He insisted that he was a porcupine. I should have listened, because he knew what he was talking about. I discovered that he had no sense of humor. Zero. And I made another important discovery: all porcupines are equal when you jump on them. They don’t growl, bark, hiss, scratch, or bite. They don’t laugh or brag or mouth off. They just stand there and let the dog…

  We really don’t need to go into every ugly detail of this encounter. Bottom line: it was a short fight and when it was over, Buddy waddled off into the trees and I was left wearing a hundred and thirty-seven porcupine quills.

  You’re probably wondering, “How does a dog respond to this kind of crisis?” Great question. I mean, porcupine quills can be a real problem. When a dog is wearing them, he can’t do a lot of the things he normally would like to do, such as eat, drink, and be merry, bark, bite, and chew a bone.

  Everything becomes painful. See, every time you try to do something that involves your mouth or nose, you bump against those quills, which drives them deeper into your cheeks, gums, lips, and nose. And those quills HURT.

  Your ordinary dogs will see this as a hopeless situation. I mean, when your mouth and nose get taken out of the game, what’s left? Not much. Hencely, your ordinary mutts will close up the store, so to speak, and go looking for one of the cowboys…and beg for help.

  “Help” in this situation means sitting perfectly still while a cowboy pulls out the quills with a pair of pliers.

  Not me, fellers. In the first place, I never beg, not for help or anything else. The Head of Ranch Security does not beg, period. In the second place, getting de-quilled with a pair of pliers hurts like crazy. The cowboys on this outfit have all the charm and bedside manner of a butcher, and who needs that?

  In the third place—and this might be the most impointant—when a dog submits to the de-quilling process, he is forced to listen while the cowboys moan and bellyache, such as: “Hank, for crying in the bucket, how many times do you have to jump on a porcupine before you figure it out!”

  That’s the kind of trash we have to listen to around here. You make one little mistake and they never let you forget it.

  Okay, let’s be honest. Maybe this wasn’t my first experience with a porcupine. Maybe it had happened once before…several times, but let me hasten to point out that this was the first time I had ever jumped on a porcupine that was masquerading as a Tree Sloth.

  This was a completely different situation, but there was no way I could explain it to Slim and Loper. They just wouldn’t understand.

  Dogs have had this problem with their masters since the beginning of time. Humans have no idea how complicated life can be for a dog, and their answer to everything seems to be…well, that dogs are just dumb.

  I knew that’s what they would say and I didn’t need to hear it. And that was the main reason I made my decision NOT to seek medical attention for my Quill Problem. No, by George, I would take care of it myself.

  I went straight to my office under the gas tanks, fluffed up my gunny sack bed, did the usual Three Turns Maneuver around the bed, and dropped into its warm embrace. My plan was to quarantine myself from the rest of the world, ignore the pain, and wait for…well, wait for the quills to fall out, go away, and leave me alone.

  In other words, I would endure my suffering alone—one brave cowdog standing tall against the pain and humiliation of a Porcupine Assault. The first five minutes went pretty well, but then guess who showed up.

  Drover. Just the guy I didn’t want to see. I was badly messed up, but I didn’t want any help or sympathy from him. I wanted only to be alone.

  He plopped down on his gunny sack bed and for a long time he didn’t say anything. Then he gave me a silly grin. “How’s it going?”

  I beamed him a flaming glare. “How do you think it’s going, you little traitor!”

  “Gosh, what did I do?”

  “You allowed your commanding officer to go out on a suicide mission, that’s what you did!”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “That creature wasn’t a Tree Sloth. It was a deadly porcupine!”

  “Yeah, I tried to warn you.”

  “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Well, I did, and so did Pete, but you never listen.”

  “How can I run this ranch when my own Security Division is riddled with spies and traitors!”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then he said, “You’ve got a bunch of quills in your nose. Reckon you ought to get some help?”

  “I will NOT go begging for help.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “You know, quills have little barbs, so they don’t come out on their own.”

  “I don’t care. I have my pride, Drover, and you know what else? I can tolerate pain, which is something you know nothing about.”

  “Yeah, I hate pain. It always seems so painful.”

  “Exactly my point. Pain is painful and that is the purpose of pain. It reminds us that there’s more to this life than comfort and luxury.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, but I kind of like comfort and luxury.”

  “We’re all drawn to the easy life, Drover, but we shouldn’t be. Luxury will corrupt a dog, turn him into a poodle. Is that what you want, to be a poodle?”

  “Well, I never thought about it. How’s the nose?”

  “The nose is great. You go right ahead and turn yourself into a pampered little yip-yip, if that’s what you want. As for me…”

  Ba-BOOM. Ba-BOOM. Ba-BOOM.

  Hmmm, that was odd. I had just noticed a strange sensation in the soft leathery portion of my nose, almost as though…well, as though someone were inside, beating on a bass drum.

  “Drover, do you hear a drum?”

  He cocked one ear and listened. “Nope, can’t hear a thing.”

  “This is strange. There for a second…wait, there it is again! I hear a bass drum and it seems to be centered…well, on the end of my nose. And here’s another clue. With every boom of the drum, I can feel…well, in some ways it resembles…pain.”

  “I’ll be derned, I don’t feel anything.” For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, then his eyes popped wide open. “Wait a second, I just figured it out. Your nose is starting to swell up from the quills.”

  “Rubbish. If my nose had begun to swell, I would be the first to notice.”

  “Yeah, but you said it was starting to hurt.”

  “I did not say that. I said…” Ba-BOOM! Ba-BOOM! “Drover, one last question. Do you have any idea where I might find Slim and Loper?”

  “Well, let me think here.” He squinted one eye and rolled the other one around. “Oh yeah, I saw ‘em up at the machine shed. They just came back from the field.”

  I leaped to my feet. “Good. I have some business to attend to and I’m going to leave you in charge of the office.”

  “Who, me? Gosh, you’d better tell me what to do.”

  “I don’t care what you do. Sleep, scratch a flea, I don’t care.” I began backing away. “Hold my calls. I’ll be back in an hour. Two hours. Before dark.”

  And with that, I went in search of…remember our discussion about porcupine quills and pain? Someone had made the statement that quills don’t hurt, or if they do, a dog should be able to stand the pain. I don’t remember who said that, but I can tell you that it was total nonsense.

  MY NOSE WAS KILLING ME!

  Take the word of a dog who knows about quills. Not only do they sting like fire, but they can cause the noselary region to swell up and throb like a bass drum. Furthermore, quills have vicious little barbs that cause them to penetrate deeper and deeper into the innocent flesh of a dog’s nose. If left unattended, they will do incredible damage.

  Hencely, it should come as no surprise that I came to a sensible, mature decision about my Quill Situation. Even though I didn’t wish to burden Slim and Loper with my problems, I went streaking up to the machine shed to find them.

  Sure enough, they were working inside. Hammers clanged and the electric welder buzzed. Wait, hold everything! Was this some kind of hidden clue? The welder BUZZED and I had been attacked by a porcupine named BUZZY. Was it a mere accident that both words contained a rare Double Z?

  Maybe it meant nothing. Just skip it.

  Anyway, bright flashes of light from the welder twinkled through a cloud of smoke, and now and then I caught glimpses of two adult male cowboys working in the fog.

  Apparently they had torn up some farming equipment in the field. They do that quite often, tear up the machinery, and then they try to fix it with the welder.

  I walked up to the big sliding doors, which were open. I stopped, stood there, and switched on a little program we call Loyal Dog Waiting Patiently, which we often use in times of need. I knew that in mere moments, they would look up from their work and notice that their Head of Ranch Security had been wounded in battle.

  Ba-BOOM. Ba-BOOM.

  Minutes passed and nobody came. Loyal Dog Waiting Patiently wasn’t working. Those guys took hints like a buffalo, so I switched off LDWP and went to another program we call Pain, Woe, and Suffering. This required that we give them Mournful Looks and Slow Wags on the tail section…and moans.

  Yes sir, loud moans, tragic moans, the kind of moans that will stop the world and cause rocks to burst into tears. “Aaaaa-OOOOOO! Aaaa-OOOOO!”

  Those were some awesome moans and sure enough, the clanging and banging stopped. A moment later, Slim Chance stepped outside and raised the front of his welding hood. He looked around and scowled, but he didn’t see me.

  Hey! Right here, you tuna! It’s me. I’ve been wounded in the line of duty and my nose is about to explode!

  Aaaaa-OOOOOO!

  At last…at long, long last, his gaze lit upon me. “Was that you?”

  Yes, of course it was me! And would you please hurry up?

  He grinned. “Oh. I thought we had a pig hung under a gate.” He turned and went back inside. He didn’t even see the quills! Hey!

  This was an outrage. What did a dog have to do to get help around here?

  I took a huge gulp of air and was about to cut loose with a window-shattering moan when…there he was again. Slim. He narrowed his eyes and took a closer look at me.

  His eyes rolled upward. “Good honk, quills! Again?” He turned toward the inside of the barn and yelled, “Hey, Loper, come here and look at your dog. He’s learned a trick.”

  A moment later, Loper appeared in the door, wiping his hands on a red grease rag. “What trick?”

  Slim pointed a bony finger at me. “He talked a porcupine into loaning him some quills.”

  Loper gave me a blunt, ugly stare. His eyes rolled upward and he gave his head a slow shake. “I don’t believe it. I do not believe this!”

  Oh brother. See what I told you? Show up at the Emergency Room door and all they can do is gripe and moan, make jokes, and…phooey. I didn’t have to take this kind of treatment.

  I lifted my head to a proud angle, whirled around, and marched away from the scoffers and mockers. By George, I would cure my own quills, because I couldn’t stand the thought of having to listen to them moan and bellyache about having to do a little bit of unpleasant work.

  I mean, a dog has his pride. We get tired of their smart remarks and stale jokes, so I did what any normal, healthy American dog would have done. I lifted my head to a dignified angle and walked away. Hey, if they didn’t want my quill business, I would just…

  Ba-BOOM! Ba-BOOM!

  I would just swallow my pride and throw myself upon their mercy. What else can a poor dog do? We can’t pull our own quills, so we have to…

  It wasn’t fun. It was embarrassing but it had to be done. I went back to them and…GROVELED. Yes, I groveled—lowered my head and tail, went to Big Droop on the ears and gave them Eyes of Shame and Remorse.

  I hated it.

  Chapter Eleven: Emergery Surgency

  Would it work? It was hard to say. Their eyes had turned cold, so I gave them a Pitiful Porcupined Smile. And you know what? I think that clinched the deal.

  Loper turned to Slim. “Get the pliers.”

  “You get the pliers. He’s your dog.”

  “He’s your dog. Get the pliers.”

  “Loper, I pulled quills last time.”

  “Yes, but you’re forgetting a very important detail.” An evil smile slithered across Loper’s mouth, and he whispered, “I’m the boss and you’re not.”

  Slim shifted the toothpick over to the other side of his mouth. “Loper, you make Simon LaGreasy look like Mother Turista.”

  Loper barked a laugh. “It’s Simon LaGree and Mother Theresa.”

  “I don’t care. The point is that somebody took out your heart and replaced it with a sack of rocks.”

  “Get the pliers and hurry up.”

  Slim stalked back into the machine shed and emerged with a pair of needle-nose pliers. And would you like to guess what he said? Do you suppose he said, “Hank, our dear and loyal friend, we have to rush you into surgery to save your nose”?

  That’s NOT what he said. He said, and this is a direct quote, he curled his lip at me and growled, “Come here, Bozo, let’s get this over with.”

  So much for bedside manner. And who was Bozo? I’ve never been sure what that name means, but it seems to come up when the cowboys are in a bad mood.

  And so the surgery began. It wasn’t pretty or delicate. Dr. Dracula sat down on the cement floor and threw a leg lock around my middle. He moved the pliers toward my face and muttered, “Hang on, pooch, this might hurt.”

  Yes, I knew it would hurt, but I was ready. I steeled myself for the ordeal. When you get to be Head of Ranch Security, you have to deal with…

  OW!!!

  A jolt of fire burned a path through my entire body, starting at the soft leathery portion of my nose and going all the way out to the last three hairs on the tip of my tail. And suddenly there was an explosion of...well, ME, you might say.

  I fought and struggled against the ropes and chains and boa constrictors that held me down. I churned and dug and clawed, struggled and strained, and then…well, it was over. Slim held up the last hateful quill and said, “That’s all for today, pooch. We sure appreciate the business.”

  He thinks he’s so funny, but he’s not.

  I picked myself and my wounded dignity off the floor and was about to march away, when I noticed that Slim was still sitting there, and staring at a big wet spot on his shirt and jeans.

  His eyes came at me like bullets. “Meathead, look what you did!”

  Me? Surely not. But on the other hand, pain affects us all in different ways and sometimes in the middle of surgery…

  When I walked out of the hospital, I made a vow that, in the future, I would take my quill business somewhere else—not that I would ever get into another scuffle with a porcupine, but…well, a guy never knows.

  Anyway, I left the operating room and walked out of the hospital, a new dog. Slim had gotten all wet and I didn’t care. Hey, I was cured and felt like a million bucks!

  Pretty amazing, huh? You bet.

  So, yes, I was feeling grand as I headed back to my office under the gas tanks. I was even looking forward to seeing Drover again, the little weenie, and getting started with his court-martial.

  But wait…something was running toward me. A bird with feathers.

  Oh no, it was the rooster again!

  Chapter Twelve: Paybacks

  Where were we? Oh yes. The Case of the Free-Toed Tree Sloth turned out to be one of the toughest assignments of my whole career. After being mugged by a heartless porcupine, I had endured seven hours of surgery, performed by two of the most incompetent cowboy-doctors in the entire state of Texas.

  And as I was leaving the operating room, I saw someone jogging toward me, someone I didn’t want to see: J.T. Cluck, the Head Rooster.

  I changed directions and hurried around to the east side of the machine shed. There, I ducked into some tall weeds and lay flat on the ground. Maybe he would think I just vanished, poof. That happens sometimes, right?

  Here he came. I could hear his feet clicking on the gravel. “Hey, where’d you go? I’ve got some important news and you need to hear it.” I flattened myself even more and went into the Invisible Dog program. The weeds crackled, then… “Oh, there you are. When did you start taking naps in the weeds?”

  I had been exposed. I rose to my feet and showed him two rows of teeth. “I wasn’t taking a nap. If you must know, I was trying to avoid YOU.”

  He cocked his head to the side and studied me with his reddish rooster eyes. “Well, that’s kind of unfriendly. Why would you do that?”

  I stepped out of the weeds and shook the leaves off my coat. “Because, J.T., there are times when I just can’t tolerate any more news about your heartburn.”

  “Heartburn? Oh no, I got over that. The good thing about squash bugs is they don’t last long. I’ve got a good gizzard, and when me and my gizzard go to work, we grind ‘em up pretty quick. The secret is the gravel. You’ve got to keep plenty of gravel in your craw.”

  “Good. Well, it was nice seeing you.” I walked away.

  He followed. “Hey, I ain’t finished. We’ve got things to talk about.”

  I stopped. “Two minutes. Get to the point, and I don’t want to hear one word about your heartburn.”

  “Boy, you’re awful crabby.”

  “Hurry up.”

  He looked from side to side and leaned toward me. “Pooch, me and Elsa had a long talk. You remember that strange creature she seen? The one that looked like a beaver with a bad haircut? Well, she figured it out.”