“We, Drover, the entire amassed forces of the Security Division, standing together in a united front. Or to put it another way . . . YOU.”

  “Oh my leg!”

  “I’ll be standing by in a support position. Some­one has to run the command post and attend to the complex details of coordinating the attack and maintaining communications and so forth.”

  “Maybe I could . . .”

  “We all have our jobs, Drover, and unfortunately some of us have to take the ones without the glamour of combat.”

  “That’s the one for me.”

  By this time we had reached the machine shed. I waited for Mister Limp to catch up. “Hurry up, son, it’s getting dark. We don’t have time to waste. Get in there and check it out.”

  He whined and cried but I stood firm and pushed him through the crack between the big sliding doors. He went creeping inside and I began the Mark and Count Procedure. I would give him three minutes to complete his mission. If he didn’t return by that time . . .

  Well, we could always give him another three minutes. There’s no sense in rushing into things. Haste makes waste.

  I had just marked two minutes and thirty seconds when his nose appeared at the door. “Yes, yes? What did you find? Give me a complete report.”

  He sat down on the gravel drive and looked up at the sky. “You know what I think? I think what we saw in the mirror was . . . ourselves.”

  I glared at the runt. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard, absolutely the most . . . why do you say that?”

  “Well, because it was my face in the mirror. I just know it was.”

  “That’s absurd, Drover, because what you’ve chosen to ignore is that a mirror is actually . . .”

  Hmmmm. I began pacing. Was it possible . . .

  The pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. Who had given me the original report about the Phantom Dog? PETE. Who had laughed himself silly when we’d told him about the Phantom Dog and the Handsome Prince? PETE.

  Why, the sneaking little weasel! The no good, backstabbing, counterfeit little . . .

  “Okay, it’s all coming clear now, Drover. It appears that we’ve been tricked by the cat. He set this whole thing up to get back at me for running him up a tree this morning.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “He’ll pay for this, but in the meantime, Drover, we must take an Oath of Secrecy. The outside world must never know what we’ve done. Hence, if the subject of the Phantom Dog ever comes up again, our story will be that we were misquoted.”

  And with that, I closed the Case of the Phan­tom Dog and turned all my attention to the overturned hubcap just inside the machine shed door. It contained . . .

  It was supposed to be filled with Co-op dog food, but it appeared that someone or something had been stealing our rations.

  “Drover, have you been eating dog food?”

  “Oh heck no, I was scared of the Food Phantom. Maybe it was Pete.”

  “I don’t think so. The little sneak would love to steal from us, but I happen to know that he has trouble chewing our food. No, it wasn’t Pete, I’m pretty sure of that.”

  “Well, maybe it was the skunk.”

  “Skunk? Oh, you’re probably referring to J. T. Cluck’s wild, improbable story? No, and let me explain why. In the first place, the skunk report came from a chicken, and that speaks for itself. In the second place . . . do you smell something?”

  He sniffed the air. “Not really, but by siduses have bid actig ub on be ladely.”

  “Hmm. Maybe it was nothing. As I was saying, that skunk report was hogwash. We now know that the skunk couldn’t have come out of the mirror and . . . are you SURE you don’t smell something?”

  He took a deep breath and cocked an ear. “You know, I think there’s an odd smell around here.”

  “I was thinking the same thing myself, Drover. Would you care to guess what it might be?”

  “Well, I’d hate to guess and be wrong.”

  “This is strictly off the record. Go ahead and make a stab at it.”

  “I’d guess . . .”

  You’ll never guess what he guessed.

  Chapter Eleven: The Dog Food Thief

  Drover guessed that the strange odor had come from a skunk. What did you guess? Not a skunk, I’ll bet.

  My eyes began probing the gathering gloom of the machine shed. “You know, Drover, I had a feeling all along that we might find a skunk in here. It fits the pattern: first, the missing dog food, and now, the powerful smell.”

  “Oh my gosh, do you reckon he came out of the mirror?”

  “We don’t know the answer to that, Drover, but he’s here amongst us, and he must be driven out of the machine shed at once. Otherwise, we might lose our precious food supply and spend the rest of the winter eating grass and tree bark.”

  “Yeah, and I hate vegetables. But how are we going to get him out of here?”

  I had to think on that one. “Very carefully Drover. It’s a well-known fact that skunks are easier to find than to herd. They don’t herd well at all.”

  “I heard that.”

  “It takes just the right touch. Too little force and they won’t leave. Too much force and . . . POW! The machine shed could be toxic and contanimated for weeks.”

  “Yeah, and us too.”

  “Exactly. The skunk must go, but we want him to feel happy about leaving. I’d better handle this one myself, Drover.”

  “Oh drat.”

  “You can back me up. Don’t make any sudden movements or loud noises. Pretend that you’re carrying delicate crystal gambits or rotten tomatoes.”

  “Okay, but what’s a gambit?”

  I glared at the runt. “A gambit is a special kind of glass. The slightest jar could cause it to shatter.”

  “Yeah, and jars are made of glass too.”

  “Exactly, so we must be very careful.”

  “I thought a gambit was a kind of robber.”

  “No. You’re thinking of bandits.”

  “No, bandits are what you put on cuts and scratches.”

  “You’re thinking of Band-Aids, Drover, and that’s all the time we have for questions. We’ve got a job to do.”

  “Yeah, hauling rotten gambits and busted jars.”

  “Hush, Drover. You take a good idea and run it into the ground.”

  Some dogs dread Skunk Patrol. Me? I kind of enjoy mixing it up with a skunk every once in awhile. It’s a challenge, a type of sporting event like a game of Rushing Roulette.

  On the one hand, they’re not very impressive fighters, so a dog doesn’t run much risk of getting his ears torn off. Fighting is always more fun under those conditions.

  On the other hand, a skunk doesn’t have to be a great fighter because he’s got something else up his sleeve—that bag of poison gas for which he is famous. And therein lies the challenge: seeing how far you can push one without getting sprayed.

  Yes, once in awhile a guy presses too hard and gets his smell changed, but that’s just part of the risk and part of the fun. And it’s not so bad, once you get used to the smell.

  Actually, I kind of like the smell, and what’s even more important is that the ladies go for it too—well, maybe not a heavy dose but just a little hint behind the ears. And anything that catches the attention of the ladies can’t be all bad.

  Well, I had me a skunk cornered up in the machine shed and all I had to do was find him—no big deal. I mean, unless your nose is completely dead, you just switch everything over to instruments and follow your nose.

  I found the little feller near the northeast corner of the shed. He was toodling along, sniffing the ground and digging for bugs, and he seemed no more interested in me than if I’d been a fly.

  That’s the irritating thing about skunks. A cat will run when a dog appears. A chicken will squawk and fly. A skunk will ignore you, which is hard to accept if you happen to be Head of Ranch Security and also impatient.

  I’m not famous for my patience, I guess you knew that, and you probably think that I got tired of waiting for Rosebud to leave the machine shed, waded into the middle of him, and got myself sprayed.

  Well, the joke’s on you. I played that skunk the way a musician would play his instrument, the way a fisherman would play his fish. Using nothing but raw intelligence, superior knowledge, and a whole bagful of cowdog techniques, I applied pressure to Rosebud and oozed him toward the door.

  What a piece of work! You should have seen it. When he started to bristle up, I backed off and waited until he settled down. Then I began pressing him again until, at last and hoorah, he saw the door and waddled out.

  I had never done a better or smoother job of skunking, and I doubt that any dog in history had topped that performance.

  When the job was done, Drover suddenly appeared. He of little faith had chosen to wait outside in the fresh air. “Nice work, Hank, you did it! Boy, I couldn’t have done that, not in a thousand years.”

  “Most dogs couldn’t have, son. It takes a certain touch and a lot of poise.”

  “Yeah, ’cause they’re poisonous.”

  “One of these days I’ll show you how to do it.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’d rather watch.”

  “Whatever. But the important thing is that we’ve liberated the machine shed and saved our food supply.”

  “Sure did. Course now he’s heading for the house.”

  “Yes, but that’s a small price to pay for . . . WHAT?”

  “He’s headed for the house. See?”

  Drover pointed his nose to the east. My gaze followed a straight line—and I mean like a laser beam—followed a straight line to the yard gate, where I saw Rosebud slip through the fence and enter Sally May’s yard.

  “Holy smokes, Drover, do you realize what’s fixing to happen before our very eyes?”

  “Well, let’s see.”

  “Little Alfred left the crawl space uncovered!”

  “I’ll be derned. What’s a scrawl space?”

  “It’s a hole in the foundation, and it leads to the space under the house. It’s common knowledge that skunks love to take up residence under people’s houses.”

  “Not me. I’m scared of spiders.”

  “Drover, at this very moment Loper and Sally May are entertaining all the members of the church choir. Do you realize what might happen if that skunk got under the house and released his poison gas?”

  “Well . . . it sure might stink up the party.”

  “It would ruin the party, Drover. All the guests would have to be evacuated—those that were still alive, that is. Sally May would be heartbroken. Perhaps the family would have to abandon the house and move away.”

  “Gosh, that’s awful.”

  “Yes, Drover, but the awfulest part is that we have to sit up here and watch the tragedy unfold!”

  “Yeah . . . unless we rushed down there and kept him from going under the house.”

  I stared at him in the moonlight. “What?”

  “I said . . . gosh, I don’t remember what I said.”

  “Something about rushing.”

  “Rushing. Nope, I guess I lost it.”

  “Hmm. Well, it’s a pity that we have to sit here . . . wait a minute! Is there any reason why we’re just sitting here? Why couldn’t we rush down there and keep the skunk from going under the house?”

  “Gee, I never thought of that.”

  “It might work, Drover, but we’ll have to hurry. Are you ready for some combat?”

  “Well, I . . . not really.”

  “What?”

  “I said, oh good. Combat. Oh boy.”

  “That’s the spirit. We’ll go to Red Alert. I’ll meet you at the yard fence.”

  “Yeah, if this old leg doesn’t quit on me.”

  And with that, we went streaking down the hill toward the fence—to save Sally May’s house and Christmas party from complete and total disaster!

  I went streaking down to the house, but you know what? On the way something happened. All at once I began to ask myself, “Why am I doing this? Why should I knock myself out for the same woman who recently called me a nincompoop and other hateful things?”

  I mean, I was just a “dumb dog,” right? The guy who went around eating string all the time, right? And throwing up on ladies’ houseshoes because I didn’t have anything better to do with my time, right?

  I reached the yard gate and sat down. Who needed it? Not me. Since I was so “dumb,” maybe what I needed to do was sit right there and watch the show. It might be fun, watching all the members of the Methodist Church choir evacuate the house when Rosebud went off.

  It WOULD be fun, come to think of it: the tenor section jumping through the bedroom window; the sopranos flying out the front door; the altos crawling up the chimney.

  Hmmm, yes. It’s been said that getting rich is the best revenge. Not true. The best revenge is REVENGE, and never mind the rich part. The best revenge is knowing what’s right and then doing what’s wrong, out of sheer spite and meanness.

  Hey, if Rosebud wanted to blow up the party, who was I to deny him his civil rights? It was a free country and skunks had rights too.

  I was sitting there, enjoying delicious wicked thoughts, when Drover came up, huffing and puffing. “Hi, Hank. Did I miss the fight? Boy, this old leg . . .”

  “Relax, Drover. We’ve cancelled the Red Alert. The Security Division has decided to go out on strike.”

  He stared at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we quit. Let the church choir go out and bark at the skunk. They have such wonderful voices, let’s see how well they can do on Skunk Patrol.”

  “Gosh, I’ve never heard you talk like that before.”

  “I know, so let me try to explain it. Listen to this.”

  And before his very eyes, I sang this song.

  Chapter Twelve: Unbelievable Ending! No Kidding

  Poor Me

  No one appreciates a hero like me.

  In spite of the fact that I’m trying to be

  Man’s very best friend and woman’s too,

  So what if I happened to barf on her shoe?

  My loyalty to her has never ceased,

  I’ve stayed by her side through war and through peace.

  I’ve guarded her kids and chicken coop,

  But still she insists I’m a nincompoop.

  Well fine, okay, it’s a poor-me kind of day.

  When you need a friend, just call me and I’ll look the other way.

  Poor me, poor pay! That’s all I have to say.

  That’s fine, all right, I’m out on strike,

  It’s a poor-me kind of day.

  I bark up the sun most every morn, I was here at the ranch when her babies were born

  I guarded the steaks that she put out to thaw . . .

  And maybe I was foolish for eating them raw.

  But what of the nights I’ve stayed up and barked?

  And tussled with monsters and things in the dark?

  Protecting the cattle and chickens and sheep

  And got myself shot at for jarring her sleep!

  Well fine, okay, it’s a poor-me kind of day.

  When you need a friend, just call me and I’ll look the other way.

  Poor me, poor pay! That’s all I have to say.

  That’s fine, all right, I’m out on strike,

  It’s a poor-me kind of day.

  So when there is trouble or monsters or stuff,

  I plan to be sleeping or warming my duff,

  I’ll tell them too bad and stay on my seat.

  Emergency calls can be handled by Pete.

  And then we’ll just see what happens from there.

  When they’re getting their due and getting what’s fair.

  And as the ranch crumbles, I’ll cry out with glee,

  “You’ve caused this by being so mean to poor me!”

  Well fine, okay, it’s a poor-me kind of day.

  When you need a friend, just call me and I’ll look the other way.

  Poor me, poor pay! That’s all I have to say.

  That’s fine, all right, I’m out on strike,

  It’s a poor-me kind of day.

  The little mutt stared at me in disbelief. “Gosh, I hate to hear you talk like that. Somebody has to care . . . about something.”

  I laughed in his face. “Not me, pal. I’m off duty, and caring isn’t in my contract. Let somebody else care.”

  Just then we heard singing in the house. It was a church song, something about . . . let’s see if I can remember the words. Something about . . . here we go:

  “Gloria in excelsis Deo,

  Et in terra pax hominbus.”

  It was a lousy song and they were lousy singers, sounded like a barn full of chickens and stray cats. Horrible noise and a stupid song.

  They deserved a skunk, all of them.

  Drover was listening to the music. “Gosh, that’s so pretty! We’ve never had music like that out here on the ranch.”

  I curled my lip at him and rolled my eyes. What did HE know about music? Was he some kind of expert on the subject? He didn’t even have a decent tail, is what kind of expert he was, only a chopped-off stub.

  Okay, maybe the song was a little better than I’d thought, but still . . . pretty good, actually, and there we were, sitting under this deep black sky full of stars, looking out on the whole entire universe that sparkled with ancient light, and the music seemed to be reaching out to the light . . .

  Not a bad sound, for a bunch of country people. Pretty good, actually. There they were, doing their little part to make the world a better place, and there I was . . . well, feeling sorry for myself, you might say.

  I heaved a big sigh. “Drover, do you know who cares?”