Roger that, got it.

  “I don’t need a dog to make this deal even worse than it is.”

  Right, I understood. No hard feelings.

  “Hop in the back of the pickup and try to look intelligent.”

  Yes sir.

  He turned his pampered, mouthy horse and trotted off toward town. I gave him three minutes’ head start, then did what any normal, red-blooded, patriotic American cowdog would have done.

  I FOLLOWED HIM, of course!

  Did he actually think I was going to sit in the pickup? Forget that. Not only did he need a friend, but I had a score to settle with his horse. I wasn’t about to let a horse get the credit for cleaning up a mess I didn’t make.

  Does that make sense? Maybe not, but sometimes Life doesn’t make sense and we just have to carry on. The point is, I wasn’t going to sit in the pickup while my cowboy pal was off on a dangerous mission, and that was final.

  Okay, let’s get on with this before we get too scared to move. The golf course lay on the southeastern edge of town and the steer was heading north. So was Slim because…well, because he was following the steer, of course, and maybe that’s obvious.

  The point is, after the steer had run half a mile across the golf course, he ran out of golf course. The empty grass pasture came to an end and became the south end of town, with houses and yards, streets, cars, kids, and all the other things you find in a town. In other words, yipes.

  The steer left the golf course and trotted out on Main Street, but this wasn’t the same Main Street it had been only an hour before. Do you know why? Because all that freezing drizzle had formed a layer of ice on the pavement, and the dumbbell steer didn’t figure it out until he was out on the middle of the street.

  I held my breath and watched. He was trotting right down the middle of the street, I mean following the yellow stripes, and a car was approaching from the north. The driver hit the brakes and went into a skid. The steer stopped in the middle of the street, stared at the oncoming car, said, “Duh,” and tried to scramble out of the way.

  He got the “scramble” part right, I mean, he looked like scrambled eggs out there on the ice, four legs churning and going nowhere. He went tail-over-tea kettle down on the pavement and…hang on, this is getting scary…the car slid toward him and…

  Do you really want to go on with this? You know how I am: give the children a thrill now and then, but go easy on the heavy-duty scary parts. Actually, I think we’ll be okay on this one, because I was there and saw the whole thing, and I can report that the car missed him by about two inches.

  Slim had stopped his horse on the east side of Main Street and watched the whole thing, probably holding his breath and wondering “what in the cat hair” he was going to do next. That’s just the way he would have said it, by the way, “what in the cat hair.” I can’t tell you what “cat hair” had to do with it, and my own preference would have been to leave cats out of it, but that was the way he talked.

  I had been following along at a distance, more than slightly aware that I had ignored Slim’s order to stay in the back of the pickup, and that he might not be thrilled when I showed up. But this deal had gotten out of hand and somebody had to step up and take charge, right?

  Hencely, while Slim was watching the events on Main Street, I kicked up the jets and raced toward him. When I arrived at his side, I went to Full Air Brakes and, oops, ha ha, you’d probably forgotten about the icy conditions, right? Me too, lost all four feet, and slid right under Slim’s horse, I mean surrounded on all sides by feet and hooves that could kick the snot out of a dog.

  See, your average horse doesn’t enjoy having a dog in that position, under his belly and amongst his legs.

  For a moment I didn’t dare breathe. Snips’ nose appeared in my field of vision, then his eyes, I mean, he was looking back at me through his front legs, which was a little weird because his head was upside-down.

  Gulp. Somehow, I had to talk my way out of this mess.

  “Hey, Snips, how’s it going, buddy? Listen, we’ve got an awkward situation here, and let me begin by saying that it happened by accident. I understand that you don’t enjoy having dogs between your legs, and I want to assure you that I’m not thrilled to be here, so if you’ll just hang loose for a second, I’ll relocate my location. How does that sound?”

  He didn’t move or kick, and I crept out of the Danger Zone. Whew, that was a close one! Right away, I saw his big green-tooth grin and he said, “You’re such a loser.”

  “Oh yeah? If I’m such a loser…”

  “Hank!”

  Huh? Oops, that was Slim. Yes, there he was, sitting in the saddle and, well, glaring at me.

  “Hammerhead, I told you to stay at the pickup!”

  Pickup? What pickup? Oh, that pickup? Well, I must have misunderstood. We got our signals crossed. A breakdown in communications.

  “Go to the pickup, scram, scat!”

  Obviously, he was trying to tell me something but, gee, it wasn’t coming through.

  “Noodle brain. Disobedient whelp of a dog.” He shook his head and heaved a big sigh. “But I’ve got bigger problems than you. If I don’t get that steer turned around, he’s going to be in downtown Twitchell.”

  Sure enough, the red steer had survived a near-miss in the middle of the street and was now standing right in front of the Dixie Dog Drive-in. A woman walked out the front door, holding a Big Beefy in one hand and drink in the other, and almost had a run-away when she saw the steer. She screamed, dropped the burger, and ran back inside.

  Hmm. Big Beefy.

  Anyway, the steer slipped and slid, and headed north, toward downtown. Slim nudged Snips with spurs and they stepped out on the icy street, following the steer as fast as they dared. I, uh, found my path bending to the left, on a course that promised to take me…

  You ever eat a Big Beefy? Best burger in town, everybody says so. I had never eaten one myself, but I’d been in the pickup several times when Slim was gulping one down, and I can tell you, they smelled GREAT.

  I know, we had important business to take care of, but that was the whole point. Important business demands good nutrition. If a dog’s going to set out on a dangerous mission, he needs to be performing at his very best, right? You bet.

  So for the sake of the mission, I altered course and headed straight for the nutrition. I could see it now, wrapped in thin white paper and lying unattended on the sidewalk. Ten feet away, I began picking it up on Snifforadar. Oh my!

  Just as I got there, the door opened and I found myself looking into the eyes of the lady. Her lip curled into a snarl and she said, “That’s my burger, don’t you dare!”

  Dare what? She didn’t make herself clear, so I…well, snatched up the nutrition and ran like a striped ape.

  “Bring that back! I’m going to call the dogcatcher!”

  I couldn’t understand exactly what she was trying to say. Maybe she’d noticed the ice and how slick it was, and by George, she was right, it was very slick. I hoped she would watch her step.

  Anyway, I was back on the job, trucking north to catch up with Slim and the steer. Eating the burger…that is, absorbing the nutrition while trotting on an icy sidewalk was no easy ball of wax, in fact, it was very difficult. No ordinary dog could have done it. It required just the right combination of biting, chewing, and gulping, and there was no time to sift out the onions, pickles, tomatoes, or lettuce.

  Or the tissue paper. This was a hurry-up deal and everything went to the Department of Nutrition.

  Borp. Best burger I ever ate.

  Chapter Eleven: Rodeo On Main Street

  Now where were we? Oh yes, on a Top Priority mission to do something about a deranged red baldface steer before he caused a wreck in downtown Twitchell, because that’s exactly where he was heading.

  This same outlaw steer had already caused problems at the Dixie Dog Drive-in. We’d gotten word that because of the steer, an innocent lady had lost her burger, I mean, stolen right there in daily broadlight by some mutt, and she was going to turn him in to the dogcatcher.

  Actually, that was something to worry about, because…well, for various reasons we didn’t need the dogcatcher snooping around in our business.

  By the time I caught up with Slim and his crow-bait horse, they were in the very center of the Twitchell shopping district, two solid blocks of shops and stores, including the drug store, the picture show, Foxie’s Lady’s Wear, Leonard’s Saddle Shop, and all the rest. Huge metropolitan area.

  I noticed that Snips was moving in a cautious manner on the ice, with short steps. “Hey, Snippers, has anyone ever told you that you walk like Tinker Bell?”

  “Shaddap.”

  “You’d look cute in a tutu.”

  He made a snap at me, but I saw it coming and ducked. “Still half a step slow, pal. Keep on your diet and we’ll try again sometime. Hee hee!”

  Mad? Oh, he was fuming, and I loved every second of it. Any time I can irritate a horse, it makes my day.

  But back to the business. Things were not looking good. The steer had been running down the middle of Main Street, but something spooked him and he cut left and headed straight for Foxie’s Lady’s Wear. Good grief, if someone opened the door, he might actually run inside! I mean, he was standing right in front of the store, looking in the display window.

  By this time, people were coming out of stores, watching, staring, pointing, and talking. Slim was shaking his head and muttering. He didn’t know what to do. Nobody did.

  Just then, a lady walked out of the drug store, across the street from Foxie’s. She wore jeans, red roper boots, and a fleece-lined coat, and she was kind of cute, I mean, a dog notices things like that. I looked closer and there was something familiar about her.

  Holy smokes, it was Miss Viola! Remember her? Cutest, sweetest gal in all of Ochiltree County, in fact, in all of Texas, and get this: she was CRAZY about me! No kidding. Okay, she liked Slim too, and wore his engagement ring with the microscopic diamond, but out of all the dogs in the world, I was her very most favorite.

  I barked. She looked up. “Hank?”

  See? What did I tell you? She adored me, and I raced toward her and, well, almost knocked her down on the ice. “What are you doing here?”

  I turned my nose toward Slim and barked, and that’s when she saw him, ahorseback in the middle of the Twitchell shopping district. I’m sure she thought that was pretty strange. She looked both ways and started across the icy street.

  “Slim, is that you?”

  He turned in the saddle. “Viola? Good honk! Man alive, I’m glad to see you! I’ve got a little favor to ask.”

  “What on earth…?”

  He gave her a quick summary of the day’s events. “I’m going to have to stick a loop on that steer.”

  “You’re going to rope him, on this ice? Slim…”

  “Got to, before he hurts someone. Listen, my pickup and trailer are parked on the golf course. Drive to it and bring it back. With any luck, I’ll have the steer roped and maybe we can load him in the trailer.”

  “Oh my. Can you do that with all this ice? What if your horse falls?”

  “We’ll take it one wreck at a time. Be careful driving, and take the dog, would you?”

  Wow, did you hear that? I had been assigned to escort Miss Viola, and to protect her from ice and snow, and snowy ice, and all the villains that lurked in big cities like Twitchell. What a deal!

  Viola and I crossed the street and loaded up in her daddy’s pickup. Uh oh. The pavement had gotten so slick, she couldn’t back out of the parking space. The tires spun and whined, but we didn’t move.

  I barked. “Put it in four-wheel drive.”

  It’s kind of amazing that a dog would know all this stuff, isn’t it? You bet, but in the Texas Panhandle, they expect a dog to know just about everything involved in running a…borp.

  Excuse me. They expect us to know just about everything involved in running a ranch —cattle, horses, Traffic, Special Crimes, even pickups.

  Viola gave me a peculiar look. “Have you been eating onions?”

  Onions? Oh that. Yes, onions, pickles, and a whole load of good stuff that came with the Big Beefy. Put it in four-wheel drive and let’s get going.

  She reached down and pulled a lever down one notch, into “4-H,” which meant “four-wheel drive, high range.” We backed away from the curb and headed south, toward the golf course.

  While Viola drove, I looked out the back window at the drama in front of Foxie’s. Slim held his loop shoulder-high and eased Snips closer to the steer. The steer shook his head and wrung his tail, then turned to run. The sidewalk was slick and he went down, and that was exactly the shot Slim wanted.

  How did I know? Well, a dog knows, that’s all I can tell you.

  He delivered a perfect loop, soft and open and turned in such a way that the left side of the loop tilted downward. In other words, when it arrived, it was almost vertical…and the steer stepped right into it!

  Hey, even without my help, Slim had one-looped him, and I can tell you from experience that he wasn’t always a One-Loop Cowboy. Believe me, the dogs know the true stories about roping adventures. Sometimes his loops caught nothing but dirt and fresh air, but this time, fellers, he had dialed the right number.

  He jerked his slack, zipped the loop tight around the steer’s neck, and dallied the rope around the saddle horn. The deed was done!

  Exactly what he would do with a six hundred pound steer on an icy sidewalk in downtown Twitchell, I didn’t know, and by that time, he had disappeared from view. He was on his own, without a dog to give him comfort and advice.

  I wished him the best. In the meantime, Viola and I were going to run away to…I don’t know, to a big castle in the Alps and sit in front of a roaring fireplace, and she was going to rub my ears until we were happily ever-afterly.

  Or maybe not. We had things to do.

  She drove as fast as she could on the icy street and we finally made it to the golf course and loaded up in Slim’s pickup. The seat had been set for a long-legged man and she couldn’t get the seat-changer to work. Her legs were so short, they could hardly reach the pedals, but she mashed on the clutch, put the pickup in first gear and four-wheel drive, and off we went, bouncing across the golf course with nine head of steers in the trailer.

  We made it to Main Street and headed north. The bumpy ride across the ditch released a cloud of dust from the heater vents. She fanned the air and coughed. “Bachelors.”

  When we made it back to the shopping district, we saw Slim and the steer on the sidewalk in front of Foxie’s. The steer was at the end of the rope, trying to get traction on the ice, and Snips was hunkered down, trying to hold his ground.

  Viola slowed down and studied the situation. We were in the east lane, heading north. Slim and the steer were on the west side of the street. To get the trailer close enough for Slim to load the steer, she would have to park on the wrong side of the street, in the path of southbound traffic.

  She chewed her lip for a moment and said, “Well, here goes.” She whipped the steering wheel to the left, crossed the center line, and parked in front of Foxie’s. Gulp. We were on the wrong side of the street, which was also a major highway, and if a cattle truck came barreling through town…

  Pretty scary, huh? You bet, but guess who appeared at that very moment: Chief Deputy Kile! He was coming back from the accident north of town and saw what was happening. He sized it up the situation, turned on his flashing lights, parked his pickup in the southbound lane, and jumped out.

  He turned toward Slim and yelled, “I leave you alone for half an hour and look what happens!” Then he started directing traffic into the other lane.

  Viola and I dived out of the pickup and hurried over to Slim. He had his rope dallied around the saddle horn and looked pretty solemn.

  “Okay, Viola, get inside the trailer and push the calves to the front. Close the middle gate and leave the back gate open. I’ll try to drag this steer into the trailer, if my horse can stand up on the ice.”

  Viola ran to the trailer and got the steers moved to the front and closed the middle gate. Slim turned Snips away from the steer, poked him with spurs, and told him to get up. The steer fought the rope, of course, and Snips was stumbling around on the icy sidewalk, but they made some progress. Slim got the horse lined up on the left side of the trailer and Snips dug in and pulled.

  This was a “half-top” stock trailer, which means that the front-half was covered with a roof and the back-half had an open top. You might not see the importance of that, so let me explain. You can drag calves into a half-top trailer, but the technique doesn’t work in a fully covered trailer.

  As I’ve said, if you have any questions about ranch work, ask the dog.

  Okay, just for a moment, the steer quit struggling and caught his breath. Slim slacked his rope, flipped it over the top rail on the trailer, dallied up again, and told Snips to haul the mail.

  They were in the right position to load the calf and by that time Deputy Kile had joined us. He got behind the steer, put his shoulder against his rump, and pushed. Viola joined in and twisted his tail.

  The steer’s tail, that is, not Deputy Kile’s. He didn’t have one.

  On a normal day, Snips would have made easy work out of this. He was a big stout horse and I had watched him haul many a calf into a trailer. I’ll even admit that he was pretty good at it, but the steer was fighting the rope and Snips…I don’t know, maybe he was nervous about the ice or maybe he had run out of ambition, but something wasn’t working.

  Slim yelled, “Hank, bite the calf on the heels!”