlife Heritage from the likes of you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, picking on poor innocent sparrows.”

  He gave me a sour smile. “As a matter of fact, Hankie, they were picking on me. They’ve been dive-bombing me all morning.”

  “I’m, tee hee, sorry to hear that, Pete. Maybe you should quit staring at them, as though you were thinking of eating them.”

  “Me? Why, I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.”

  “Of course you would. You want a nice tender little bird for breakfast, but you’re too fat and slow to catch one. Too bad, Pete, but don’t get discouraged. Just remember: You might be slow but you sure aren’t fast. Ho, ho, ho.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Somehow that doesn’t make sense, Hankie.”

  “That’s fine, because making sense with a cat isn’t something I worry about. In fact, talking with a cat, any cat, is a waste of my valuable time.”

  He gave me that weird cat smile of his—a smile that makes you think he knows a secret. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that, Hankie. Sometimes we cats see things that might be of interest to the Head of Ranch Security.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling. “I doubt that, Kitty.”

  “Mmmm, well, whatever you think, Hankie, but I can tell you that we cats are very observant.” He turned his big cat eyes on me and grinned. “We see things.”

  My ears jumped to their upright position. I guess I had taken them off Manual Lift-Up and switched them over to Automatic, and in that mode they react to even the smallest of protuberations.

  “What do you mean, you see things?”

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. I’m sure it would be a waste of your valuable time.”

  I noticed that he still wore that secret grin. He knew something, and I intended to find out what it was.

  “Pete, if you’ve seen something suspicious, I’d advise you to report it at once. And quit grinning at me. That gives me the creeps.”

  “Have you been to the machine shed this morning, Hankie?”

  “No, I haven’t been inside the machine shed for two days.”

  “Hmmm, then you don’t know about the Phantom in the Mirror, do you?”

  “No, I don’t, Kitty, nor do I have any . . . what Phantom and what mirror?”

  He took his sweet time getting around to business. Sitting up there in the fork of the tree, he licked his front paw, wrapped his tail around his haunches, and stared down at me.

  “I’m waiting, cat. You’re wasting my time.”

  “Patience, Hankie. What I’m going to tell you will be worth the wait.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Because . . .” He widened his eyes and dropped his voice to a whisper, “. . . because I saw a very strange thing this morning.”

  “Never mind the dramatics, Pete, get to the point.”

  “I saw a dog in the machine shed.”

  “Impossible. If we’d had a stray dog on this ranch, I would have been the first to know about it.”

  “That’s what I thought, Hankie, and that’s what made it so strange. Maybe you were asleep.”

  “Lies, Pete, nothing but lies. And for your infor­mation, I wasn’t asleep. I was out in front of the house, thrashing cannibals.”

  “Whatever you say, Hankie, but I saw a dog in the machine shed not thirty minutes ago.”

  My first instinct was to laugh at this wild story. In fact, I did laugh, but I noticed that Pete wasn’t laughing. “You’re serious about this, Pete. You’re telling me an outrageous story that I can’t possibly believe, but you’re not laughing. That bothers me.”

  “Yes, it bothered me too. And I wondered what he meant when he said . . . oh, you wouldn’t be interested.”

  I wasn’t laughing any more. “You’re exactly right, Kitty, I’m not interested, but if he said something, I want to know what it was. Now.”

  “He said . . . let’s see if I can remember how he put it . . . he said something about taking over the ranch.”

  “He said THAT?”

  “Um-hmmm, yes he did.”

  Suddenly I caught myself and realized that I had made a fundamental error. Just for a moment or two, I had allowed myself to get sucked into Pete’s story. How could I have been so stupid?

  ME, believe anything a cat said?

  Yes, I had made an error in judgment but I had caught it just in the nickering of time. I marched a few steps away, took five deep breaths of air, looked at the clouds, and talked the hair on my back into laying down where it belonged.

  Only then did I return to the cat and laugh in his face. “Nice try, Pete. I mean, that was a great story. No one can lie better than a cat. You’ve got a real talent there.”

  “Thank you, Hankie.”

  “But of course I don’t believe a word of it. You didn’t really think I would, did you? Why, that’s the craziest . . . where did you see this so-called stray dog? I mean, just for laughs, I’d like to know.”

  He stared at me with those big unblinking eyes. “Near the north wall of the machine shed, there is a mirror with a wooden frame around it, like a window but not a window. I could see him in the glass.”

  “Oh, I see. You looked in a mirror and saw a dog. It gets better and better, Pete. I’m just sorry I can’t stick around and hear the rest. Thanks for the entertainment and I hope you’re enjoying the tree.”

  And with that, I wheeled around and left the cat sitting in the rubble of his shabby little scheme.

  Chapter Four: I Ignore Pete’s Stupid Story

  I didn’t give Pete’s story another thought. The instant I walked away, it left my mind completely.

  Instantly.

  Totally.

  Absolutely.

  Without a trace or a memory.

  Just as though I’d never heard it.

  I mean, when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn to disregard the testimony of cats.

  Whereas your top-of-the-line, blue-ribbon cowdog will always tell the truth, never mind the consequences, your typical cat will go out of his way to tell a shabby distortion of the truth. I mean, they do it just for sport.

  Which is why I have never paid the slightest attention to anything Pete . . . but on the other hand, it was kind of a fascinating lie. It showed some imagination and . . .

  Phantom Dog, huh? Living in the mirror? I wondered where a dumb cat like Pete had . . . I mean, you wouldn’t expect a dumb cat to . . .

  But as far as giving Pete’s story a second thought—no way. I had work piled up and investigations to make, and then there was the matter of supervising Mister Never Sweat, my Assistant Head of Ranch Security, which would have been enough of a job in itself.

  No, I had plenty of things to . . . take over the ranch, huh? You know, there are some things I’ll tolerate in another dog, but when it comes to MY TERRITORY, I get real serious, real quick. I mean, the last dog who tried to take over my ranch . . .

  Anyways, I didn’t give it another thought. Within minutes I’d forgotten about it. It just went in one ear and out the other.

  No problem.

  I threw myself into a very busy schedule that would have exhausted three ordinary dogs. Hey, I was covered up with work! I barked at the mailman at 10:00, chased two cars and a pickup on the county road, rushed back to do a routine patrol of the corrals, and did some long-range observation of Loper as he struggled through Operation Honeydew.

  He and Sally May stayed very busy down there at the house, raking the yard, picking up limbs, putting up Christmas lights, sweeping, and cleaning. This party for the church choir was looking more and more like a big deal.

  At one point, around noon as I recall, I overheard Loper say to his wife, “Nobody’s worth all this trouble. This is the last party we’ll ever have.”

  But the important thing is that throughout the entire afternoon, I didn’t give one minute’s thought to Pete’s yarn.

  By five o’clock I was worn out and still had night patrol ahead of me. I trotted down to the gas tanks and found Drover curled up on my gunny­sack bed.

  Why can’t Drover sleep on his own gunnysack? I don’t know, but given a choice, he will always pick MINE.

  “Arise and sing, Half-Stepper, and make way for the night patrol. And get out of my bed.”

  “Murgle muff mirk.”

  “Out, scram, be gone.”

  It took some pretty severe growling to get his attention, but at last he staggered out of my bed and fell into his own. At that point I fluffed up my gunnysack, circled it three times, and collapsed.

  Oh, that felt good! I melted into its warm embrace, closed my eyes, and drifted off into . . . hmmmm. I couldn’t sleep. Heck, I was tired enough to sleep, but for some reason . . .

  I kept thinking about a stray dog in the machine shed. Yes, I knew that was ridiculous, but sometimes a guy gets a ridiculous thought in his head and he can’t get rid of it.

  So at last I gave up trying to sleep. I stood up, gave myself a good stretch, and decided . . . well, if I couldn’t sleep, then maybe I ought to check out the machine shed.

  For several days I had tried to work the machine shed into my busy schedule, and it had nothing to do with Pete’s wild, improbable, silly story about the so-called Phantom Dog. I wasn’t about to change my schedule, just to prove to myself that Pete was a chronic, habituating liar whose story I didn’t believe.

  In other words, Pete’s story had nothing to do with my going into the machine shed that afternoon. I’d had it on my schedule for days. Weeks, actually.

  A long, long time.

  Checking out the machine shed was just a routine matter.

  I did it all the time.

  And so it was perfectly natural, perfectly normal that at 5:07 I poked my head into the space between the two sliding doors and peered into the half-darkness of the machine shed.

  And I want the record to show that I didn’t even look towards the mirror. No sir, didn’t even think of looking at it. I had virtually forgotten Pete’s stupid story anyway, and I had other things on my mind, such as:

  A.

  B.

  C.

  D.

  Those were exactly the four items I had on my mind, and I’ll come back later and add the details, because, well, they’ve slipped my mind at the moment.

  But let the record show that I had four important things on my mind, not one of which in­volved checking out that mirror.

  Okay. I poked my head through the crack in the doors, ran a quick Nosatory Scan, and sent the info to Data Control. The report came back and showed traces of diesel fuel, livestock mineral blocks, ordinary barn dust, and mouse leavings.

  No major clues there, so I slipped through the doors and moved on silent paws across the cement floor. There, on that same cement floor, I came upon fresh evidence of cowboy activity: two welding leads, four stubs of welding rod, an empty pair of welding gloves, a welding hood, and several burn and splatter marks on the cement.

  Someone had been welding. That was simple enough, but how did I know that the welder had been a cowboy? Because he hadn’t put his equipment back where he’d found it. That was a dead giveaway. These cowboys around here are experts at getting out a bunch of tools and making a big mess, and then rushing off to something else.

  That’s a pretty poor way to run a ranch, if you ask me, but nobody ever does, so I’ll keep my opinions to myself.

  I picked my way through and around the de­bris, and continued my routine check of the machine shed. Everything appeared to be normal, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too normal and too quiet, almost as though . . .

  At that moment I noticed a large mirror located near the north wall. I don’t know what drew me over there to the gloomy shadow region of the shed, but suddenly I was grabbed by a feeling: Somebody or something was lurking inside that mirror, and he was watching me!

  If you’ve been in security work as long as I have, you learn to pay attention to such unsplickable feelings. You don’t have to understand them or know where they come from. You just listen to them, knowing in your deepest heart and mind that they have nothing to do with anything Pete the Barncat might have said.