The Case of the Vampire Vacuum Sweeper (3 page)

Chapter Four: Attacked by— Something Awful . . .

A
s near as I can figure, he stepped on the bone pretty hard, which probably hurt. Of course it did, which explains his howl of pain. But that wasn't the worst part. He also twisted his ankle and went crashing to the floor.

The crash brought Drover out of his stuporous state. He leaped to his feet, staggered around, and began squeaking. “Help, murder, mayday! The pork­chops are coming! Oh my leg!”

In a flash, he was gone. I heard his claws scratching on the floor as he crawled beneath the bed in the back room.

Slim grabbed his ankle (his own ankle, not Drover's) and let out a groan. I rushed to his side and began administering Emergency Licks to his face and ear—for the second time that evening, I might add. I mean, this was clearly a serious sit­uation, him falling to the floor, and I was willing to forget his hateful remarks about my barking and put the past behind us.

Do you suppose he was grateful? Oh no. He turned to me with wild eyes and clenched teeth and screeched,
“Get away from me, you meathead, I
think I've broke my ankle!”

Fine. By George, if he thought he could cure his broken ankle without Emergency Licks, that was sure okay with me.

I was just trying to help.

Sometimes I wonder what it takes to please these people.

I retired to the northeast corner of the room, sat down, and began beaming him Hurtful Looks and Brooding Glares.

He clenched his teeth against the pain and struggled to his feet, using a chair for support. He tested the ankle several times before putting his weight on it, and that brought another grimace of pain. Then he tried walking on it—or hopping might be a better word for it, because he sure was packing it around. But he managed to walk a few steps before he hoisted 'er up and stopped for a rest.

“Well, I don't think she's busted. I hope not, 'cause a broke leg don't fit into my plans right now.”

Was he talking to me? Too bad, because I wasn't listening. I no longer cared, and to prove it, I turned my eyes away from him.

I mean, we dogs are very sensitive animals. We can be screeched at and yelled at so many times, and then something terrible happens to our . . . whatever.

He limped a few more steps. “I guess it'll be all right. I wonder what that thing was that I stepped on.”

My ears jumped. My gaze slid over in his direction. Stepped on? Had he stepped on something? I, uh, had no idea what it might have been. Probably some irregularity in the, uh, floorboarding. The floor was pretty old.

He hopped and limped over to the scene of the accident and peered down into the jumble of papers and so forth. His brows jumped. Uh-oh. He reached down with his hand and came up holding the . . . uh . . . that is, holding some sort of white, irregular-shaped object, perhaps a bone. He turned it around in his fingers, then I felt his gaze moving across the room and . . . well, searching for me, perhaps, although . . .

His eyes locked on me. I found it hard to meet his gaze, so to speak, and began studying the holes, nails, and paint splatters on the north wall.

“Hank.” I jumped at the sound of his voice. “What is this?”

I turned my eyes in his direction. I was feeling very uncomfortable about this. He was holding some­thing in his fingers, it appeared.

“What is this?”

I, uh, thumped my tail on the floor and squeezed up my most sincere smile.

His eyes came at me like drill bits. I could feel them drilling holes in me. “Where'd this turkey bone come from?”

Turkey bone? Oh yes, the, uh, thing in his fingers. Well, turkey bones came from . . . turkeys, so to speak, and maybe a lost turkey had wandered into the house and . . . couldn't find its way out and just died.

Yes, that was it. The turkey had died in the house and . . . its bones had gotten scattered to the four winds, as they say, and one of the neck bones had . . . well, suddenly turned up on the, uh, living room floor.

But the important point was that it had been pretty muchly a natural occurrence and we dogs knew nothing about it, almost nothing at all. No kidding.

I swept my tail across the threadbare carpet floor and concentrated extra hard on putting sincerity into my, uh, expression.

“You bozo. You were chewing a turkey bone in my living room, weren't you?”

Well, I . . .

“And I stepped on it and almost broke my leg.”

Well, you see . . . oh boy. All at once I felt that the facts had overwhelmed my ability to explain them. I switched over to Slow Mournful Wags on the tail section and gave him my most sincere look of tragedy.

Okay. Yes. The cat was out of the sandbag. I could no longer deny the awful truth. I stood before him, accused and convicted of terrible crimes, and now all that was left for me was to throw myself at his feet and hope for mercy.

I lowered my head and assumed the pose of a beaten dog, a humbled dog; a dog who had fallen to the very depths of despair and heartbreak; who had hoped and wanted all his life to be a good dog, but who was now feeling the terrible stinging lash of conscience.

I lowered myself to the very depths of the floor and crawled, yes, crawled, to his towering, angry presence. And licked his big toe.

Sometimes that works, you know.

He continued to glare down at me, but I noticed a few cracks in his icy expression. Maybe it was working. I rolled my eyes up to him and wiggled the very tip end of my tail. Yes, the ice was melting. The stone was showing a few cracks.

He shook his head and compressed his lips. “Hank, you're such a birdbrain. You're just dumb. Do you know that?”

Well, I . . . I wasn't in a position to, uh, argue that.

“You're dumb and you're pretty close to worthless, and I could have broke my neck, as well as my leg, on your dadgum turkey bone.” He sighed and glanced around the room. “But I didn't, so I guess I'll start cleaning up this . . . good honk, this place looks awful!”

There it was. I was saved, oh happy day! I went to Joyous Bounds and Leaps, wrapped my front paws around his leg, and gave him a big hug.

He reached down and scratched me behind the ears. “I get myself into the derndest messes, and I don't know whether it's because I'm too nice or too dumb. Probably dumb. I remember now how that turkey bone got in here. I bought that ten-pound package of turkey necks on sale and ate boiled necks for two weeks, and I was chewing on a bone one night and forgot to throw it in the trash. Sorry, Hankie. I got what I deserved. You're cleared of all charges.”

See? Didn't I tell you? But the important thing was that we were friends again. Now all we had to do was get his house shaped up.

At first he just wandered from room to room like a lost child, muttering and shaking his head. Like a good, loyal dog, I followed him every step of the way. If I couldn't actually help him with the cleaning, at least I could be with him in his hour of greatest need and show him, through wags and solemn expressions, that I shared his pain and felt his sorrow.

This Sharing of Pain has always been a very important part of a cowdog's job. Even dogs who do poorly in other departments can keep their jobs by scoring well in the Sharing of Pain.

“Where do I start, with a match and a can of gasoline? Why did I answer that phone!”

He took a big gulp of air and plunged into the work. He attacked the newspapers first, scooping them up with both hands and stuffing them into grocery sacks. After he'd filled five sacks, we began to see that there was a floor and a carpet on the next level.

Well, that was progress. The job didn't seem as hopeless as it had before. Slim's mood began to improve and the dark shadows that had covered his face went away. Before long, he was even whistling.

At that point, we could see the entire floor of the living room, which was quite an accomplishment. The only problem was that the floor and the carpet needed to be swept. Even I could see that. I mean, we're talking about sand, gravel, dirt, pieces of grass and hay, and even a few muddy tracks that might have been there for years.

Slim got his broom and made a few swipes with it, but his heart wasn't in it. Then his eyes brightened. “Say, I've got an old vacuum sweeper in the hall closet. Sally May gave it to me a year ago and I forgot all about it. Stand by for action, Hankie, I'm going for the sweeper.”

He ran for the sweeper, dragged it out, and plugged it in. All at once, the house was filled with the sounds of its screaming motor.

Slim yelled, “Kinda noisy, ain't it?”

Yes, it certainly was, and it hurt my ears so much that I found it necessary to turn my back on the awful thing. That was a mistake. I should have known better. Never turn your back on a cowboy who's armed with a vacuum sweeper.

You know what he did? I was shocked. I mean, there we were in the midst of an Emergency Clean­up, right? Miss Viola was due to arrive in twenty minutes and Slim didn't want her to see what a filthy pit he lived in, right? In other words, even if we worked like demons and never looked up, we had our hands cut out for us, right?

So what did Slim do? You won't believe this.

See, I was just sitting there, looking the other direction, minding my own business, trying to ignore the whining scream of the sweeper, when all of a sudden . . .

YIKES!

Some mysterious something got hold of my tail and began . . .

It was a very strange sensation, and I mean very strange. It didn't exactly hurt but it scared the bejeebers out of me. I mean, all at once I felt that my tail was being pulled by some kind of wind or magnetic force into a . . . I don't know, into a black hole or a whirlpool.

Well, you know me. When confronted with some­­thing strange and terrifying, I don't just sit there. I bark. Yes sir, I barked and whirled and leaped into the air and . . .

And looked straight into Slim's grinning face. I mean, he was grinning like some kind of devil monster, a childish devil monster, and would you care to guess what he was grinning about?