At last, we got some results. Inside the house, we heard a voice. “Hank! Knock it off!”

  I turned to Happy and managed to gasp, “It’s working. Keep cranking ‘em out!”

  He grinned and yelled, “I’m on it, bud! I love this!”

  We kept cranking them out, bark after bark, blast after blast, roar upon roar. We heard another angry scream coming from inside the house. “Idiots! Shut up that barking!”

  You know, a guy hates to push his people to the point where they’re sitting up in bed and screaming, but what’s the alternative? I mean, the whole point of the procedure was to wake ‘em up and get ‘em out of the house so they could see the danger that was lurking in their yard.

  We just do our jobs, even if it isn’t always pleasant.

  Loper must have been glued into his bed, or maybe he thought that screaming at us from the bedroom would get him off the hook. Nope. We kept pumping out the barks, until at last a light came on in the bedroom, then another light in the kitchen.

  I turned to Hap. “He’s coming. Keep truckin’.”

  He paused to grab a breath of air. “Boy, he’s a hard-head.”

  “He is, but he’ll be proud of us.”

  The porch light came on, then the door opened…WHACK…hitting the side of the house, and out he came, like…I don’t know, like hissing lava pouring out of a volcano, I suppose.

  Gack, you talk about an ugly face! Wrinkles, puffy eyes, smoldering glare, flared nostrils, and hair going every-which way. The man was seriously torqued. The sight of him would have scared a lot of dogs—hey, it scared me and I was his friend—but Hap, bless him, hung right in there, and even dared to edge closer to the bull. He never missed a bark. I had never seen such endurance. The guy was a barking machine.

  Loper stomped down the porch steps. At that point, we got our first glimpse at his “outfit,” so to speak: boxer shorts, cowboy boots, and nakedness from the waist up. I also picked up a tiny detail that a lot of dogs would have missed: his boots were on the wrong feet. Clearly, he didn’t function well at three o’clock in the morning.

  He stormed down the sidewalk and came to the fence. His flaming red blood-shot spider-webbed eyes scorched me, then turned to Hap, who was still pumping out barks at the bull.

  “Shut up!” We stopped barking and stood at attention. “That,” he flung out a finger at the bull, “is a LAWN MOWER!”

  Hap and I shifted our eyes in the direction of his finger and took another look at the, uh, bull.

  “Quit barking at the lawn mower!”

  By George, it did appear to be a, uh, lawn mower, a riding lawn mower with handle bars. I turned my gaze around to the bird dog, just in time to see him grin, duck his head, and start thrashing his tree-limb tail from side to side. Oh, and I heard him say, “Oops.”

  Loper wasn’t finished. “Now listen, you clam-brains, I keep a twelve-gauge automatic shotgun beside the back door. It’s got one round of number seven birdshot in the barrel and two rounds in the magazine. If I have to come out here again, whichever one of you fools is still barking will be wearing buckshot. Am I making myself clear, Hank?”

  Huh? Me? Hey, I wasn’t the one who’d thought it was a bull.

  His glare swung around and stabbed the Lab. “And you, Bird Cage, do you hear what I’m saying?”

  Happy went into spasms of guilt. He grinned, fawned, ducked his head, moved his front feet up and down, wagged his tree limb, and dribbled down both hind legs. Nobody does Guilt better than a Lab, and you know, I think the guy was totally sincere about it. He really felt bad.

  Back to Loper. He placed his arms on the top of the fence and leaned down toward me. “Not one more sound, you meatheads, not even a squeak!”

  Yes sir.

  He stormed back into the house and slammed the door behind him. BAM!

  Chapter Eight: Who Can Stay Mad At a Lab?

  Whew! Well, Loper had vented his gizzard and it was time for me to vent mine. I stomped over to the bird-brain and pointed to the lawn mower. “It moved, huh?”

  “I thought it moved.”

  “It had horns, huh?”

  “They looked like horns.”

  “Those are handle bars. They’re turned the wrong direction to be horns.”

  “My eyes aren’t so good.”

  “I told you it was a riding lawn mower.”

  “I see that now. Hank, I feel awful about this. I mean it, I really do.” He started…oh brother…he started crying.

  “Stop blubbering! It makes you look ridiculous.”

  He kept blubbering. “What did I tell you? I keep doing ridiculous things.”

  “Yes, and remember the advice I gave you? If you’ll stop doing ridiculous things, you can stop apologizing for them.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t work, nothing helps. I’m just a failure as a dog!”

  He bawled and blubbered for…I don’t know, three years, it seemed, but maybe it was only two minutes. I had to sit there and listen, and with each passing second, I could feel the pressure of my anger leaking out into the atmosphere.

  Like I said, who can stay mad at a Lab? Nobody.

  At last I spoke. “You’re not a failure and you can’t give up hope.”

  He looked at me through tear-blurred eyes. “How come?”

  “Because I said so. This is my ranch and I won’t allow it.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “If you’ll quit blubbering, I’ll keep working with you. Together, maybe we can whip this thing, but you have to listen to what I tell you.”

  He brushed a big paw across his face, and that big, wonderful Labrador smile returned. “I’m willing to try, if you are.”

  “All right, let’s start simple.” I jabbed him in the chest with my paw. “You’ve got bad eyes, so don’t bark at anything after dark. If you see something suspicious, call me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Because if you continue barking at lawn mowers and pickups and roping dummies and trees, you’ll get us both fired. We will get canned. They will send us down the road without dog food.”

  He licked his chops and glanced around. “Boy, I could use a snack.”

  “You can’t have a snack! This is a ranch, not a hotel, and dogs don’t get snacks in the middle of the night. Come on, we’re returning to barracks, and you will go to sleep.”

  “Yes sir.”

  I hated to be so hard on him, but if I’m not firm with the men, who will be? They send me misfits and mutton-headed bird dogs, and I’m supposed to make soldiers out of them. Discipline, that’s the heart and soul of every fighting unit. When you lose discipline, you’re on a sloppery slip.

  A slippery slop.

  What is the term I’m searching for? You’re on a slobbering slick.

  Never mind. I hate it when this happens.

  You’re on slickering slob.

  You’re on a skippering stick.

  Phooey. I can’t waste my time chasing words around. It’s a common expression and it was right on the slop of my slick.

  I get SO ANNOYED when this happens. I mean, you’re right in the middle of making a very important point and all you need is one or two words to finish…

  When your outfit loses discipline, you’re on slippery snick.

  That’s not it. You know what? I no longer care. Five minutes ago, I cared. I wanted to speak a sentence that was more than mindless rubbish, but I tried and…

  Who’s causing this? Someone is doing this to us. They’re hacking into our systems and planting Mind Maggots, and would you like to guess who is my primary suspect?

  The cat. Pete. I have no idea how he does it, but don’t forget that he is the Sneak Above All Sneaks. And don’t forget that he played a role in the Bull Debacle. Remember that? I asked if he’d seen a bull and he said…

  Never mind the cat. He makes me ill.

  Where were we? I’m totally lost. Wait, here we go. I had gone out on a mission with Happy Lab, remember? And it had turned into a disaster, an embarrassment for the entire Security Division. Loper had come out of the house in his underwear and screeched at us. Now, we were returning to barracks.

  And the term I was searching for was “slippery slope.” When an outfit loses discipline, it’s on a slippery slope.

  Now we’re cooking.

  Anyway, on our way back to our bunks, we passed the garden. Happy noticed that the gate was open. (Little Alfred left it open, remember?) And he said, “What’s that?”

  “Depending on what you’re looking at, it’s either the garden or the gate into the garden.”

  He stopped. “Garden. Isn’t that where they grow food?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Yes, Happy, that’s where they grow food, but it’s stuff that dogs don’t eat. You wouldn’t like it, trust me.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I’ve ate turnips before.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “And apples and watermelon.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No sir. Like I told you, I get hungry. When a big dog gets to craving a snack, he’ll eat ‘most anything.” His eyes were shining. “Would you mind if I checked it out?”

  “That’s Sally May’s territory and she has strict rules. She doesn’t allow dogs in the garden.”

  He gave me a wink. “Yeah, but the gate’s open.”

  “Hap, you have huge feet. Huge feet leave huge tracks.”

  “Listen, bud, I’m about to starve.”

  I paced back and forth, trying to gripple with this latest grapple. If Big Boy didn’t get a snack, I might be up all night listening to him moan about it. I needed some sleep. I had a ranch to run.

  “Okay, we’ll work a compromise. There’s a compost pit in there. You can have anything in the compost, but leave the garden alone.”

  “What’s compost?”

  “It’s snack food for dogs that think about eating twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Hey, that’s me. This’ll work.”

  As he lumbered through the gate, I yelled, “Stay away from the plants and watch where you’re stepping!”

  “Yes sir, got it.”

  It took him about five seconds to find the compost heap. He had told me that his nose didn’t work well on game birds, but he didn’t need high-tech equipment to find a compost heap. It was full of rotting and half-rotting vegetable matter, and it stinked. Stank. Even Drover could have found it.

  I waited outside the garden, pacing and fuming over this ridiculous waste of time. Soon, I heard him crunching on something. “What are you eating?”

  “Hey, I hit the jackpot! Watermelon rinds.”

  “Watermelon rinds!” I hadn’t planned on entering the garden, but I had to see this. When I got there, I found him crunching on a watermelon hull, wearing a huge grin, and looking as content as a hog in a mud hole. “Unbelievable.”

  “Hey, they crunch kind of like bones. You want to try one?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “And lookie here.” He pointed into the hole.

  I peered into the compost pit. “Potatoes? You would actually eat a raw potato?”

  His grin grew wider. “Oh yeah, but not just one. Watch this.”

  He stepped into the hole and proceeded to crunch up five whole, raw Irish potatoes—chewed them up and swallowed them! I had known a few dogs that chewed strange things, but I’d never met one that actually ate them.

  “Hap, at the risk of sounding narrow-minded, I must tell you that this strikes me as unnatural. In fact, it seems weird.”

  He finished chewing and gave me a puzzled look. “Huh. I can’t believe you’ve never ate potatoes and watermelon.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Dogs don’t eat that stuff.”

  “Well, how about tomatoes and okra and squash?”

  His question sent a buzz of electricity down my spine, as it suddenly dawned on me that he had just listed the very items that were growing in Sally May’s garden. It took me a moment to find my voice. “Hap, you’re in worse shape than I thought. We need to get you out of here.”

  “Well, I’m still kind of hungry.”

  “I don’t care. Out!” I gave the big ox a shove. It was like shoving a tree. “Return to the gas tanks, and that’s a direct order.”

  He didn’t want to leave, but he did. That’s one of the nice things about Labs. They’re not mean and sometimes you can reason with them. Two minutes later, we were back at the gas tanks and I had succeeded in getting the big lug into bed. Only then could I relax.

  I did the Three Turns Maneuver and flopped down on my gunny sack. I noticed that Hap was still sitting up. “You’re not tired?” He was staring straight ahead and had lost his smile. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve got an upset stomach.”

  I didn’t want to laugh, but I did. I couldn’t help myself. “Of course you have an upset stomach! What did you expect?”

  “Do you reckon it was the potatoes? I only ate five of ‘em.”

  “What do you think?”

  He looked at me with wooden eyes and nodded his head. “I think maybe it was. And you know what? This has happened before. The last time I ate five potatoes, I got sick.”

  Again, I had to laugh. “Sorry, pal, I know this isn’t funny to you, but when dogs eat food that was never intended for dogs, they get sick.”

  “It seems ridiculous, don’t it? I told you, I do ridiculous things.”

  “You were right, and I even tried to talk you out of it.”

  He nodded and burped. “I think it’s getting worse. Reckon I ought to do something?”

  “Well, that’s not my decision, Hap, but if I were in your place, I would step outside and purge my system of watermelon rinds and raw potatoes.”

  “I think I will. ‘Scuse me, I’ll be right back.”

  He hurried out of the office and vanished into the night. Between snickers and chortles, I listened to the sounds of his Flush Procedure (it was loud and rather gross). Once again, I hated to laugh at his misfortune, but…well, it was hilarious. I mean, eating watermelon rinds and raw potatoes! Of all the bonehead things for a dog to do, and this wasn’t the first time he’d done it!

  In other words, he got exactly what he deserved. Maybe he would learn from the experience.

  Chapter Nine: Hap Finally Learns a Lesson

  He returned five minutes later, and I noticed that he was wearing a sheepish grin. He flopped down on his bed. “I hope the noise didn’t bother you.”

  “Not at all. The question is, did you learn anything from this? I mean, we all make mistakes, Hap, but we need to learn the lessons that Life provides.”

  His face assumed a serious cast. “I think this might have done it, Hank. Me and raw potatoes have quit being friends.”

  “That is great news. And let me make one observation that will broaden your experience and put it all into perspective.” I leaned toward him and said my words with care. “Ridiculous actions always produce ridiculous results. Repeat that.”

  He pinched his eyes in a show of concentration and said, “Ridiculous produce always gives you a ridiculous belly ache.”

  “Well, that’s close enough. I think you’ve captured the heart of the core of the apex. Now, can we sleep? When morning comes, I will have a ranch to run.”

  “Sure. Nighty night.” We stretched out on our respective gunny sacks and I was drifting out on the Ocean of Sleep when I heard his voice again. “You know, that lawn mower really fooled me. I would have sworn it was a bull in the yard.”

  I sat up. “Happy, this hasn’t been the greatest night of your life. We need to let it go and forget about it. Go to sleep.”

  “Yes sir, sorry. I just wanted you to know…”

  “Tell me in the morning.”

  “Yes sir. Nighty night.”

  “Good night.”

  Whew! At last he shut his big mouth and we had some peace and quiet. I climbed back into my little rubber raft of sleep and began rowing across the wide Molasses Sea…

  “Hank?”

  This time, I leaped out of bed, stuck my nose in his face, and began yelling. “What? What what what what what? What’s wrong with you? What do you have against sleep?”

  “Well, sorry, I didn’t mean to…there’s something I need to tell you.”

  My mind tumbled and I struggled for patience. “All right, tell me—but this is IT. No more talking tonight. What?”

  There was a moment of silence. He seemed to be searching for words. “Hank, I’m hungry again.”

  I hovered over the dark abyss of a total screaming fit, but before I could give him Double Train Horns in the face, I started laughing. “You just threw up and you’re hungry again! I don’t believe this. Ha ha ha ha.” I returned to my bed and collapsed. “Hap, if you wake me up again, I will do something violent and crazy, so don’t. Good night.”

  “Nighty night.”

  This time, he actually shut his big trap and we both drifted off to sleep. It didn’t take me long, about ten seconds. I mean, I was bushed.

  You know, this is funny. I had the craziest dream. Ha ha. I dreamed that Big Boy went back to Sally May’s garden and ate all her vegetables. Ha ha. Is that crazy or what? They say you have your strangest dreams when you’re exhausted. Well, that sure fit.

  If I were to tell you that I leaped out of bed at my usual five a.m. and rushed out to bark up the sun, it would be an exaggeration. No, it would be worse than that. It would be a huge whopper of a lie. I slept through my morning chores, and might have slept the rest of the day, only around eight o’clock, I was awakened by a piercing fenimum voice.

  Feminium voice.