You know, they’re always complaining about how hard it is to make a living in the ranching business, battling drought and blizzards and the cattle market, but oh how different things might be if they stopped pulling childish pranks on their dogs and DID A DAY’S WORK.

  It’s shocking, all the things I have to put up with around here, and we’re talking about every day. They think they’re so funny, but they’re not. They’re nothing but a couple of goof-offs, in the same class as the mailman, only twice as bad, and I refuse to say one more word about it.

  Don’t beg, I’m not going to talk about it.

  Oh well, you’ve probably figured it out anyway. We might as well get it over with.

  Those “tourists from Dallas” turned out to be my so-called friends, Slim and Loper, the so-called cowboys on this ranch. They’d spent the morning planting wheat, which is one of the routine chores on this ranch in the fall. They plant wheat in the ground, in hopes that it will sprout wheat plants and make winter pasture for the cattle.

  That’s why they weren’t wearing their cowboy clothes. When they do the farming (which they don’t enjoy), they wear regular work clothes, and any dog would have missed that clue.

  Hey, when they wear different clothes, how are we supposed to know who they are? And why were they creeping along in the pickup? Your top of the line cowdogs notice every tony dovetail…every tiny detail, I mean, and when we see a vehicle that creeps along, we naturally assume that the people inside are creeps.

  It’s simple, mathematical, and scientific. Creeping = Creeps = barn robbers. I can’t make it any plainer than that. The fact that it turned out to be wrong doesn’t mean it wasn’t scientific.

  It really burns me up when they hatch these pranks and make a mockery of my work, and one of these days...phooey.

  Chapter Three: The Whistling Rooster Blues

  Well, they had their little fun, making me look silly, and oh how they enjoyed it! They roared with laughter, doubled over, and slapped their thighs. Slim even slapped his hand on the hood of the pickup. And of course I had to endure their smart remarks.

  Loper: “Did we fool you, Hankie?”

  No.

  Slim: “Thanks for holding your fire, pooch.”

  Was that supposed to be funny? Pathetic.

  They climbed back into the pickup and drove on to the machine shed. I was kind of disappointed they didn’t offer me a ride in the cab. That would have given me the opportunity to turn them down and give them my Snub of the Year: “Me, ride in the same vehicle with a couple of clowns? No thanks, I have a reputation to protect. I’ll walk, and enjoy every second of it.”

  I didn’t get the chance to blow them away with a cutting refusal to be seen riding around with them, but I did manage to salvage one little piece of revenge. I didn’t give them Escort to the barn.

  See, under Normal Ranch Protocol, dogs take the lead position and do Escort for every vehicle that enters ranch headquarters. We clear out the chickens and cats, and lead the vehicle to an Authorized Parking Space. It’s part of the Security Division’s Regular Service Package, and THEY DIDN’T GET IT.

  I walked to the barn by myself, took my sweet time, and made no effort to contribute to their safety or comfort. They had to find their own way and their own parking space. So there!

  By the time I got there…did I mention that I took my sweet time? I did, and we’re talking about making a big deal out of how much I didn’t give a rip about them or anything they were doing. I just didn’t care.

  By the time I reached the barn, they had backed up to the big sliding doors and were loading fifty-pound sacks of something into the bed of the pickup. What was that stuff? Oh yes, seed wheat. Wheat seed. In the field, they would pour the seed into a metal bin on the “Dempster drill,” the piece of equipment they used for planting wheat.

  See, when you plant wheat, you put wheat seed into the bin. If you put oat seed into the bin, you would be planting…maybe this is obvious, but what’s not so obvious is why they called that piece of equipment a “drill.”

  Why would they call it a drill? I had no idea. A drill turns in circles and makes a hole.

  Nobody on this outfit wants to hear what the dogs think, but I have an opinion on this. A device that plants wheat should be called a “planter.” No dog would call it a drill, but they called it a drill anyway, and didn’t care what I thought about it.

  I don’t mean to rave, but it gives you an idea of what we have to put up with on this outfit.

  Anyway, they were loading sacks of wheat seed into the back of the pickup. I didn’t offer to help and had to sit there, listening to them blow like the wind.

  Slim: “I’m sure glad Uncle Bert ain’t around to see me today.”

  Loper: “Who’s Uncle Bert?”

  “Well, he was a cowboy. He worked on ranches between Seminole and Roswell. He made his living with a horse and a rope.”

  “Here we go again.” Loper sighed.

  Slim kept on, “Back in the old days, when a man hired onto a ranch as a cowboy, he spent his days ahorseback.”

  “This fall weather sure has been nice.”

  “No ranch boss would have stuck a top hand on a flea-bag diesel tractor, driving around in circles from daylight to dark. It would have started a cowboy rebellion.”

  “Sally May’s birthday is coming up next week.”

  Slim pitched his sack into the pickup. “Your hearing aid needs a new battery.”

  “I save it for things that are worth hearing.”

  “Well, you need to hear this. Our horses haven’t been rode in so long, they don’t even remember our names. If you ever show up in the saddle lot again, old Dunny might think you’re Jesse James.”

  Loper walked back into the barn. “La la la la.”

  Slim followed. “And he might bite your nose off. It would improve your looks, but it’s sad when the world falls into such a sorry state.”

  “La la la la.”

  “And by the way, that tractor I’m driving puts out a constant spray of diesel fuel.”

  They emerged from the barn, each lugging a sack of seed. Loper said, “Maybe it’s got a leak in the fuel line.”

  “Well, of course it’s got a leak! When I get home at night, I smell like I was baptized in diesel. Even the skunks run when they see me coming.”

  “Maybe you ought to take a bath once in a while.”

  “Loper, I’m scared to run the hot water heater, ‘cause the pilot light might set off the diesel fumes and blow me up.”

  Loper chuckled, shook his head, and looked up at the sky. “Here’s an idea. We’ll sell the horses and auction off the saddles and use the money to buy you a new tractor. Then you can drive it around the ranch, twelve months out of the year, and maybe you’ll quit whining.”

  Slim stared at him. “Loper, you ain’t funny.”

  “We’ll fix the fuel leak when we get the wheat in the ground.”

  They went back into the barn for more sacks, and they were still growling at each other. To be honest, I was finding their conversation a little tiresome. I mean, they go on like this all the time and nothing ever changes.

  Next week, the tractor would still be leaking fuel and they would still be arguing about it. I know these guys.

  I took a big stretch and yawn, and started back to the office. I’d been up for hours, doing Traffic and Patrols, and a short nap might fit right into my plans. But then I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye, and it caused me to make a sudden turn to the left.

  I saw someone in the distance and didn’t want to get trapped into a conversation with him. Can you guess who it might have been? Here are a few hints: he walked upright on two legs, wore feathers, and whistled his words when he talked, which was most of the time.

  J.T. Cluck, the Head Rooster.

  I ducked my head and hurried away, hoping he wouldn’t see me, but of course he did.

  “Hey, pooch, hold up! We need to talk.” Groan. I stopped and here he came. “Where do you think you’re going in such an all-fired rush?”

  “I have a ranch to run. I’m a very busy dog.”

  “Well, too bad. We’ve got things to talk about.”

  I heaved a sigh. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

  He glanced over both shoulders and leaned toward me. “Pooch, we’ve got problems in the chicken house.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes sir, but I don’t want it blabbed all over the ranch.”

  “I don’t blab. What’s the problem?”

  “You ever had mites?”

  “Never heard of ‘em. What are mites?”

  “Little bitty bugs. Chickens get ‘em and they cause a terrible itch. Elsa thinks one of our hens has mites, ‘cause she scratches all the time.”

  “Tell her to quit scratching.”

  “You ever tried to tell a woman to quit scratching?”

  “No.”

  “Well sir, I tried to talk to her about it and it turned into a wreck. She cried for thirty minutes. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and then she went right on scratching.”

  “Then let her scratch.”

  “It ain’t that simple. She scratches all night long, is the problem. She scratches in her sleep and wakes up everybody else. I’m living in a henhouse with nineteen women who can’t sleep, and one who sleeps but can’t quit scratching. Pooch, this is becoming a crisis.”

  I shouldn’t have laughed, but what can you do? I laughed. “J.T., I don’t mean to sound cruel…”

  “Then quit laughing!”

  “…but this is your problem, not mine.”

  I tried to leave but he followed me. “Listen, dog, what happens if word leaks out that we’ve got bugs in the chicken house? It would cause a scandal, is what it would do.”

  I stopped and studied him for a moment. “J.T., there’s something I’m curious about.”

  “Well, good. Maybe there’s still hope for you.”

  “J.T., when you talk, you whistle your words.”

  He flinched. “That’s right, mister. Are you making fun?”

  “No, I’m just curious. See, I’ve known quite a few chickens in my time and you’re the only one who talks with a whistle. What’s the deal?”

  He was silent for a long time, gazing off into the distance. “I’ll tell you the whole story, pooch, but you can’t be blabbing it around.”

  “I told you, I don’t blab.”

  “Good, ‘cause it’s kind of mysterious how it all come about. I put the whole story into a song.”

  “A song? You wrote a song?”

  “That’s right. You want to hear it or not?”

  “Actually…”

  “Good. Here goes.”

  Well, I had walked into this mess and it appeared that I would have to listen to it.

  The Whistling Rooster Blues

  One day when I was younger, me and ma was on a walk.

  She said, “J.T.,you’re almost grown and we need to have a talk.”

  I said, “Okay, I’m ready to listen to whatever is on your mind.”

  She said, “The world is big and wide, my boy, and here is what you’ll find…

  “Son, I want to break this to you easy. In this life, you can squawk or cluck, but you’ll never be able to whistle.”

  I must admit that I was shocked. I had never given a thought

  To whether I could whistle or whether I could not.

  It made me kind of curious, I wondered what she meant.

  “Who says that I can’t whistle? Is it wrote down in cement?”

  She said, “Anyone who whistles, whistles through his teeth. And son, you ain’t got any. You’re a chicken, a rooster.”

  Well, maybe I was a rebel and had a chip on my shoulder,

  ‘Cause what she said just made me mad and I began feeling bolder.

  I was determined to prove her wrong and took off like a missile.

  For forty days and forty nights, I worked on my whistle.

  Well, I graduated from Music School and whistled her a tune,

  She was just astounded, I mean, it knocked her to the moon.

  She said, “How did you do that? It strains my disbelief.

  There’s no way that a rooster can whistle without teeth!”

  I said, “Hey Ma, did you notice that I even whistle when I talk?” She said, “Yes, I did, and you sound ignert!” Huh. Didn’t expect that.

  I’ve got the Whistling Rooster Blues, the Whistling Rooster Blues.

  Sometimes what you wish for you wish that you could lose.

  Now I’ve got a genuine handicap and whistle on every word,

  And my very own momma thinks I sound absurd.

  And that’s how I become the world’s first whistling rooster. Got them Whistling Rooster Blues.

  He finished the song and stared down his beak at me. “Well, there it is, that’s the whole story and it’s true, every word of it. What do you think?”

  “It’s not a bad little song.”

  “It’s a great song, best I ever wrote.”

  “And I agree with your mother.”

  “Huh? What do you mean by that?”

  “When you whistle your words, you sound ridiculous. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ranch to run.”

  I walked away and left him to bore himself.

  Chapter Four: Elsa’s Frightening Report

  Where were we? Oh yes, I had just endured a painful musical experience, listening to a rooster croak a silly song about his whistling handicap, and I turned to leave.

  J.T. called out, “Hey, what about the bugs?”

  “I don’t care about your bugs or your scandals.”

  Again, he stepped into my path, his weird red eyes blazing. “All right, Mister Hot Shot Guard Dog, then let’s get down to another problem, and this one’s really serious.”

  “I’ll give you two minutes.”

  He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Last night, that old hen was scratching like crazy and Elsa couldn’t sleep. She went out for a walk.”

  “Hurry up.”

  “I’m a-getting there, just hold your horses. Elsa went for a little stroll in the moonlight, see, and suddenly and all at once, she seen…” He had my attention and I waited to hear the rest of his report, but what came out was a ridiculous little chicken burp. “That dad-ratted heartburn’s got me again!”

  My spirits sank. “Oh brother! Is this going to turn into another of your heartburn stories?”

  “Well, no, but I ate a squash bug this morning and now he’s tearing me up.” He squeezed out another ridiculous burp. “You know, squash bugs look pretty appetizing at first, but what a guy forgets is that they release that smell. You ever smelled a squash bug?”

  “Do I look dumb enough to go around smelling bugs?”

  “Pooch, we do it all the time.”

  “Exactly my point. Hurry up.”

  “Well, when you get squash bugs stirred up, they release this smell, and it’s kind of sickly sweet. When the bug gets down to your gizzard, the sweet is gone and what’s left is the sickly. It’ll give you the darndest heartburn you ever saw.”

  I moved closer and exposed two rows of fangs. “J.T., try to concentrate.”

  “That’s what I’m a-doing.”

  “No more heartburn stories. Did Elsa see something in the dark or not?”

  “She sure did, but how’d you know?”

  “You were fixing to tell me about it when you got overwhelmed by your heartburn.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s a-coming back to me now. I’ll finish the story, if you’ll quit butting into my business.”

  “Hurry up. Two minutes and I’m gone.”

  He hiked up one leg and a tucked it under his wing. Roosters stand that way sometimes, I don’t know why. Maybe it helped him focus his tiny mind.

  “Elsa was out walking, don’t you know, and all at once, she seen some kind of…” His voice dropped into a whispered horse…into a hoarse whisper, that is, and he said, “She seen some kind of strange creature in the dark!”

  A strange creature in the dark. He had my full attention now. “J.T., before we go any farther, I must know if you’ve discussed this matter with the local cat.”

  “The local what?”

  “Cat. His name’s Pete, otherwise known as Mister Never Sweat. He stays in the yard.”

  “Oh, him. No, I don’t talk to cats. You can’t trust ‘em, ‘cause you never know what’s going on behind them eyes. They’ve got weird eyes.”

  “I agree. Go on with your story and get straight to the point. What kind of strange creature did Elsa see? I need facts and details.”

  I detected a hint of fear in his eyes. “Pooch, Elsa had never seen anything like this in all her put-together years.”

  “Description.”

  “Huh?”

  “I need some kind of description.”

  “Oh.” His gaze lifted to the sky. “Cranes are flying south.”

  “You mean it was a bird?”

  “Yes, they’re birds, long skinny legs and a long beak. They eat fish.”

  “Elsa saw a bird eating fish in the middle of the night?”

  His eyes drifted down to me. “What are you talking about?”

  “What are YOU talking about?”

  “I said the cranes are flying south.” He pointed a wing toward a V-shaped formation of birds in the sky. “They do it every year in the fall. Can’t you hear ‘em honking?”

  “I hear them honking and I don’t care about cranes. What did Elsa see in the dark?”

  “Oh yeah. Well, let me think. She said…”

  This next part was strange. He’d been standing on one leg, remember? And all at once he started using the three toes on his uplifted leg to scratch his wingpit…armpit, whatever you call that thing on a...