Well, that was sounding a little better. I mean, where you find coffee you find people and conversation and something besides shadows and echoes. We walked through the door and saw a man sitting at a table. His head was down and he seemed to be writing on a pad of paper.

  Right away, I noticed something peculiar about his hair. It looked more like fur than hair.

  Slim said, “Knock knock?”

  The man’s head came up and . . . yipes! He was wearing these thick glasses, see, and behind the glasses were these two big green eyes, and we’re not talking about normal eyes, fellers, but huge eyes. Frog eyes or fish eyes. Monster eyes.

  That was all I needed to know. If that guy had anything to do with Obedience School, I was checking out!

  GULK.

  Or maybe not. Don’t forget, Slim had me on a leash.

  The man smiled and introduced himself as Rudy Something. Uh oh, he had a gold tooth. Never trust a man with a gold tooth, I always say, and this was not looking good. But then he took off his glasses and . . . well, his eyes looked better now, more normal and less like . . . ha ha . . . sometimes a pair of glasses will . . . I don’t know what they do, but they make the eyes look kind of ghoulish. Anyway, I felt some better when he took them off.

  “Well!” said Rudy. “I see you’ve brought a little friend to enroll in our school.”

  “Yes sir, and I hope you can teach him something. The rest of us haven’t had much luck.”

  “It’s all technique. Technique and patience. You’ll be amazed.”

  Rudy wrote down some information on his pad and had Slim fill out a form. Then he took Slim’s check and gave him a little booklet that he was supposed to read before school started in the morning. Slim looked at the cover and said, “The Well-Adjusted Dog?”

  Rudy smiled. “That’s right, and it’s even autographed.” He made some notes on his pad of paper, and once again I found myself studying his hair. I hopped my front paws up on the table and leaned toward it to get a better view.

  “Hank!”

  Rudy chuckled. “He’s all right. We’re going to be friends, I can already tell. Now, let’s see. His name is Hank?” Rudy wrote that down. “And he is a . . . what’s the breed?”

  “Soup hound.”

  “Mixed breed, we call it.” He wrote that down. “And does Hank have any physical handicaps or abnormalities?”

  “No, just a few mental problems.”

  Rudy got a chuckle out of that. “So Hank’s a ranch dog? We don’t get many of those.”

  While Rudy was bent over the desk, I managed to run a Sniffonalysis on his hair. Just as I had suspected, there was something peculiar about it. It not only looked odd, but I detected something unusual in the scent. It just didn’t smell right. Did I dare press this investigation a little further?

  I rolled my eyes toward Slim and saw that he wasn’t watching. He was hitching up his jeans again, so I leaned closer, made pinchers of my front teeth, and sort of . . .

  You won’t believe this. You absolutely won’t believe it, but I’ll tell it anyway. Rudy drew back his head and I found myself holding . . .

  No wonder I’d been suspicious of his hair. The guy had been wearing a squirrel on his head! It came off and now the dome of his head was as smooth as an egg.

  For a long moment of heartbeats, we stared into each other’s eyes. Rudy’s pleasant smile turned into a crooked snarl. “Give me that!” He leaped up from the chair and made a grab for my prize. Maybe I should have given it back, but . . . I don’t know, when he lunged at me like that, I just had this instinct to hang on to it.

  I mean, how often does a dog catch a squirrel in the basement of a courthouse . . . on a man’s head? This was one for the record books and I wasn’t anxious to give it up.

  Slim almost had a stroke. His face turned bright red and he yanked it out of my jaws. Bad idea. Something ripped. He handed the thing back to Rudy. “Mister, I’m sure sorry about this.”

  Rudy snatched it away, looked it over, and pitched it onto the table. “Maybe you’re right about the dog. We’d be glad to refund your money.”

  “Nope, the boss said to bring him.”

  “I see.” A smile of ice formed on Rudy’s mouth. “In that case, we’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

  I thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t, and this last part is really strange. The guy fixed his eyes on me, leaned toward me with his bald head shining in the light, and . . . barked. I’m not kidding, he actually BARKED at me.

  We left the room in a hurry.

  Chapter Seven: I Begin Plotting My Escape

  Outside, we paused long enough for Slim to hitch up his jeans and wipe the beads of sweat off his face. He took a big gulp of air and looked down at me. “Bonehead. That was his hairpiece, and I’m just lucky he didn’t make me buy him a new one.”

  Hairpiece? You mean . . . like a wig or something? Oh. Gee. Well, it had sure looked like a squirrel to me. Smelled like a squirrel too.

  We walked down the steps in front of the courthouse and started toward the pickup. Slim said, “You know, I don’t know as I’ve ever seen a grown man bark at a dog before. It makes you wonder, don’t it?”

  Right. And they wanted to send me to that guy’s school?

  By the time we reached the pickup, Slim had loosened up a bit and had a twinkle in his eye. “Hank, that stunt ain’t likely to get you into Phi Beta Clapper, but I’ve got to admit it was pretty funny. Heh. I can’t wait to tell Loper.”

  Good. I hoped they got twenty-five dollars’ worth of laughs out of it, because . . . well, you’ll find out.

  We pulled into ranch headquarters and parked below the house, in the shade of the elm trees. Slim climbed out, hitched up his pants, and put on his belt. He was still chuckling to himself and seemed to be in a cheerful mood.

  Good. It was all part of my plan, and to add sauce to the gander, I put on a blank face that showed no wicked thoughts whatever, a false front that showed Happy Dog and Duh. (We use the Happy Dog and Duh Programs when we don’t want them to know what’s really going on inside our minds, don’t you see.)

  “Well, pooch, I’ve got a couple hours’ work to do around here, then we’ll go down to my place for the night. How does that sound?”

  Oh great, swell, you bet. Duh. Just what I’d always wanted to do.

  Did he think I didn’t know his plan? He wanted me to spend the night at his shack so that he wouldn’t have to search for me in the morning. Little did he know.

  Slim hiked down to the corrals to work with a colt. I watched until he dropped out of sight, then I went ripping up the hill to the machine shed. On the gravel drive in front of the shed, I executed a smooth landing and dived through the crack between the big sliding doors.

  It was pretty dark in there, but that didn’t prevent me from . . . well, stumbling over paint cans, bolt boxes, cutting torch hoses, welding hoods, wads of baling wire, and fifty-seven thousand other articles of junk that Slim and Loper had left lying around on the shop floor. If you ask me, those guys are slobs and I almost broke my neck trying to pick my way through their junkyard. How’s a dog supposed to make a Stealthy Entry into a barn full of . . .

  The point is that my Stealthy Entry into the machine shed wasn’t so stealthy. It was very noisy, in fact, but I can’t be blamed for that.

  After staggering and stumbling through acres of junk, I picked my way through the gloomy darkness and headed for the very backest corner. It had been years since I had ventured so deep into the shed, back into the area where Sally May stored old pieces of furniture and where Loper kept his canvas-covered canoe and camping gear—relics from an almost-forgotten time in Loper’s life, before children and bankers.

  It was an eerie place, a kind of twilight zone where time stopped and the sun never shone. Very few dogs in the whole world had ever been there, or would have wanted to be there. I knew of only one: Drover. For you see, this was his Secret Sanctuary, the place where he came to flee from Reality.

  “Drover? Hello?” I stopped and listened. Not a sound. “Drover, I know you’re in here.” I cocked my ear and waited. Nothing. I took another step, then another, until my eyes could barely make out the shape of a big stuffed chair, covered with a sheet. I squinted into the darkness, and slowly another shape began to take shape: a dog lying absolutely motionless on the seat of the chair.

  This was either Drover or a statue of Drover. I was pretty sure that nobody in his right mind would bother to make a statue of such a weird little mutt, but . . . well, it didn’t move and it sure looked like a statue. I moved closer and gave it a sniffing. Seconds later, the report came back from Data Control and flashed across the screen of my mind: “Live Dog.”

  “I see you, Drover. The game’s finished. You can come out now.”

  “Oh drat.”

  “Did you actually think you could hide from me?”

  “Well, it was worth a try.”

  “Heh. Your Statue Trick might have worked on some dogs, son, but it was your misfortune to be tracked down by the Head of Ranch Security.”

  “Darn. What are you doing in here?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to, uh, look around and, you know, see this place where you . . .” I glanced over both shoulders and lowered my voice. “Drover, may I confide in you? I mean, can we speak dog-to-dog?”

  “Oh yeah, ’cause I’m a dog and so are you.”

  “I know, but I’m talking about something more profoon than our mere dogness.”

  “I don’t wear perfume.”

  “I’m aware that you don’t wear perfume. If you did, you wouldn’t smell so bad.”

  “Yeah, and I’d be sneezing my head off. Perfume really stirs up my allergies.” He sneezed. “See whad I beed? Just the bention of berfube bakes be sdeeze.”

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten. “Drover, let’s begin again. May I confide in you? May I tell you a tale of woe?”

  “Oh sure, ’cause I’ve got one too. They chopped it off when I was a pup.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s nothing funny about a stub tail.”

  “Please dry up and listen to my tale of woe. We can begin with a simple statement of fact. Drover, I have a problem.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  I gave him a steely glare. “Do you want to hear my story or not?”

  “I already know. I heard ’em talking. They’re going to send you to Obedience School, and I guess you don’t want to go.”

  “Of course I don’t want to go. Do you have any idea what happens at these so-called Obedience Schools?”

  “Well, let me think. You have to be nice all the time? That wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Wouldn’t be so bad! Okay, pal, you want to know about Obedience School?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Well, I’m not sure. It isn’t scary, is it?”

  “You can decide that for yourself.”

  “I hate scary stories.”

  “Just listen. Here’s the scoop on Doggie School.” In the gloom of Drover’s Secret Sanctuary, I began pacing back and forth. “First off, we can drop the business about it being a school. That’s a joke. People don’t send naughty dogs to a school, they send them to a DUNGEON. See, right in the center of downtown Twitchell, there’s this old castle, built many years ago by a wicked king. It’s a huge brooding mountain of stone with towers and drawbridges and all that other stuff you find with castles. And it’s full of hooting owls and black cats and creatures that make terrible sounds in the night.

  “That’s where they’re going to hold this so-called school. Angry dog owners drive up to the drawbridge with their naughty dogs, see, and this guy comes out of the castle to meet them. Descrip­tion: eight feet tall, bulging muscles, menacing green eyes, crooked nose, and scars all over his face. When he laughs, birds fly away and snakes dive into holes, is how wicked his laugh is. Oh, and he carries a long whip . . . and he wears a dead squirrel on his head!”

  I heard Drover gasp. “A dead squirrel!”

  “Yes sir, because he has no hair, because it all fell out years ago. His heart is so wicked, it poisoned all his hair roots.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  I plunged on. “He collects all the naughty dogs and leads them into the castle, through long echoing hallways, and down a long flight of stairs. The deeper they go, the colder and darker it gets, until they reach . . . THE DUNGEON OF DOOM.”

  “The dungeon of doom! You mean . . .”

  “Yes, Drover, the dungeon of doom. It’s cold, damp, clammy. Water drips from the ceiling. The only light in the place comes from torches along the walls, and they cast eerie shadows, like dancing goblins. As you might imagine, all the poor little dogs are scared silly. They’re glancing around with big moon-eyes and they start whining: ‘Wait, we’ll be good! We promise. Just let us go home and we’ll never be naughty again!’”

  I could see Drover’s big moon-shaped eyes, so I kept going. “But the Dungeon Keeper just laughs and pops his whip. It’s the most chilling laugh you ever heard, Drover, and as it echoes through the depths of the . . . ”

  Drover covered his eyes with his paws. “Stop, I can’t stand any more!”

  “Very well, we’ll leave it at that, but now maybe you can understand why I’m here. Drover, I’m not going to that school and I’ve come to ask permission to use your Secret Sanctuary.”

  “No thanks.”

  “I’m sure you won’t have a problem with that.”

  “No thanks.”

  “I mean, it’s kind of an honor when the Head of . . . did you just say ‘no thanks’?”

  “About five times.”

  I marched over to him and gave him a menacing glare. “When you said ‘no thanks,’ did you mean you won’t share your hiding place with the best friend you’ve ever had?”

  He uncovered his eyes. “Well, I kind of like being alone. It’s quieter that way.”

  “What are you saying, Drover? Are you saying that I’m a noisy dog?”

  “Well, people are always yelling at you. It hurts my ears.”

  The air hissed out of my lungs and I stared at him in disbelief. “You won’t give me permission to hide in here?”

  “Well . . . I hate to put it that way.”

  “But that’s what you meant?”

  “Sort of.”

  I paced away from him and . . . what was that thing lurking in the darkness, a tricycle? What a dumb place to park a tricycle! I picked myself up and spoke to him in my darkest, sternest tern of vone.

  “Very well, Drover, you leave me no choice. As of this moment, I am stripping you of all rank and taking over your Secret Sanctuary!”

  Chapter Eight: Drover’s Secret Sanctuary

  A moment of deathly silence fell over the place, then Drover started bawling. “I don’t want any company! I want to be alone so I can hide from the world!”

  “I’m sorry, son, but you happen to have the best hiding place on the ranch, and I happen to need it. Now, we’re going to make some changes around here. First off, get out of Sally May’s chair.”

  He stopped blubbering and stared at me. “You mean . . .”

  “I mean you ought to be ashamed of yourself, plopping down on her chair.”

  “Well, she left it in here . . .”

  “Drover, she didn’t leave it in here so you could paw it and leave ugly dog hairs all over it. Now get down, immediately.”

  He whined and moaned, and hopped down. “Where will I sit?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a tricycle over there. Try it out.”

  “It’s got a metal seat.”

  “I don’t care.” I hopped up into the chair and fitted my bohunkus into the soft folds of the cushion. “I see what you mean. This is a great chair.”

  “No fair, you stole my seat!”

  “I didn’t steal it. I’m merely putting it into service for The Cause. If you’ll try to improve your attitude, maybe I’ll share it with you.”

  “Not me. I’m getting out of here before the trouble starts. Bye.”

  And with that, the runt made his way to the big double doors and vanished into the light of day.

  Well, with Drover gone, I had the place all to myself and that was no bad deal. When a guy is desperate for company and is down to the bottom of his list of friends, Drover can provide a certain degree of companionship, if you don’t mind listening to him complain about his “bad leg,” his allergies, his stub tail, and all the other things he moans about.

  “Anyway, where were we? I don’t remember, but . . . hmm. Listen to those three words again, and say them fast: “Where were we, where were we?” Taken together, they make an odd combination of sounds, don’t they? We not only have a repetition of W-words, but spoken rapidly, the words also take on the flavor of . . . well, nonsense. “Ware wurr wee, ware wurr wee.” Do you suppose there’s any way in the world we could work up a wacky little song out of those three words? What the heck, let’s give it a shot.

  Where Were We?

  Where were we, where were we, and were we wearing tennies?

  Where were we, where were we, and were we spending pennies?

  Walking wacky warbler birds,

  Wasting wanton weary words,

  Warmly washing wardrobe things,

  Wearing weasel waterwings.

  Where were we, where were we, what was the weather doing?

  Where were we, where were we, what weirdness was ensuing?

  Watching weary walnut shells,