Fish bait might be interesting to a fish but it holds no fascination for a dog.

  The boy sat down in front of the gate and began tying the alleged bait to one end of the . . .

  Suddenly my ears shot up. My nose shot up. My eyebrows shot up. Unless I was badly mistaken, my nose, which is a very sensitive instrument, had just picked up the smell of . . .

  I leaned forward and studied the bait in Alfred’s hand.

  BACON? A strip of raw bacon?

  Have we ever discussed fishing? I love to fish, always have, even when there’s no pond and no fish. I mean, who cares if you catch a fish? That’s not important. What’s most important and meaningful about fishing is that it gives you a chance to be with the kids.

  Watch ’em grow up. Meet a challenge. Have some good, clean, wholesome fun.

  Fishing is a great thing to do with the kids, and maybe I haven’t mentioned this before, but sharing the, uh, precious moments with these kids is a very important part of my job as . . . that was bacon, all right . . . important part of my job as Head of . . .

  These kids grow up SO FAST! Before you know it, they’re grown up and gone, and you look back and wonder why you never took the time to . . .

  The smell of that fresh bacon was about to drive me bazooka!

  . . . why you never took the time to share those precious simple moments, and by George, I needed to take that boy fishing!

  I whined and whapped my tail, moved my front paws up and down, and even took the drastic action of jumping up on the yard gate—something I rarely do, for obvious reasons.

  Sally May doesn’t approve.

  But I did it anyway, because . . . hey, she’d understand. She’d be proud of me for wanting to go fishing with her Little Alfred, the only son she had in the whole world, and guarding him against . . . well, you never know what kinds of hazards and dangers an innocent child might encounter on a fishing trip.

  Alligators. Crocodiles. Huge snakes. Child-eating catfish. Lockless Monsters.

  Fishing is very, very dangerous for children, and he needed me in there to supervise, and finally he got the message and opened the gate and let me in.

  I, uh, went straight to the hand that held the . . . well, the bait, I guess you might say.

  He pushed me away, “No, Hankie, get away. You can’t eat my bait.”

  Eat his . . . I guess he’d gotten the wrong idea. He thought I wanted to eat his bait! Ha, ha, ha. Can you imagine that? Oh boy, these kids get the craziest . . .

  No, nothing could have been farther from the . . . why, the thought never entered my . . .

  See, the thing is, the boy had this so-called “bait” clutched in his hand, and any careful parent or guardian will tell you that . . . hey I needed to check it out, that’s all. It might have been some dangerous substance.

  Poison. Toxic waste. Flammable material.

  I had to know.

  Suddenly, the back door flew open and out came Sally May.

  “Alfred, where is my electric mixer? Have you been playing with my mixer again? Because if you have, I’m going to . . .”

  Let me pause here to say that there is something about Sally May that strikes fear in the hearts of dogs and little boys. Even if we haven’t done anything naughty, her appearance on the scene makes us all squirm with guilt. And when we find ourselves in her yard, where dogs are not allowed, it makes us squirm even more.

  When Drover caught sight of her, he dropped his head and started slinking away. Alfred dropped the string, clasped his hands behind his back, and began whistling. Me? Well, I . . .

  Snap. Gulp.

  I ran a quick test on the Possibly Toxic Bait, shall we say, and holy smokes, that was some WONDERFUL bacon and it brought new meaning and purpose into my life!

  Sally May placed her hands on her hips and glared down at us. I hoped she would be proud of me for taking such good care of her boy, her only son in the whole world.

  And just to be sure that she understood the importance of my mission, I gave her my most innocent smile.

  Huh?

  I’ll be derned. It appeared that I had a piece of string running right through the middle of my smile.

  Chapter Nine: One Thing Leads to Another

  She didn’t look quite ready for the party, seemed to me. I mean, she was dressed in a housecoat and slippers, and she had her hair wrapped up in a turban made of a pink towel.

  Perhaps she had just stepped out of the shower and was in the process of getting herself ready for the evening’s festivities. Yes, that would explain why she had put makeup on only half of her face, while the other half remained . . . I don’t know, pale maybe?

  Yes, pale, and it was a strange combination—a little scary, to tell you the truth. For a moment there, I considered barking at her, but only for a moment. Barking at Sally May didn’t strike me as a very smart thing to do, especially when she was running late and trying to get ready for a party.

  So, even though she looked a little wild, I didn’t bark at her.

  She glared at her son. “Alfred Leroy, WHERE IS MY ELECTRIC MIXER? Have you been playing helicopters with it again? I’ve told you and told you and told you: Play with your toys and leave my kitchen equipment alone!

  “You see what happens? Here I am trying to get ready for a Christmas party and the whole choir will be arriving at my doorstep in . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Oh my stars, they’re going to be knocking on my door and I’m going to be running around the house in my slip, trying to find . . . WHERE IS MY ELECTRIC MIXER?”

  The boy looked up at the clouds. “Well, wet’s see.”

  “I have a dessert that needs whipped cream and I can’t whip the cream without my mixer. Now, what have you done with it? Think, Alfred, this is very important.”

  The back door opened and Loper stuck his head outside. “Hon, a car just pulled up in front of the house.”

  Sally May’s head flew back and her eyes grew as wide as fried eggs. “WHAT? They can’t be here already. I still have thirty minutes!”

  “It’s Charles Mack and Sara. You know them, always early.”

  “Oh, how can they do this to me!”

  “And I can’t find any dress pants.”

  “I laid them out on the chair!”

  “Hon, I know you did, but Molly spread peanut butter all over the front.”

  “Peanut butter! How could she . . . I thought you were in charge of Molly.”

  “Well . . . somehow she got into the peanut butter while I was reading The Cattleman. Anyway, I probably ought to wear pants to this deal and oops, got to go. Someone’s at the door.”

  Sally May’s eyes were getting wilder by the moment. She turned back to her son. “Alfred Leroy, if you don’t tell me where you put my electric mixer, I’m going to . . .”

  Her words hung in the air like a hammer that was about to fall, but it didn’t. Instead, her gaze seemed to move from Alfred to . . . well, to me, you might say.

  “Is that dog eating string? Hank, how can you be so dumb?” Back to Alfred. “Where is my mixer? I want it NOW.”

  “Well, wet’s see. I was pwaying wiff it.”

  “I knew it, I knew it, Alfred, I’ve told you . . . where is it?”

  “I think it went . . . to the car.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “The car? You put my electric mixer in the car? Why!”

  “Well, I was pwaying hiwwycoptoos wiff it, and it just fwoo into the car, Mom.”

  “I can’t believe you’d do this to your own mother, on the very day she’s . . .” Her eyes stabbed me again. “And you! You’re eating string. Why do we waste money on dog food? Get out of the way, dog.”

  I whapped my tail on the ground and tried to . . . but she was late and in a hurry, and she breezed past me and opened the back door of her car. She grabbed the mixer and started back to the . . .

  I refuse to take responsibility for being in the way. I was just sitting there, minding my own business and wondering what five feet of string was going to do to my internal plumbing, and . . .

  First thing, she stepped on my tail. I yelped and tried to move out of the way, never suspecting that in the process of trying to get out of the way of her thundering slippers, I would get in her way even more. But that’s what happened.

  And of course she got her legs tangled up and went sprawling into the grass, while Little Alfred snickered behind his hand. (She should have spanked that boy.)

  Well, let me tell you something. When the lady of the house takes a dive into the grass, a true Head of Ranch Security doesn’t just sit there looking simple. Our usual procedure in these situations calls for the dog to bark several times, and then to rush to her side and give her a big juicy lick on the face.

  I leaped to my feet, issued several loud barks, and rushed to the scene of the accident. I was about to administer the proper Red Cross–approved CPR lick on the face when . . . her face had turned bright red, don’t you see, and her upper lip had curled just enough so that I could see exposed fangs, and . . .

  I, uh, cancelled the CPR lick on the face. I had a feeling that it wasn’t right for this situation, so I licked Little Alfred in the left ear and let it go at that.

  “Hank, can’t I take a step in this life without stumbling over you?”

  Me? What . . .

  “And Alfred, it’s NOT FUNNY! You go into the house right now and stand in the corner for five minutes.”

  Little Alfred headed for the house, while Sally May picked herself up off the grass.

  Well, she was definitely stirred up about being late for her own party and it was definitely bad luck that I happened to be sitting there at that very moment.

  I don’t know who or whom she might have blamed if I hadn’t been there, but I was, so naturally, out of all the dogs in the world, she chose to heap the blame upon me.

  I smiled up at her, hoping that she might . . . why was she looking at me that way?

  “Come here, you nincompoop. I won’t have you running around the ranch with that ridiculous string hanging out of your mouth. What if the guests saw you, what would they think?”

  I, uh, couldn’t answer that.

  “They’d probably think the truth—that we’re raising the dumbest dog in Ochiltree County. Come here!”

  Boy, that hurt. I mean, Sally May had made cruel and cutting remarks about me before, and I knew that our relationship had gone through its share of ups and downs, but for her to suggest that I was the dumbest dog in Ochiltree County . . .

  It really hurt, cut me right to the crick.

  I lowered my head, tucked my tail between my legs, and went to her. Our eyes met. I wagged my tail and gave her my most innocent wounded look.

  “Stop eating string. We spend our hard-earned money, buying you dog food, and you don’t need to eat string, for crying out loud.”

  She got a firm grip on the string and pulled. She probably shouldn’t have done that.

  Of course she had no way of knowing that I had . . . uh, just run an important test on a hunk of bacon, or that it was tied to the other end of the string, or that pulling on the string would set off a chain reaction in my digestive system.

  In other words, she can’t be blamed entirely for what happened next.

  But neither can I. I mean, there I was, minding my own business, trying to digest my bacon and string, bothering nobody, asking no favors from . . .

  Everything would have turned out fine if she hadn’t pulled so hard on the string, if she’d given it a steady, slow pull. That would have brought the alleged bacon to the surface, so to speak, without disrupting my bodily processes.

  But she was mad and late and in a rush, and she gave it a big yank.

  And what was I supposed to do? Sit there and be a perfect dog while she was jerking around on my innermost innards and vital parts? Hey, my body is a very sensitive piece of machinery and you can’t yank and jerk on it like it was a bulldozer or something.

  As I say, she shouldn’t have done that, but she did and you can probably guess what happened. I did my best to hold back the tide of . . .

  Suddenly I was seized by this powerful con­vulsion, this sweeping irresistible tide of . . .

  Once things start going sour, they just seem to stay that way. I mean, her shoe and foot could have been anywhere else on the ranch and . . . what lousy luck that she would have her shoe and foot right there in my path, at the very moment when . . .

  Boy, was she MAD! Who’d have thought that she would actually chase me around the yard in her bathrobe, at the very moment when her guests were arriving for the Christmas party? I wouldn’t have thought it, but she sure did.

  I managed to escape but by the thinnest of margins.

  And all of that over one measly piece of string.

  Remind me never to go fishing again.

  Chapter Ten: An Important Mission for Drover

  I took refuge in the feed barn and remained in deep dark hiding until I was absolutely sure that Sally May had given up the chase.

  Only then did I dare to stick my nose out the crack at the bottom of the door—the same one, you might recall, that was warped at the bottom. I cocked one ear, gave the air a thorough sniffing, and ventured outside.

  Darkness was falling and my stomach began to growl, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten a bite all day. Well, I’d eaten one bite of Tricky Bacon, but that had done me more harm than good.

  To my surprise, I saw Drover sitting nearby, staring up at the clouds. He gave me his usual silly grin.

  “Oh hi, Hank. Was that your stomach growling?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. I’m starving.”

  “Yeah, me too. I would have gone to the machine shed and eaten some dog food but I was worried about the Famine Dog.”

  “Phantom Dog, Drover, and yes, I too wish we could go to the machine shed, but I share your concern about . . .”

  Suddenly I heard an odd sound. I cocked my ear and listened. “Wait. Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  There it was again. “It sounded like a rusted gate hinge. Did you hear it?”

  “Oh, that. It’s just my old stomach growling. It must be thinking about a nice big bowl of Co-op dog food up at the machine shed.”

  Just then, my stomach growled again. “Yes, I see what you mean. It’s getting kind of noisy around here, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it sure is. I hope we don’t starve to death. What are you doing down here?”

  “Hiding from a crazed ranch wife who just tried to commit murder on me.”

  “I’ll be derned. Why would she do a thing like that?”

  “Good question, Drover. As near as I can tell, it all began with a small misunderstanding, and from there, one thing led to another.”

  “Yeah, things do that sometimes. First you have one thing and that leads to two. Then you have two things and . . .”

  “By the way, Drover, where were you when Sally May started blaming me for everything she hadn’t blamed on me before?”

  “Well . . .”

  “You vanished, that’s where you were. You left me there, all alone, to be blamed for crimes I didn’t commit. How could you do such a thing?”

  “Well, it was pretty easy. I just picked up and left.”

  “Yes, left your friend and comrade all alone on the field of battle. Drover, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Yeah, I was a rat to leave. I feel pretty bad about it already.”

  “And those things only get worse.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I can stand the guilt.”

  I placed a paw on his shoulder and spoke to him as father to son. “But I think I can help you out of your terrible trap of guilt and remorse and shame.”

  “Oh good! It’s about to get me down.”

  I patted his shoulder. “We need a volunteer to go into the machine shed to check for phantoms.” His eyes crossed. “And you’re just the guy we’ve been looking for.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Congratulations, Drover. You’ve been selected for a very important mission.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “I will be very proud of you, and all your guilt feelings will melt away like snowflakes. Every­thing has worked out for the best.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Come on, trooper. A bowl of delicious dog food awaits us if your mission is successful.”

  “Yeah, but what if it’s not?”

  “If it’s not, Drover, then you have my solemn word of honor that you will receive all the postnasal decorations the Security Division has to offer.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  We headed for the machine shed in a long trot. Well, let’s put it this way: I was in a long trot but Drover soon fell behind. It seems that he had developed a serious limp.

  “Boy, this old leg is really giving me fits! I’m not sure . . .”

  “That’s fine, Drover. All you have to do is limp over to the mirror and check it out. Once we get the All’s Clear, All’s Well signal, then we’ll gorge ourselves on delicious dog food. A little limp here and there won’t hurt a thing. Actually, it might even be better.”

  “Better than what?”

  I slowed and waited for him to catch up, “Better than spending the rest of your life as a coward and a chicken liver. Believe me, Drover, this is an opportunity of a lifetime. It’s your chance to prove what you’re really made of.”

  “I already know what I’m made of. That’s what scares me.”

  “Rubbish. All you have to do is scout the machine shed.”

  “Yeah, but what if the Famine Dog’s still there?”

  “Uh, well, we could find ourselves in a combat situation.”

  “Who’s WE?”