“You’re good.” Eddy gave the ball another kick, this one harder, and the ball went fifteen or twenty feet.

  I glared into his face. “Eddy, I’m done. I’m not going to…okay, one more time, but this is it.” I trotted after the ball and brought it back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  Eddy picked up the ball, drew back his arm, and threw it out into the darkness. Then he gave me a cunning little grin. “Race you to it!” He darted after the ball.

  Let’s get something straight. I shouldn’t have cared about this silliness. In fact, I didn’t care about it, but…well, he had more or less thrown down the goblet and challenged me to a test of skill. And all at once, it seemed important that I respond.

  He had gotten a head start, but deep in my heart, I felt I could beat him. I had pretty amazing speed in a short sprint, don’t forget, and that’s one talent coons don’t have. In the fall, they’re lard-fat and their short legs aren’t suited for sprinting. Me? I am suited for sprinting, big time, any time.

  I hit Turbos and raced after the ball, caught up with Eddy, blew right past him, and found the ball without the slightest difficulty. Eddy arrived, huffing and puffing. “Awesome. Thought I could beat you. No more, I quit.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Actually, that was more fun than I expected. Maybe you could throw it one more time.”

  He stared at me. “Nah. I’m tired, bushed.”

  “Look, it doesn’t have to be a contest. I don’t want to sound cruel, Eddy, but you throw a whole lot better than you run. I’ll give you a few lessons on how to fetch a ball.”

  “Neat. Okay.”

  He picked up the ball, held it in his busy fingers for a moment, then drew back and threw it quite a bit farther than his first throw. I went after it like a dog after a rabbit and snagged it on the second bounce.

  I met Eddy about halfway and dropped the ball at his feet. He was impressed. “Wow. Again?”

  “No, I have things to do. Oh, what the heck, let’s try it one more time, but this time, give it a ride.”

  “Throw hard?”

  “Right. I want a real test of my limits.”

  “Cool.” He stood on his back legs and began limbering up his throwing arm, either his right or left arm, I don’t recall which. He spun his arm in a circle and gave me a wink. “Deep center field. Downtown.”

  I got down in my Starting Crouch. “Let ‘er rip, son.”

  He let ‘er rip, all right, and I let ME rip, exploding out of the starting blocks like a rocket. Smoke, flames, the whole deal. Streaking through the darkness, I went to Ear Lift-up and waited to hear the “thud” of the ball hitting the ground.

  That was part of my stragedy, see. When a dog is running wide open, he can’t look up and watch the ball, but it really doesn’t matter. If he knows the general direction of the path of the vectors of the trajectory of the so-forth (I did), then he runs at top speed and waits to hear the thud of the ball when it hits the ground. At that point, he switches on Earatory Scanners and follows instruments to the bouncing target.

  When it’s done right, and when the dog is in top fiscal condition, he can cover an enormous distance and pounce upon the prize before it stops rolling.

  Is that impressive or what? You bet, and don’t forget, this was happening in the dark. Well, not total darkness (we had a half-moon), but pretty dark.

  Where were we? Oh yes, the ball. I went streaking southeast, toward the center of headquarters, and kept waiting to hear the sound of the ball hitting the ground, at which point I would home in on the “thud,” do a course correction, and move into the Phase Two procedure.

  I ran and waited, waited and ran.

  Well, I had told Eddy to give the ball a ride and he’d sure done that. The little guy had quite an arm, and the next thing I knew…holy smokes, I had run all the way back to headquarters and was standing not far from the chicken house. And the ball still hadn’t hit the ground! Amazing.

  I was in the process of searching the heavens for something round and red, when I was startled by the sound of a voice close by. It said, and this is a direct quote, it said, “What’s all the darned noise out here?”

  You probably think I jumped out of my skin in surprise. No, and here’s why. Number One, there was something familiar about the voice: the speaker whistled when he pronounced an “S.” Number Two, this was all happening in close proximity to the chicken house. And Number Three…

  There wasn’t a Number Three, but two were enough for our Voice Recognition Algorithm. Here, let’s look at these two equations:

  Voice + Chicken House = Chicken Voice.

  Chicken Voice + Whistles = J.T. Cluck.

  Do you get it now? Is that amazing or what? You bet, and don’t forget that this all occurred in total darkness—no moon whatsoever, I mean, not even a sliver. Black dark.

  Anyway, it was my bad luck to have run into J.T. Cluck, the Head Rooster, on a dark night when I had important work to do. I could see him in the light of the half-moon. And here he came. “What’s a-going on around here?” He stopped a few feet from me, cocked his head to the side, and gave me the Rooster Eye. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “J.T., I don’t have time to talk.”

  “Good. Neither do I. What’s a-going on around here?”

  “I’m looking for a red rubber ball.”

  He stared at me. “Well, that’s dumb. Why would you be looking for a ball in the middle of the night?”

  “Sorry, I can’t reveal that information. It’s classified and none of your business.”

  “Well, whoop-tee-do. Did you happen to notice that it’s dark out here? Some of us try to sleep when the sun goes down, but it ain’t easy when there’s a dog outside, banging around and making…”

  Suddenly, his voice just quit, shut off, and I noticed that his head had dropped down on his chest and his eyes slammed shut. It appeared that he had fallen asleep in mid-sentence, and we’re talking about conked out.

  Okay, this is a common characteristic of chickens. When darkness falls, they also fall—asleep. And it doesn’t seem to matter where they are.

  Good. This gave me a perfect opportunity to slip away and avoid a long, boring conversation with one of the most boring personalities I’d ever known. J.T. wasn’t a bad guy, but after you’d heard all his heartburn stories fifteen times, you found yourself wishing to avoid his company.

  I edged away and began tip-toeing…

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re a-going?”

  “You fell asleep in the middle of our conversation, and I have things to do.”

  “Hold your horses, pooch, I’ve got some information that you might find pretty interesting.”

  I walked back to him and studied his face. He seemed awake. “Okay, I’ll give you three minutes. Talk.”

  “You said you was looking for a red rubber ball?”

  “That’s correct. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Well, I might, sure might, but I never thought about it until just now.”

  “Can you hurry up?”

  “Don’t crowd me, pooch, you’ll want to hear this.” He hiked up his left leg and tucked it under his wing, which meant that he was standing on one leg. “It happened this very afternoon, pooch. Elsa come a-running up to me and she was all stirred up, clucking up a storm.”

  “Yes? She was stirred up. Go on.”

  “She was sure stirred up, and she come a-running up to me and she called out, ‘Oh my, oh me, oh J.T.!’ That’s always the sign that she’s seen something unusual.”

  “What was it?” He didn’t answer and I saw why. He’d fallen asleep again and was even making some ridiculous little chicken snores. “Hey! Wake up and finish your story.”

  His eyes popped open and he flinched. “Worst heartburn since I ate that dad-ratted scorpion.” He blinked his red rooster eyes and glanced around. “Who are you?”

  “Never mind. Finish your story about Elsa. She was all stirred up.”

  “Oh yeah, and here’s the good part.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “She told me she’d found something that was round and red, and I’ve got a feeling it’s the very thing you’re a-looking for!”

  Chapter Eleven: I Am Forced By Circumstances to Say “Please”

  J.T.’s story didn’t exactly add up, but I was curious to see where it would lead. After you’ve been in Security Work for a while, you learn that we often get our best leads…we’ve already covered that, so skip it.

  I paced back and forth in front of the rooster. “Okay, J.T., we might be onto something here, but I need facts and details. Elsa found something round and red. What was it?”

  “I wondered about that too, so I checked on it myself. Sometimes she gets her facts a little confused, if you know what I mean.”

  “What did she find?”

  He gazed up to the sky. “Well…it was a tomater.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. “A tomato! I’m not looking for a tomato, I’m looking for a red rubber ball!”

  “Well, you don’t need to screech. What I’m a-saying is that you might be looking for the wrong thing. Had you ever thought of that? They look pretty close to the same.”

  The air hissed out of my lungs. “Why do I bother talking to you? Go back to bed, get out of my sight before I do something crazy. Scram!”

  He slunk back toward the chicken house, and I heard him mutter, “Boy, it sure don’t pay to be friendly around here. I was just trying to help, never dreamed he’d bite my darned head off.”

  Oh brother. Well, I had wasted precious minutes trying to squeeze information out of a feather-brained rooster, but during my interrogation of the nitwit, my Earatory Scanners had continued operating…and they had picked up NO sound of the ball coming back to earth. What was going on around here? I mean, Eddy had a good throwing arm, but this was beginning to sound a little crazy. Balls that go up must come down.

  You’re probably wondering…why did I care? It was just an ordinary ball. It meant nothing to me, and yet…well, somehow it did. I wanted to find that ball and bring closure to the whole situation, and…I don’t know, prove to a slippery little raccoon that I could handle anything he threw at me.

  Maybe there was a little pride involved. Of course there was pride involved! Hey, I wasn’t just thinking of myself. I was representing the entire Security Division, and you could take it even farther and say that I was representing dogs all over the world.

  It was a HUGE responsibility, and I had to find that ball.

  Okay, back to the hunt. Clearly, the ball couldn’t possibly be in flight after so much time had eloped. In other words, it had returned to earth and was lying somewhere on the ground.

  I called up Maps and Charts and tried to reconstroodle the flight path of the ball, using a mathematical process called “Strangulation.” Wait. “Triangulation,” there we go. See, you construct a three-sided triangle in your mind and multiply the triangle times Apple Pi, which produces Apple Stroodle. Hencely, we have “reconstroodled” the strangularity of the…this is getting too complicated. Let’s move on.

  The point is that I was able to reconstroodle the flight path of Eddy’s ball, and the calculations indicated that Splashdown occurred somewhere between my present location and the ranch house…although it wouldn’t have made a splash. Why? No water.

  It doesn’t matter. The ball had come down somewhere in this general area, and I would need some help to find it. I headed for the gas tanks in a brisk trot, rode the elevator up to the Twelfth Floor, and found my assistant just where I had expected to find him: sprawled like spilled milk across his gunny sack bed, twitching, squeaking, and grunting in his sleep.

  “Drover, we’ve had an incident and I need some help.”

  He came roaring out of a dead sleep and squeaked, “Help, murder, mayday!” He leaped to his feet, turned three circles on his bed, crashed into the southeast angle-iron leg of the gas tanks, and collapsed on the ground.

  “Drover, I really need…forget it.”

  Worthless. What else can you say? I needed his help, but getting “help” out of Drover is like…I don’t know, trying to squeeze pineapple juice out of a rock, I suppose.

  Remember that song we had performed only hours before, “We Should Try Not To Be Any Weirder Than We Are Right Now”? Well, that had become the Song of Drover’s Life. He should have been singing it ten times every day. He should have posted the words on the bedroom wall, because there seemed to be no limit to his weirdness.

  Oh well, I would have to rely on my own resources. I left the office and plunged into the enormous task of sniffing out the entire headquarters compound. I had retained a strong memory of the ball’s scent and knew I would recognize it if I got within ten feet of it, but our headquarters compound covered a lot of area.

  We’re talking BIG, four or five acres that included the corrals, the chicken house, Emerald Pond, the machine shed…big.

  I laid out a grid in my mind and began working the grid in straight north-south lines, back and forth, trotting, sniffing, nose to the ground, and after fifteen minutes…it seemed hopeless.

  Wait! All at once I was sneezed by an idea that might very well blow the case wide open. Here, check this out.

  Who was the biggest snoop on our ranch?

  Who stayed awake all night, spying and eavesdropping?

  Who might have heard or seen the ball when it landed?

  Who might possess the crucial information on where it rolled to a stop?

  Did you get the right answer? Here’s a clue: iris patch. Yes, Pete the Sneak. Mister Kitty Moocher. Sally May’s rotten little cat.

  If the ball landed anywhere within a mile of the iris patch, Kitty would know. Brilliant idea. The only trouble was…gag…I would have to do business with the little creep, and the very thought made me ill. Was I dog enough to humble myself and ask a cat for help?

  This plunged me into a period of deep soul-searching of my soul. I paced and searched and probed the depths of my Inner Bean, and after several minutes, the answer came, loud and clear.

  NO, OF COURSE NOT, NEVER EVER, NIX DICE, NO DEAL!!

  But I would have to do it anyway.

  Sigh.

  I lifted my head to a proud angle, pointed myself toward the east, and marched up the house to the hill…up the hill to the house, let us say. At the yard gate, I stopped. The house was dark, all its inhabitants enjoying a peaceful sleep. For them, Life was simple. How nice. My life was full of heavy moral decisions and compromises.

  I took a deep breath and worked up my courage. “Pete?” No answer. Typical. He would make me squirm. “Pete? I know you’re there and I know you’re awake.”

  At last his voice came from the darkness, and I must admit, the whiney tone caused my lips to twitch. “My, my, it’s Hankie the Wonderdog!”

  “Pete, I know it’s late, but could we have a word?”

  “Oh, by all means. Which word shall we have? Let me think…oh, here’s one. It begins with a P and ends with an E.”

  “Panhandle?”

  “Hankie, I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “Okay, I know the word you have in mind, but…well, it’s really hard for me to say.”

  “I know. Poor doggie.”

  “Here’s an idea. Let’s come back to it later. What do you think?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t say that word, Pete, just can’t do it.”

  “Bye.”

  “Fine, you little creep!” I whirled around and marched…back to the gate. “Okay, you win, but I’d advise you not to gloat about it.”

  “What was the word, Hankie?”

  I braced myself and spit it out. “Please.”

  “Again, louder.”

  “Please!”

  “A little louder, Hankie.”

  I was only seconds away from an explosion but caught myself just in time. “Pete, could we please have a word?” Boy, that really hurt.

  “Well, I suppose we could.”

  Naturally, he took his sweet time. He slithered out of the iris patch and came rubbing his way down the fence, purring and holding his tail straight up in the air.

  Have you ever wondered how cats learn how to walk that way? I’ve wondered about it, plenty. They must go to a special school or take private lessons to learn how to walk in a manner that makes everyone hate them on sight.

  See, you don’t have to meet a cat to know you’re not going to like him. You just watch him walk.

  You talk about self-control! It took everything I had to sit there and watch and wait for the little reptile to go through all his theatricals, but finally he arrived at the gate. There, he fluttered himself down into a sitting position, wrapped his tail around his back side, and gave me his patented insolent smirk (which drives me nuts, by the way).

  “Well, Hankie, here I am and here you are. How strange that we should be meeting at this hour of the night. What’s on your mind?”

  And so it began, my appeal to the local cat for help in solving a case. I never thought I’d stoop so low and couldn’t have predicted where it would lead.

  Keep reading. I mean, you will never guess what came next.

  Chapter Twelve: Incredible Ending, Amazing

  I glared at Kitty through the wire mesh in the gate. “What’s on my mind? To be honest, I’m sitting here thinking about how much I hate waiting on a cat to show up for a meeting.”

  “I’m sure it must be annoying.”

  “It’s worse than that. It eats my liver. And I haven’t forgotten that little incident in the yard either.”

  He sputtered a laugh. “She really whopped you with that broom! But you know, Hankie, there’s a simple solution: don’t come into her yard.”