The Case of the Missing Cat (3 page)

Chapter Four: The Bunny Cheats and Lies

“G
ood luck, Hankie. Is there anything I should be doing to prepare for my new position?”

That was Pete the Barncat, trying to use under­handed sneaky tricks to shake my confidence. I tried to ignore him, which is the second-best thing you can do with a cat.

The first-best thing you can do with a cat is to beat the snot out of him and run him up a tree, which I sincerely wanted to do but couldn't, for the simple reason that I had an appointment with Destiny.

This was my last chance, fellers, and I had to put everything into it. Hence, instead of rushing off and wasting my last shot, I decided to analyze the two previous attempts and try to learn from my . . .

I wouldn't exactly call them
mistakes.
Errors might be a better word.

Bad luck.

Difficulties.

Unfortunate circumstances.

Tiny miscalculations.

Windows of opportunity that had been slammed shut by the winds of Life.

Circumstances beyond the control of myself or any other dog on earth.

I decided to learn from the past, shall we say.

For you see, I had detected a certain pattern in the bunny's response to my missions against him. Here, look at this map. Oh well, you can't see it.

Okay, imagine a map. The gas tanks form Point A, right here. The lumber pile becomes Point B, over here. Point C is the point in the home pasture to which the bunny had run on the two previous encounters.

As you can see, the three points, if joined together by imaginary lines A Prime, B Prime, and Prime Rib, would form a triangle.

Pretty suspicious, huh? How did that rabbit know about triangles? How could he have known that if you connect any three points in the universe with straight lines, you get a triangle?

I mean, we're talking about geometry—the kind of heavy duty math we use all the time in the Security Business, but not the sort of thing you'd expect a bunny rabbit to understand.

This was my first hint that perhaps I had underestimated the intelligence of the alleged rabbit. Not only had he won the first two outings against me, but there appeared to be more than a slim chance
that his victories could be traced to something other than dumb luck.

In other words, I was staring right into the jaws of a conspiracy. This rabbit had been using strategy against me, and to explain what I mean, let's go back to the map.

I'm here at Point A. The rabbit is right in front of me. He takes off toward Point B. I follow him, pursuing a course described by line A Prime.

You still with me? I know this is pretty complicated stuff but just hang on.

Okay, Bunny reaches Point B in the pasture. What does he do then? He changes directions and goes streaking toward Point C, the lumber pile, following line B Prime.

Here's the startling conclusion of all this. It was beginning to appear that the rabbit had led me to Point B, KNOWING ALL THE TIME THAT HE WOULD END UP RUNNING BACK TO THE LUMBER PILE!

Now, if that's not cheating, tell me what is. It's the kind of backhanded, underhanded, lefthanded, sneaking approach you'd expect from a cat—but from an innocent little rabbit? No sir.

Hey, if you can't trust a rabbit anymore, what kind of world are we living in? What are we coming to?

I mean, once the rabbits turn to lying and cheating, who's next? The kids? Mothers? Baby birds? Puppy dogs and fawns? Apple pie? Christmas carols?

Is there anything sacred left in a world where bunny rabbits lie and cheat and steal and rob and spit at their grandmothers?

Just when I think I've seen it all, I see something else. Just when I think I've hardened myself as hard as I can harden, I find fresh evidence of something new and awful. Just when I think this soiled world has no more shocks and surprises, I see something like this, and it just about breaks my heart.

Rabbits cheating. Rabbits lying.

Well . . . a guy can't just quit or resign from Life or crawl under his gunnysack and hide from all the meanness and ugliness. He's got to come back and strike a few blows for Honesty and Decency.

And that's where I found myself, after going through several minutes of spiritual heartburn and moral agony. I couldn't change the world, fellers, or put all the bad guys out of business or spare the little children from the mess we'd made of the world.

All I could do was catch that stupid, stinking, sniveling, sneaking, counterfeit little rabbit who had made a fool out of me, not once but twice, and teach him an important lesson about lying and cheating.

What a fool I'd been! I'd played the role of Mister Nice Dog and what had it gotten me? Okay, he wanted to play games with me, so we'd play games. But we were fixing to play MY game.

Here's the crutch of the whole matter. I'll reveal it if you promise not to blab it around. See, that rabbit was more devious than I'd ever supposed. He'd made that loop out into the pasture, knowing all along that I would follow him.

Heh heh, but just suppose that I didn't follow him. Just suppose that instead of running my legs off out in the pasture, I took a shortcut through the corrals and was standing in front of the lumber pile when he came hopping up. Heh heh.

Pretty awesome, huh? Let me tell you something. I hadn't been named Head of Ranch Security strictly on my good looks, although that had been a big factor.

A dog's mind is a scary thing, and moral indigestion is a powerful force. Put 'em together and you have something that is truly awesome.

Okay, here we go. I rose from my gunnysack bed, just as I had done before, and began the Pursuit Phase of the procedure. The bunny ran. I chased. We headed out into the pasture and began the Sucker Phase.

I was watching the rabbit very carefully this time, don't you see, and when he stopped looking back over his shoulder, I altered my compass heading, veered off hard to the right, and went zooming straight for the corral fence.

As I approached the fence, I did one last instrument check. Allowing for wind and so forth, I would arrive at the lumber pile three seconds before the victim.

All systems were go. All I had to do now was perform what we call an Under-the-Bottom-Board-Maneuver, a fairly simple and routine procedure in which your cowdog approaches a corral fence at top speed and darts under your bottom 2 x 6 board without

CRUNCH!!

Uh.

Uhhh.

Uhhhhhhh!

Lorkin @#$%&*?%$#@ murgle porkchop snickle­­fritz aimed a wee bit high on that one. Swimming in molasses, the stars came out gork murg snork and I gathered myself up off of the . . .

I became aware of a throbbing pain in my head. My neck was badly cricked and someone had removed my legs and installed a new set made of soft rubber. The earth was turning in an odd direction and I found it hard to stand in one spot.

It appeared that I had, or shall we say that my instruments had failed me at a very crucial point in the maneuver, and once your entire guidance system has gone on the fritz . . .

Laughter? Did I hear . . . yes, the cowboys. Laughing. Howling. Leaning against the saddle shed. Doubled over. Slapping their thighs.

They had been spying on me, had watched the entire incident. Did they rush out with ice packs or bandages or even an encouraging word? Oh no. Everything's a big joke with them.

“Go get that little rabbit, Hankie!” one of them yelled. I don't remember which one, it doesn't matter, I don't care, one's as bad as the other and neither one shows much sensitivity to tragic situations.

“Sic 'im, boy!” said the other, as he was brought to his knees by a convulsion of childish laughter.

So there I was—not only badly injured from wounds received on a combat mission, not only wrecked and deformed and partly crippled, but also mocked and scorned by the very people I had sworn my Cowdog Oath to protect.

Maybe you think I had hit the absolute bottom, that I couldn't stink any deeper, sink any deeper, I should say; maybe you think that everything bad that could have happened to me had happened to me.

If that's what you think, then you've forgotten that I had wagered my job as Head of Ranch Security and HAD LOST THE WAGER.

In other words, fellers, not only had I lost my job but it had been won by Pete the Barncat.

That's what I'd call a pretty scary thought.

Chapter Five: Humble Pie Stinks

W
ell, the cowboys got a real lift out of my disaster. I mean, it just about made their whole day.

After howling and chuckling and slapping their knees and rolling around in the dirt, they finally ran out of excuses for loafing and had to go back to work. I know that broke their hearts.

And don't forget that if they had hauled off that pile of junk lumber in the first place, there would have been no lumber pile and therefore no Lumber-Pile Bunny.

Hence, by simple logic, we see that the cow­boys were actually to blame for the entire incident—which didn't make my broken neck or damaged head feel one bit better, but it's always nice to share the blame with someone else.

I mean, sharing is a very important thing in this old life. Furthermore, there is a wise old saying about people who laugh at the misfortunes of others: “He who laughs first . . . he who laughs last . . . he who laughs in the middle . . .”

There is this wonderful wise old saying about people laughing but I think we'll skip it for now. It's a real good wise old . . . never mind.

I went limping back to the gas tanks. I mean, I'd just suffered one of the worst setbacks of my career and had lost just about everything that was dear to me, but I still had my old gunnysack bed.

That was the one thing they couldn't take away from me. It was my place of refuge, the spot from whence I could launch myself into the sweet dreams about Beulah and feats of greatness. No matter what happened to me, that old gunnysack would always be there to welcome me home.

I dragged myself toward the gas tanks, hoping with all my heart that Pete wouldn't see me. I'm never anxious to see Pete, but this time I was even less anxious than usual.

Luck was with me for a change, and Pete did not appear.

At last I could see it: my gunnysack, my friend. It was waiting for me, calling my name, ready to embrace the folds of my tired and worn body, ready to launch me into . . .

A cat in my bed?

A grinning face with partially hooded eyes rose from my gunnysack. “Mmmmm, it's Hankie the Cowdog, and isn't this a wonderful coincidence!”

I summoned up just enough energy to issue a short growl. “Out of my bed, cat, before I . . .”

“Ah, ah, ah. Don't say anything you'll regret, Hankie. You haven't forgotten our little wager, have you?”

“I, uh . . . did I think to mention that, down deep in my heart, I don't approve of betting or wagering or gambling of any kind? I mean, I might have forgotten to . . .”

“You forgot to mention that, Hankie.”

“Yes, well, it just slipped my . . .”

“It must have slipped your mind, Hankie.”

“Exactly, and I'm sure the same thing has happened to you a time or two, you get caught up in something, excited and so forth, and before you realize it . . .”

“You've made a stupid mistake, hmmm?”

“Right. Well, stupid is pretty harsh . . .”

“A dumb mistake?”

“Yes, right, exactly. A dumb mistake. Or call it a hasty decision, or it could be that you misunderstood my true meaning, see, and you might have thought that I was making a foolish wager . . .”

“Um-hmmm, I did, Hankie, I certainly did.”

“. . . when in fact the record will show that I was . . . only words. Really. Honest.”

Pete stretched out on my gunnysack and made himself right at home. I could hear him purring. Oh, and that tail of his was sticking straight up in the air.

“Mmmm, so you're saying that you didn't intend to make the bet, is that right, Hankie?”

“Right. Yes, and I'll be the first to admit it, Pete. I was misquoted and I'll have to take full responsibility for my actions. If I hadn't opened my big mouth, I never would have been misquoted in the first place.”

“Um-hmmm.”

“And as far as I'm concerned, we can chalk the whole thing up to experience. I mean, it's been a painful lesson for me, and why are you shaking your head?”

“No deal, Hankie.”

“By ‘no deal' do you mean . . . no deal?”

“I mean, Hankie, that we made a bet and you lost.”

“Oh, I see, yes, well, let me hasten to . . .”

“And I'm ready to collect, Hankie.”

“Huh? Collect? You mean . . . now wait a minute, Pete, you can't do this to me.”

“Fair is fair, Hankie.”

“I know that fair is fair, I've said that many times myself, but YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!”

He grinned and purred and flicked his tail back and forth.

“Oh yes I can, Hankie. I won. You lost. I'm ready for you to pronounce me Head of Ranch Security.”

“I won't! I can't! I . . .” I began pacing. “Listen, Pete, we can cut a deal, just you and me, right now. How about this: you'll be my First Assistant. Hey, wouldn't that be great?”

“Mmmm, and what about Drover?”

“Ha! He's out, through, finished, fired. It's just me and you, Pete, just the two of us, a team for the future!”

“No thank you.”

“Huh? Okay, listen to this. Dog food, all you can eat for three days!”

“I'll pass on the dog food, Hankie.”

“Good thinking, pal, I don't blame you, but here comes the killer deal of the century.” I winked and leaned forward. “Bones, Pete. You give me a number and I'll deliver the goods.”

He yawned, “I don't think so, Hankie, because bones hurt my teeth.”

“Good point, hadn't thought of that, okay, we'll dig a little deeper in the old . . .”

“Hankie, had you thought of
begging
for your job?”

“Huh? Begging? Well, I . . . no, actually I hadn't thought of . . . begging. It sort of goes against my grains. Don't you see.”

“Well, you might try it and see what happens.” He studied his claws. “I've never been tested before, and who knows? It just might be my weak spot.”

“I see. Begging. Could you give me some odds and percentages? I mean, I wouldn't want to go into a begging situation without knowing the . . . I'm sure you understand.”

“Mmmm, yes, I understand, Hankie.”

“I mean, it would be very painful.”

“Oh, I know, it would hurt so bad!”

“Right, which is why I'd like to know . . .”

“Fifty-fifty.”

“Fifty-fifty, which is only slightly better than average.”

“That's the best I can offer, Hankie.”

“Okay, well, fifty-fifty beats forty-forty, and uh . . . you said beg?”

“Umm-hmmm. Just hop on your back legs and beg, and we'll see what happens.”

I coughed and cleared my throat, paced back and forth, scratched my ear, paced some more, and wrestled with this heavy decision.

“This is very difficult for me, Pete, I hope you understand that, and I mean VERY difficult and painful, but if this is what it takes to . . . I don't look forward to this, Pete. It's going to be very humiliating and I've never . . .”

“My patience is wearing thin, Hankie.”

“Right, okay, and so the best thing for me to do is just . . . only for you would I do this, Pete, so watch carefully.”

Against all my cowdog instincts, I hopped up on my back legs and brought my front paws into the Begging Position.

“There we go! What do you think of this, Pete?”

His smile went sour. “Mmmm, something's missing, Hankie. It just doesn't move me.”

“Okay, what's missing is this little flourish which we call Moving the Paws While Begging. You'll love it, Pete, it's going to knock your socks off. Watch close!”

I did the maneuver, which is very difficult, by the way, and very few of your ordinary dogs have the muscle tone and coordination to pull it off.

“There you are, Pete, that's the whole show. Pretty impressive, huh? You ever see anything quite . . . you're shaking your head again, Pete, and I'm wondering what that means.”

“Oh, Hankie, I'm afraid it didn't work, and just drat the luck!”

“Drat the . . . didn't . . . wait a minute. Are you saying that you're not going to call off the bet? After I lowered myself and humbled myself and made myself look like an idiot?”

The grin spread all the way across his mouth and his eyes brightened. “Mmmm yes, I'm afraid so, Hankie, but nice try anyway. Now, you may pronounce me Head of Ranch Security.”

At last the pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. I had been duped and humiliated, and now I was fixing to be stripped of my rank.

I lowered my front paws to the ground and glared at him. “I should have known better than to do business with a cat.” He nodded his head. “You'll regret this, Pete.”

“Fair is fair, Hankie.”

I took a gulp of air and plunged into the terrible unknown. “Very well. I pronounce you Head of Ranch Security, and I hope you get a big ringworm right where you sit down.”

“Thank you, Hankie. Your unhappiness means more to me than I can possibly express.”

“Fine. Now get out of my bed.”

“Ah, ah, ah! MY bed. It goes with the job.”

My mind was reeling, my head was pounding, my body was begging for rest. I didn't have the energy to argue.

“All right, Pete. You've got it all: my job, my pride, and now my bed. You win. I'm whipped. The ranch is yours.”

And with that, I turned and limped away from my bedroom, my home, and the gunnysack that had been my last friend in the world.