The Mopwater Files (3 page)

Chapter Four: Grasshoppers Taste Yucko

I
did a Visual and Sniffatory Scan of the gravel drive. My instruments zeroed in on a target, bearing 197 degrees and 5.773 megawatts west of the yard gate. It was a smallish green hopper, of the Omega Class.

I shifted into Stealthy Crouch Mode and . . .

“There's a nice little one over there, Hank. See him? You probably ought to start with a little one.”

That was Drover. His voice not only broke my concentration but it also alerted the grasshopper to my approach. He hopped away. The grasshopper, that is, not Drover.

I marched over to him. To Drover, that is, not the grasshopper. “Drover, hush.”

“I was just trying to help.”

“I know you were trying to help, but don't. Just watch and learn and prepare yourself for the day when you too can catch grasshoppers.”

He gave me an empty stare. “I thought I knew how. I thought you were the one . . . boy, I'm all confused.” Suddenly his eyes grew wide. “Oh my gosh, there's a huge one!”

My laser-like gaze swung around and fixated on the alleged “huge one.” By George, he was huge (of the Alfalfa Beta Big Boy Class, if you're familiar with the military terminology). He was one of those big green hoppers that can't fly and don't even hop very well because they're so fat.

Not only are they an easy mark, but they're also rich in protein, vitamins, minerals, and rigamaroles. In other words, they're the very best kind for restoring youth and energy.

Speaking of which, I was running low. I could feel my precious reserves of energy ebbing away. I had to hurry.

“This could be the one, Drover.”

“Well . . . I don't know. He's awful big.”

I gave him a worldly smile. “So am I, Drover. Watch this.”

And with that, I switched all scanning devices over to automatic and shifted into Attack Mode. For those of you interested in the technical aspects, I made this approach at three knots, with ears at three-quarters alert and a stiffened tail at 22 degrees.

That's sounds pretty complicated, doesn't it? A lot of dogs wouldn't have gone to so much trouble for a mere grasshopper. I mean, they would have just slopped and slouched in there, but I take pride in my work. No job is too small to be little, is the way I look at it.

And besides, this was no ordinary grasshopper. His Hopping Molecules were going to restore my youthful vigor.

I crept forward on paws that made not a sound—nose out, tail out, and ears up. The audience was silent. Every eye was locked on the unfolding drama. I could almost feel the tension. Then . . . a voice. Sally May's voice.

“What on earth is that dog doing now?”

Good. She was watching. I hoped she would realize that I was doing this to save her precious tender shrubberies and flowers from the Grass­hopper Plague.

Yes, we'd had our ups and downs, Sally May and I, and more than our share of misunderstandings. But perhaps this selfless act of selfless devotion would make up for whatever tiny mistakes I'd made in the past.

I crept toward the target on paws that made . . . I've already said that. Five feet away from Ground Zero, I halted, shifted my weight to a point directly over my powerful hind legs, went into a 75% crouch, tensed every muscle in my body, and took a deep breath of . . . well, air of course.

I cast one last glance toward the audience. Not a single eye blinked. I had their total concentration. And yes, even Sally May was watching.

My gaze swung back to the target. It was time. All my years of study and training had come down to this one moment. I dared not fail.

Suddenly I exploded outward and upward—like a rocket, an artillery shell, an arrow seeking its target. My front paws landed first, as you might have guessed, and trapped the hateful grass­hopper villain. I could feel him kicking and trying to escape, but there was no chance of that.

I heard Drover cheering me on. “You got 'im, Hank! Nice shot, way to go!”

I lifted my left paw and there he was, a huge, green, hateful, yard-eating grasshopper. “This one's for Sally May!” I yelled, and swept him up in my powerful jaws.

Crunch. Crunch. Gulp. Yes! The deed was done.

I turned and faced the audience. Drover was jumping up and down. Pete wore a sour smile. J.T. had his head twisted, as though he hadn't really figured out what had happened.

And Sally May . . . her eyes were shining in purest admiration and I heard her exclaim, “Did he just eat a grasshopper?”

Heh, heh. You bet, and I'd done it all just for . . . that grasshopper didn't taste much like chicken to me, and the longer the taste lingered in my mouth, the lesser it reminded me of chicken . . . or anything else I'd ever wanted to eat.

To tell the truth, it reminded me of . . . yucko!. . . green slime and old chewing tobacco and brussels sprout juice and . . .

I lifted my lips and moved my tongue around, in hopes of cleansing my mouth of . . . THAT THING TASTED HORRIBLE! What did grass­hoppers eat to give themselves such a wretched . . . garbage, rotten stinking garbage, that's what they ate, and what kind of moron would think that this was the taste of CHICKEN?

Oh, what a fool I'd been, to believe anything that Drover . . . I swallowed extra hard to get the awful green garbage taste out of my . . . GULK, WHEEZE, ARG . . . mouth, but now it appeared that something had lodged in my . . . HARK, HACK, HONK . . . throat.

And fellers, all at once I could neither swallow nor draw a breath of . . . I pawed at my mouth. No luck there. I opened my mouth and fluttered my tongue around.

Holy smokes, my oxygen supply was running low! I leaped into the air. I ran in a circle, using up the last of my energy supply.

I could hear my body making incredible sounds as it fought to rid itself of . . . whatever it was . . . grasshopper legs, no doubt, with their barbs and spurs, and I had known all along . . . I had told Drover . . .

Water! I had to find some water! My desperate eyes fell upon the red bucket that Sally May had been using. I lurched over to it, stuck my head inside, and began lapping water with all my heart and soul.

Ah-h-h-h! Sweet relief! The lump of poisonous grasshopper legs passed on down my whatever-you-call-it, the pipe that goes from your mouth to your stomach, and I hoped the old stomach was ready for what was about to hit.

The Grasshopper Ordeal had left me exhausted. That was bad news, for it pretty muchly destroyed Drover's nitwit theory that grasshoppers were full of minerals and vitamins.

I sank down to the ground. I had squandered the last of my energy reserves on this deal, and now I was wiped out.

I turned my watering eyes toward my master's wife, wagged my tail, and gave her a weak smile. I hoped she would be . . . burp . . . proud.

She appeared to be . . . well . . . laughing, so to speak, which struck me as slightly inappropriate, seeing as how I had come within one grasshopper leg of choking to death.

I mean, maybe that was no big deal to her but . . . by George, she was getting quite a chuckle out of my moment on death's doormat.

But why all the laughter? I had never supposed that Sally May was the kind of woman who laughed at the misfortunes of others, and yet . . .

She was sitting on the ground, with her arms draped around her knees. At last she gained control of her laughter. “Hank, do you know what you just drank?”

Well . . . uh . . . water?

“That isn't water. It's ROOT STIMULATOR.”

Huh?

Root stimulator?

She was biting back a smile. “It's plant food and I don't think it'll hurt you, but maybe you'd better stay out of it.” She laughed and shook her head and returned to her planting chores.

For crying out loud, had I escaped one form of poisoning only to fall victim to another? Actually, the stuff had tasted pretty good.

At that very moment, Little Alfred stuck his head out the door. “Hey Mom, Molly's awake fwom her nap and she's twying to get out of her cwib.”

“Oh dear.” Sally May jumped to her feet and brushed off her hands and pants. “Well, that's the end of the planting for today.” She cut her eyes in my direction. “Don't drink that stuff, Hank. It's good for flowers but it might not be good for dumb dogs.”

Yes ma'am.

I watched as she loped to the house. And, yes, I tried to forgive her for that last cutting remark—something about “dumb dogs.” That was my re­ward, it seemed, for ridding her yard of . . . burp . . . that grasshopper taste was still in my mouth.

I would never eat another stupid grasshopper.

Never.

The back door slammed. She was gone, but the green garbage taste remained in my mouth. My eyes drifted to the, uh, red bucket, so to speak.

You know, I'd never tasted anything quite like that stuff. It had a kind of fizz that tickled a guy's tongue and mouth, and just a hint of a sour taste, and as I sat there . . .

For no particular reason, my mouth began to water and my tongue shot out several times and . . . hmmm . . . by George, much to my own surprise, I found myself . . .

Chapter Five: My Tremendous Scientific Discovery

L
ap, lap, lap.

I couldn't see that it would harm anyone or anything if I sampled it one more time. I mean, she'd said it wasn't poison, right? And that little fizzy sour taste sure had covered up the . . .

Lap, lap.

Yes, it definitely helped get the gooey grass­hopper taste out of my . . . but you know what? All at once I became aware of something else, something truly remarkable.

I felt a rush of energy!

It was small at first, as the tingle in my mouth moved out to other portions of my exhausted body. It tickled my nose, then my ears, then it moved down my spine and out to the end of my tail.

By George! All at once I felt five years . . . lap, lap . . . twenty-five years younger! Boy, what a kick in the pants that stuff had! Woooooooo-eeee!

Lap, lap.

And by then, all the pieces of the puzzle had begun to fall into place. I had stumbled into an incredible scientific discovery, perhaps the most important discovery of the century.

ANYTHING THAT COULD STIMULATE A ROOT COULD REVIVE AND RESTORE A WORN-OUT RANCH DOG!

I was getting stronger by the minute. Was it just my imagination? No, surely not, for I could feel waves of thermonuclear energy moving through my body. I could hardly sit still. In fact, I began hopping around in a circle.

It happened that Drover came up at that very moment. He twisted his head to the side and gave me a puzzled look.

“Gosh, what's gotten into you? I thought you were worn to a frizzle.”

“Ha, ha! That's the way it used to be, Drover, but no more. I've become a dymino of energy.”

“I'll be derned. Must have been that grasshopper, huh?”

“Not at all, my friend, for you see . . . ” Hmmm. All at once it occurred to me that . . . uh . . . there might be reasons, security reasons, for concealing the true nature of my test results.

I mean, we weren't 100% sure of our conclusions, right? And although Drover was a nice little mutt and a true friend, that didn't mean that I had to tell him everything.

Don't forget the old saying: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

And the other old saying: Russian fools jump in where angels fear the tread.

What did that mean? I wasn't sure exactly, but it was a wise old saying. Drover wasn't a Russian dog but he was definitely a fool.

The point is that Drover didn't need to know.

“Yes, you're exactly right, Drover. It was the grass­hopper.”

“I'll be derned. The one I ate must have been a dud.”

“The one you ate wasn't big enough or green enough. It's the big green ones that contain the higher octane levels. By the way, Drover, would you care to wrestle?”

“Wrestle? I don't think so. It's too hot, and besides, this old leg . . .”

WHONK!

I jumped him, threw him over my shoulder, and pinned him to the ground. I just couldn't resist a chance to wrestle. I mean, I was burning up with vitality.

Drover whined for me to let him up, so I did and began looking around for another, shall we say, sparring partner. My eyes fell upon Pete, who had ventured outside Sally May's yard and was slinking across the gravel drive.

Heh, heh.

I threw all engines into Fast Forward, spun my paws on the gravel, and went roaring after Pre­cious Kitty. He knew something was up. Perhaps he saw the fire in my eyes. He stopped in his tracks, humped his back, and began to hiss.

Heh, heh. Bad move.

Just before I got there, he figured out the obvious, that his hissing couldn't stop a freight train. He sold out and ran to the nearest tree.

On another occasion, he would have been safe in a tree—and as a matter of fact, on reaching the first limb, he turned a haughty little smirk at me and stuck out his tongue.

Ha, ha! Little did he know. I didn't stop at the base of the tree, fellers. I climbed that rascal, which caused panic and pandabearium amongst the kitties, so to speak. He screeched and hissed and climbed higher.

I followed. This was fun. I had never climbed a tree before. Whooo-pee! What a lark. Pete scratched and clawed his way out to the tiny branches at the end of a limb, and I . . . hmm, sort of ran out of structural support for my enormous body, you might say, and fell out of the tree.

Good thing old Slim was down there, greasing the trailer bearings, otherwise I might have hit the ground with a thud, but he was there and I landed on his head.

Boy, was he shocked. What a riot. Hat, glasses, bearings, and grease flew in all directions. That woke him up, I'll bet.

Whilst he stared at me with wide eyes, I gave him a huge lick on the face and went bounding away to find another source of entertainment.

“Good honk,” I heard him say, “I just got hit by a falling dog!”

Right-toe! And I was just getting warmed up.

It was my good fortune just then to see seven pecking chickens up ahead of me. How perfect! You know how much I love to bulldoze chickens. It's one of the greatest thrills this life has to offer, even better than treeing cats, because the chickens flutter and flap and make a lot more noise than a cat.

ZOOM! SQUAWK, BAWK, BAWK, KA-BAWK!

Wow. It was great. Wonderful. Terrific. Feathers and chickens flew in all directions. It was one of the most meaningful experiences of my entire career.

The only trouble was that it ended in a matter of seconds, and once you've scattered all the chickens, fellers, it's hard to go back to life's dull routines.

I trotted past Slim and gave him a big grin. He was trying to wipe the axle grease off his glasses and he didn't look too happy about it.

“You dufus dog, what were you doing up in that tree?”

He would never understand. Nobody would under­stand. I had just discovered a secret energy source and had transformed myself into Turbo Pooch—half dog and half bulldozer.

As I approached Drover, he began backing away. “Hank, something's come over you. I think that grasshopper must have been eating dynamite and gasoline. I've never seen you act this way before. I'm kind of worried about you.”

“Ha. Don't worry about me, kid. Worry about the rest of the world. Come on, let's wrestle some more. Let's go a few rounds of boxing. Let's run a five-mile race. Let's tear down a few trees.”

He kept backing away. “You know, Hank, I'd love to do all that, but it's awful hot and this old leg's sure been giving me fits.”

“Yeah? Well, let's just yank it off.” His eyes crossed. I laughed. “Just kidding, Drover. Don't be so serious. Relax and enjoy life.”

“How can I relax when you're acting so weird?”

“I don't know, pard. As a matter of fact, I'm having a little trouble relaxing myself. I mean, one hour ago I could hardly stay awake. Now, I can't find enough things to do to burn up all this energy.”

“That was quite a grasshopper.”

“A what? Oh yes, of course. The, uh, grasshopper. Yes indeed, that was quite a . . .” My ears shot up. They had just picked up the sounds of an Incoming Vehicle. “Come on, son, we've got an interception job to do. Hot dog!”

“Yeah, that's me. I'm a hot dog and I don't want to run, 'cause that'll just make me a hot dogger. I'll meet you around front.”

I hit Full Throttle, spun all four paws on the gravel, and went ripping around the south side of the house. I intercepted the I.V. up by the shelter belt and provided escort all the way to the front of the machine shed.

Actually, I did more than that. I got bored with mere escort duty and began biting the front tires. Yes, I knew it was dangerous, but I didn't care. I seemed to have developed a taste for danger.

And that's odd, isn't it? I mean, all this wild energy had come from a bucket of PLANT FOOD. By George, if that stuff had affected Sally May's shrubberies and flowers the way it affected me, they'd have been running all over the ranch.

Wouldn't that have been something to see, Sally May chasing her petunias and dragonsnappers and hollyhockers through the home pasture?

Well, I was having such a big time snapping at the tires that I didn't notice to who or whom the pickup belonged. Or to put it another way, I didn't notice that the driver was Billy, our neighbor to the east.

Do you remember Billy? Maybe not. The most important detail I can tell you about Billy is that he had several dogs, and one of them happened to be the most gorgeous collie gal in the whole world.

And you'll never guess who was sitting in the back of the pickup.