The Mopwater Files (2 page)

Chapter Two: Drover Eats a Grasshopper

“I
caught one, Hank!”

I lifted my head and opened both eyes and looked at the front in face of me. “Beulah?”

“No, a grasshopper.”

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Well, let's see. My name's Drover and I'm your best friend and I just caught a grasshopper.”

“Just because you're a grasshopper doesn't mean you're a friend of mine. Where am I?” I blinked my eyes. “Okay, it's coming back now. You're Drover.”

“That's what I said.”

“There for a second, I thought you were Beulah.”

“No, it must have been me, 'cause I'm all I've ever been.”

I stared at the runt. “What?”

“I said, I'm all I've ever been but I caught a grass­hopper.”

“That doesn't make a lick of sense.” All at once, he licked his chops. “Will you stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“I've told you over and over not to do that.”

“What did I do?”

“I said that you're not making a lick of sense and . . .” He licked his chops again! “There, you see? You keep doing it. What's wrong with you?”

“Well, I can't help it.”

I hoisted myself up to a sitting position and turned a withering glare on my . . . whatever he was. My nitwit assistant, I guess.

“Of course you can help it. It's a totally absurd and meaningless gesture.”

“Not really. See, I ate a grasshopper and that's why I was licking my chops.”

“You ATE a grasshopper?”

“Yep, I sure did. Caught him with my own two paws and ate him with my own mouth.”

I gave my head a shake. “Drover, that's disgusting. Eating a grasshopper? Son, chickens eat grass­hoppers, but dogs don't.”

“Yeah, but I did.”

“That's appalling.”

“No, it was appealing.”

“Don't correct my spelling and don't try to put words into my mouth. I said it was appalling and that's exactly what I meant.”

“Yeah, but I ate the grasshopper and you didn't, so maybe you don't know how it tasted.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I can't believe you said that. Have you no respect for your elders, your betters, your superiors? Just because I've never eaten a grasshopper, you think I don't know how they taste?”

“Well, that makes sense to me.”

“I'm shocked, Drover, shocked and dismayed and disappointed that you would . . . okay, just for the sake of argument, how did it taste?”

He grinned. “Well . . . it was pretty good.”

“See? I gave you a chance to express yourself and what did you do?”

“Well . . . I told the truth.”

“No, you didn't tell the truth. You contradicted my Theory of Grasshoppers, is what you did, and if you can't give the right answer, what good is freedom of speech?”

“Well, I don't know. But I ate a grasshopper and it was pretty good. And you ought to try one yourself.”

I curled my lip. “I will never eat a grasshopper. Bird dogs will fly before I eat a grasshopper. Hogs will ride sidesaddles before I eat a grasshopper.”

“They're better than you think.”

“No sale, Drover.”

“And they're better than dry dog food.”

“I don't want to hear it.”

“They taste kind of like chicken.”

“Well, of course they do, because that's what chickens eat.”

“Yeah, and you like the taste of chicken, don't you?”

“No, I . . .” All at once it appeared that my mouth was watering, as I, uh, recalled several delicious ultra-secret chicken dinners I had . . .

I licked my chops, so to speak, and was unable to answer the question.

Drover grinned. “See? I said ‘chicken' and you licked your chops, and that's proof that you like chicken.”

“I did not lick my chops, and even if I had, it would prove almost nothing, for you see, Drover, ranch dogs are forbidden to eat . . . slurp . . . chickens—for good and obvious reasons.”

“Yeah, but that's my point.”

I gave him a hard glare. “Your point? Who or whom do you think you are, and when did you start putting points into your pointless conver­sations?”

“Well, I don't know, but I've got one now. You want to hear it?”

I heaved a sigh. “Okay, let's hear it.”

His grin faded. “Gosh, I just lost it. I can't remember. Oh darn.”

“Will you hurry up? I'm a very busy dog.”

“Okay, here we go, I've got it. The point is that grasshoppers taste like chicken, so when you eat a grass­hopper, it's almost like eating a chicken.”

I licked my chops. “Hmmm. Not a bad point, actu­­ally. And you know, Sally May hates grass­hoppers.”

“Yeah, 'cause they eat up her garden.”

“Exactly. So we're looking at possible bonus points here. Hmmm.” I ran that one through my data banks. “I find only one major flaw in your ointment, Drover. The back legs of a grasshopper are known to have spurs or barbs, which might lodge in the throats of certain dogs.”

He grinned and shrugged. “Well, they didn't bother me. I guess you have to chew 'em up, is all.”

“Hmmm, yes. But we still have one problem, Drover. I don't have the energy to catch a grass­hopper. It's this heat. It drains me of all energy and ambition. I don't want to do anything but sleep. It's very discouraging.”

“Well, maybe a couple of fresh grasshoppers would help. They always seem to have plenty of energy, and so do the chickens.”

“Hmmm.” I heaved a sigh and pushed myself up on all fours. “Okay, Drover, I'll give it a shot. But if this doesn't work, I'll have to put it on your record.”

We made our way down to the yard gate. I happened to know that Sally May was out working in her yard, for I had seen her there before my nap . . . that is, before I had checked into the shade for, uh, treatment of extreme exhaustion and loss of precious bodily fluids.

I knew she was out there, working and slaving in the heat of the day, in a heroic effort to beautify her house and therefore the ranch itself. I admired her dedication to greenery and beauty and so forth, and would have done almost anything to help her out.

You'll notice that Slim and Loper were nowhere in sight. Bring out a shovel or a rake and those guys disappear. It's like showing a cross to an umpire.

They vanish like dewdrops in August.

But there was Sally May, working and slaving in the hot sun; digging holes and planting tender little shrubberies and flowers around the yard fence. And what was the mainest threat to her tender little shrubberies and flowers and plants?

Grasshoppers.

You work and slave to put out your stuff, and the minute you walk away, the grasshoppers move in and start mowing 'em down. They're a plague, a pestilence, a minutes to society, and they've been known to break the heart of many a courageous ranch wife.

As Head of Ranch Security, I considered it my duty—nay, my privilege—to rush to the defense of my master's wife and to protect her yard and greenery from all villains, monsters, and pests.

And especially the hated grasshoppers.

I was the first to arrive on the scene. I did a quick visual sweep and . . . hmmm, there was her cat lurking nearby. When our eyes met, he arched his back and hissed.

Why? It had nothing to do with fear. Pete wasn't smart enough to be afraid of a dog. No, he hissed out of sheer spite and jealousy. See, he thinks he's Sally May's precious kitty and he can't stand the thought of sharing her attention with anyone else.

So he hissed at me. Perhaps he thought this would throw me into an inflammation; that I would bark and give him the pounding he deserved, and that Sally May would rush to his defense.

He thought, in other words, that he could use a cheap cat trick to get me in trouble with the lady of the house, but Pete had used that trick too often in the past and it happened that I was prepared for it.

Hencely, instead of barking and causing a scene, I gave him a, shall we say, toothy smile. I thought that would be the end of it. I was wrong. It turned out to be just the beginning.

Chapter Three: I'm Forced to Humble the Cat

“H
i Kitty. It's so nice to see you again.”

“I don't think you mean that, Hankie.”

“Of course I mean it. A day without a cat is like a picnic without flies—imperfect and incom­plete.”

“Very funny, Hankie, but I think you'd better move along. I'm helping Sally May plant flowers and we don't need you blundering around.”

Drover had joined me by then and I turned to him. “Hey Drover, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Pete just informed me that he's
helping
Sally May.”

“I'll be derned. What a nice kitty.”

“You missed the point, Drover. It was a stupid statement and a typical cat lie. Cats never help anyone but themselves.”

“Oh yeah. Boy, what a stapid stutement.”

“Exactly. Have you ever heard a stapider stute­ment in your life?”

“Well . . . what's a stutement?”

I heaved a sigh. “Drover, please. I'm trying to build my case against this cat. It's very simple. It's very easy. All you have to do is give the correct answer, which is no.”

“No.”

“Oh, so now you're refusing to obey orders, is that right? I've been noticing this little rebellious streak in you, Drover, and I can tell you that it's going to cause you nothing but trouble.”

“I just gave you the right answer, that's all. You said the answer was no and I said no.”

“Oh. Well, perhaps . . .” I whirled around and faced the cat. He had moved. I marched over to him. “There, you see, Pete? An impartial panel of two dogs agrees that your studer was stapled and . . .” Suddenly I had lost the thread of my argu­ment. I whirled back to Drover. “Drover, what was the point we were trying to make?”

“Gosh, I don't know. I'm all confused. Some­thing about grasshoppers, I think.”

“Yes, of course.” I whirled back to the cat. “You see, Kitty, if you were really and truly trying to help Sally May with her planting chores, you would be catching grasshoppers.”

The cat stared at me with those weird eyes of his. “Oh really? Why would I be catching grass­hoppers?”

“Because, Kitty, grasshoppers are the sworn ene­mies of every ranch wife, because grasshoppers eat plants and flowers and shrubberies.”

“How interesting! The only problem, Hankie, is that grasshoppers can make you choke—the back legs, you know. They hang up in your throat sometimes.” Drover and I exchanged glances. Then we started laughing.

“Hey Drover, did you hear that?”

“Yeah, hee hee. I can't believe he said that. What a stapid stutement. He doesn't know that we eat grasshoppers all the time, does he?”

I whirled back to the cat. “For your information, Kitty, we eat grasshoppers all the time. Not only do we rid the ranch of these miserable pests, but we also increase our intake of protein and save the ranch money on dog food. And do we look choked, Pete? Are we coughing and gasping for breath? Ha! So much for your phoney argument.”

Drover was jumping up and down. “Nice shot, Hank, nice shot! Boy, you really got him on that one.”

“Thanks, Drover, but I'm just getting warmed up.” I leaned forward and put my nose in Kitty's face. “Your problem with grasshoppers, Pete, is that you're too fat and lazy to catch one.”

Pete grinned and rolled his eyes. “Oh really? And I suppose you're going to show me how it's done, hmmm?”

I gave Drover a wink. “He just stepped into our trap, Drover.”

“Yeah, boy, we've got him now!”

Back to the cat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, Kitty, that's exactly what we're fixing to do. Before your very eyes, we will put on a live demonstration of Doggie Pest Control. Pay attention and study your lessons.”

He grinned and widened his eyes. “Oh, I will, I will. I can hardly wait to see this.”

I turned to Drover. “Okay, pal, which one of us will lead off?”

“Oh, I guess I could, since I know more about it than you do.”

There was a moment of silence. “I can't believe you said that, Drover.”

“Well, I . . .”

“See, you've done it but I've
studied
it. I've studied it from all angles, the ups and the downs and the sidewayses of it.”

“Yeah but . . .”

“You may know a little more about the simple act of catching grasshoppers, but I'm much farther advanced in the theoretical aspects of pest control.”

“I'll be derned.”

“See, you've got to have a plan and a theory, Drover. You can't just go out and pounce on a grass­hopper.”

“Boy, it sure is complicated.”

I placed a paw on his shoulder. “It is, and I'm afraid I'll have to handle this one myself. Work a little harder on the theoretical side and maybe next time we'll let you go first.”

With that, I went into my warm-up procedures and began loosening up the enormous muscles in my shoulders. Those big muscles up front are the ones you use in these situations—the
jumpus
muscle and the
semi-lateral boogaloo
, if you want to get into the scientific names.

Anyway, I got 'em warmed up and ready for combat. Then I tossed a glance over at Sally May. She was on her knees, digging in the dirt with a hand trowel. Beside her, several feet away, was a bucket of . . . something.

Water, it appeared, yes, it was water because she poured some of it around the roots of the plant she was planting.

Well, she seemed deeply involved in her planting business and hadn't noticed me, so I went over to, well, wish her a good morning and to alert her to the fact that something important was fixing to happen.

I approached her with a big cowdog smile and Broad Swings of the tail. It was lousy luck that I stepped on one of her . . . posies, pansies, petunias, whatever they were . . . stepped on one of her flowers.

And, okay, maybe one of my Broad Swings went a little wild and knocked over a potted plant . . . two potted plants . . . several potted plants, and more or less whipped the straw hat off her head.

Boy, you sure have to watch those Broad Swings of the tail. Sometimes they're so full of joy and emotion, they get out of control and . . .

My goodness, she whirled on me with flared nostrils and flaming eyes. “Will you take your wash­tub feet and whiplash tail and GET AWAY FROM ME!!!”

Well, sure. I mean, I was just trying to . . . hey, I could take a hint, and yes, I moved away from her.

Sally May can be a little strange sometimes.

But the important thing was that I had made her aware of my presence on the scene, and now I was ready to begin the Pest Control Procedure.

I wanted her to see the whole thing. I knew she would be proud. And I knew she would regret the hateful things she had said.

I didn't have “washtub feet” and I sure hadn't given her “whiplash” with my tail.

Those were Broad Swings of the tail, and they're meant to show friendship and caring and love and devotion.

Sometimes you can't avoid misunderstanding, no matter how hard you try.

A big heart is no match for a small mind . . . although I would be the last to suggest that Sally May had . . . better quit while I'm ahead.

Well, it was Show Time. Everyone was watching me—Pete, Drover, Sally . . . okay, maybe she wasn't exactly watching me, but I was confident that I would grab her attention when the action started.

And you know who else showed up? J. T. Cluck, the Head Rooster. Say, this event was really drawing a crowd, which didn't exactly break my heart. I must confess that I kind of enjoy showing my stuff to an audience, and the bigger the audience the better the performance.

J.T. peered at me and twisted his head around. “What's a-going on around here?”

“Stand back, J.T. I'm fixing to give a public demonstration of Grasshopper Capturation.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means that if you will get your feathers out of the way, I will demonstrate the theory and technique of capturing grasshoppers.”

“Huh! What does a dog know about catchin' grasshoppers? If you want to know about grass­hoppers, talk to a rooster. That's what we do for a living, is what we do.”

“Would you move?”

“Huh? Of course they move. They don't just sit there. They hop. That's why they're called grass­hoppers. And I'll tell you something else, pooch. They're hard to swaller. You know them back legs? They scrape all the way down and if you ain't real careful, you'll choke, is what'll happen.”

“Thank you, J.T. Now, if you'll just . . .”

“Happened to Elsa's brother's uncle. What was his name? Oh yeah, they called him Red. He was red, see, the reddest darn rooster you ever saw. Had green tail feathers.”

“J.T.”

“Choked on a grasshopper one day is what he done, and died.”

I stuck my nose in his face and rattled his beak with a ferocious bark. “MOVE!”

Heh, heh. That got his attention. He jumped three feet into the air, flapped and squawked, and left several feathers floating in the breeze. And best of all, he shut his beak and moved out of the way.

Never argue with a rooster, I always say. Just go straight to the bottom line and give 'em a blast.

At last I was ready.