Monkey Business (2 page)

Chapter Two: The Mysterious Red Box Appears

I
turned my eyes back to Drover. “Well, are you happy now?”

“Oh, about the usual, I guess.”

“You've ruined the exercise and made a shambles of our entire morning's work. The rabbit has entered the pipes of the cattle guard and now there's no chance that we'll get to chase him around.”

“Well, I guess we can go back down to the gas tanks and catch up on our . . .”

“Not so fast. Just because he gave us the slip doesn't mean we're going to quit and go home in disgrace. We'll just have to bark him out. Battle stations, Drover, and commence barking!”

We rushed to the north end of the cattle guard. I began the procedure by peering into one of the pipes and sniffing it out.

“This is going to be easier than I thought. He's in this middle pipe. We've got him trapped, and now all we have to do is surround him.”

“How do we do that?”

I removed my nose from the pipe and glared at him. “How do you think we do it, silly? A pipe has two openings, right? I have this opening covered and that leaves only one, right? Can you follow the logic to its conclusion or do I have to lead you to it?”

“Well, let's see. If you've got this end . . . maybe if I . . . I think I've got it. If I go down to the other end, we'll have him surrounded.”

“Very good, Drover, only you forgot the most important part of the whole procedure: Drop your front end to the ground, elevate your little hiney, wag your tail and bark!”

“I don't have much of a tail to wag.”

“That's correct. You may need to wag your hiney instead of your tail, since you have a stub tail.”

“Yeah, that's what I meant.”

“Exactly. Now let's go for it!”

Drover scampered across the road, dropped down into the correct barking stance, stuck his nose into the pipe, and began barking. I did the same on my end and the excitement began.

Let me pause here to point out that barking into a cattle guard pipe isn't as easy as you might suppose. The problem is that a five-inch mouth won't fit inside a four-inch pipe, so we have to narrow our barking arc down to something in the range of two-and-a-half to three inches.

And still come out with a ferocious sound.

Pretty tough, huh? You bet it was, but we did it.

Five minutes into the procedure it occurred to me that something had gone wrong. Even though we had done some really spectacular barking, the rabbit was still inside the pipe.

I raised up and went through my check list and discovered . . . “Drover, you're barking in the wrong pipe! Move one pipe to the left.”

“Oh, okay.”

He did and we began the whole procedure over again from Step One. It took me another fifteen minutes to realize that we still had a flaw in the ointment.

“Drover, I said to move over one pipe to the
left
.
”

“I did.”

“No, you moved over one pipe to the right. Right is wrong.”

“I'll be derned. What's left in this old world if right is wrong?”

“Never mind the questions. Just move one pipe to the left and we'll get on with it.”

He shrugged and moved one pipe . . .

“Drover, I told you to move to the
left
.”

“I did.”

“No, you moved to the right.”

“No, I went left. See, here's my left paw.”

He held it up. It appeared to be a left paw, all right, but how could that be? Something strange was going on here, and I went into deep concentration to find a solution.

“All right, Drover, I think I've found the missing piece of the puzzle. We're standing on opposite sides, you see. All we have to do is swap ends and your left will become right.”

We swapped ends and both moved one pipe to the left and . . . hmmm, that was odd. This time we both ended up on the wrong . . .

“Drover, I'm beginning to suspect that there's a mysterious magnetism in this cattle guard. It distorts the points of the compass and confuses our sense of direction.”

“Yeah, but we don't have a compass.”

“But if we had one, it would be distorted. The point is, with this heavy magnetic field at work, we'll have to change our tactics. This time, we'll put our noses into the
middle pipe.
”

“Middle pipe. Okay, let's see here. The middle pipe would be the one in the middle?”

“That's correct. And once we direct both our barkings into the same pipe, you see, the con­centration of the sound will drive the rabbit out. Once he's outside, we'll catch him. Let's get after it!”

We put our noses into the pipe, the same pipe this time, and began the barking procedure all over again. I expected the rabbit to come out and surrender after a few minutes of this. But he didn't.

I withdrew my nose and sat down. “Drover, this isn't working.”

“Yeah, I'm all discouraged now and ready to go back to bed.”

“But the important thing is that we have him trapped. He'll have to come out of there sooner or later. He probably thinks that we'll give up and leave, but he doesn't realize with who or whom he's dealing. We'll just wait him out.”

So we waited.

I hate to wait. It bores me to death. Your active minds find it hard to adjust to the slow rhythms of a nincompoop rabbit who has nothing better to do with his life than to sit inside a pipe and wiggle his nose.

The minutes crawled by. At last I could stand it no longer. I pushed myself up. “All right, we've completed Phase Two. Now we move into Phase Three. We'll change ends again and see if that helps.”

We swapped ends, went through the barking procedure once again, and . . . at that point I began to face the possibility that we would have to rip into the steel pipe and destroy the entire cattle guard. I hated to take such drastic action but this rabbit was testing my patience.

So I took three steps backward and peered into the pipes one more time to confirm my visual . . .

A truck was coming from the east. No, two trucks were coming from the east.

Three trucks.

Four.

Five.

A whole bunch of trucks. This was very strange. Seldom, if ever, had I seen so many trucks coming down our road at once. Someone on the creek must have been delivering a bunch of cattle that day, which meant that the approaching trucks were of the cattle truck variety.

“Drover, stand back and prepare to bark at these cattle trucks. As far as I know, they haven't been cleared to cross this ranch.”

Each of us took a step or two backward, crouched down, and prepared to give them the barking they so richly deserved. Here they came, a long line of trucks . . . that was odd. Painted red, white, blue, and yellow? With pictures of clowns and elephants and monkeys and people swinging on trapezes painted on the sides?

Hmmm.

“Drover, I'll want a complete description of every one of these trucks. I don't know what the neighbors are up to, but it's just possible that they've started raising elephants and clowns instead of cattle.”

“I'll be derned.”

The first truck was roaring down on us. “Ready for Heavy Duty Barking? Just a few more feet . . . okay, Drover, let 'em have it!”

When the front wheels of the first truck crossed the pipes of the cattle guard, we leaped out of the shadows, so to speak, and barked it from both sides. Pretty slick maneuver, caught 'em completely by surprise, and as you might expect, they didn't even dare to slow down.

The dust fogged around us but that didn't stop us from challenging the second truck, or the third. It was from the window of the third truck that the paper cup filled with ice came flying, hit me dead-center on the back, kind of shocked me there for a second.

I yelped but soon regained my composture, and by the time the back wheels of the truck crossed the cattle guard, I had jumped back into the struggle and torn most of the tread off the outside tire.

I mean, when they make me mad, they have to live with the consequences. I don't appreciate people throwing cups of ice at me when I'm on duty. They were just lucky I didn't get a good bite on that tire or I might have disabled the entire truck.

The dust boiled up, the trucks roared past and rumbled over our cattle guard, and we gave them a barking they would never forget. I had my doubts that they would ever risk coming down MY road again.

It's possible that the weight of the first five or six trucks mashed the cattle guard down, so that it was lower than the road. I say that because when the last truck came by, it bounced hard going over the cattle guard—so hard that a big red wooden box came loose from the top of the load and went flying off into the horse pasture.

I opened my mouth to alert Drover to this turn of events, but the swirling dust was so thick that it filled my eyes and mouth with . . . well, dust, of course. I coughed and spat and waited for it to clear.

“All right, Drover, they're gone. Report in.”

He sneezed. “It's dusty.”

“That checks out. We had the same conditions over here.”

“Yeah, 'cause it was the same bunch of trucks.”

“Exactly. Did we scare the liver out of those guys or what?”

“I didn't see any livers, but I think they were scared.”

“You bet they were scared! They'll think twice before they come down our road again. Oh, and did you notice that something fell off that last truck?”

He moved out into the middle of the road, sat down, and began scratching his ear. “Well, I couldn't see because of the . . .”

“A big red box fell off that last truck and came to rest in our horse pasture. Stand by with search parties! We're fixing to take possession of that box.”

And with that, we leaped over the cattle guard—well, most of it. I landed three pipes short of the opposite side and lost a couple of legs in the pipes, but that proved to be only a temporary setback.

Within seconds, we had located the Mysteri­ous Red Box and had surrounded it.

Chapter Three: We Capture the Box

Y
our ordinary dogs have no procedures or responses for Mysterious Red Box situations. I mean, to them a box is just a box, and they don't know what to do with it.

On this outfit, we have procedures and techniques and responses for just about any situation Life can throw at us, including but not limited to Mysterious Red Boxes that fall off of strangely painted cattle trucks.

Okay. It was lying in the grass, some fifty feet north of the road. I gave Drover orders to approach it from the south, while I circled around and came in from the north. You might be interested in hearing some of the more technical aspects of the capture, so I'll step it out for you.

Step One: Once in our positions, we went into the Stealthy Crouch Mode and began stalking toward the alleged box.

Step Two: Every third step we paused and barked a warning at the box. (A lot of dogs wouldn't take the time to do this, but it's very important. You never know what might be inside a box.)

Step Three: After each barst of burking, we crept forward again—burst of barking, I should say—with our auditory equipment poised to pick up any signals that might be transmitting from the box.

Step Four: At a distance of ten feet from the target, I gave the signal to Attack and Capture. We rushed forward from our respective positions, lifted our respective hind legs, and marked the box from our respective sides.

Step Five: Once marked, the box had become our possession, a trophy of war. But notice that we had done it all legal and proper, so there could be no argument about the change in ownership. We had by George marked it, and it was by George OURS.

I walked around and inspected Drover's side. “Nice work, son. That was a direct hit.”

“Thanks, Hank. I think my aim's getting better. I used to miss every once in a while.”

“Yes, and I remember a few occasions when you got so excited, you couldn't fire.”

“Yeah, and I'd shoot myself in the leg about half the time.”

“You've made real progress, but don't let it go to your head.”

“Oh, my aim was never that bad.”

“No, what I'm saying is, don't start thinking that you're a hotshot marksman and then get care­less. Practice makes perfect.”

“That's a good way to put it. ‘Practice makes perfect.' Did you think that one up yourself?”

“Uh, yes, it's original, but you may quote me now and then if you wish. Just don't forget who said it first.”

“Oh, I wouldn't do that.” He sat down and grinned. “Well, we've got ourselves a nice big red box. What do you reckon we ought to do with it?”

I sat down and began admiring our new possession. “I can answer that question right quick. We'll roll it down to headquarters and set it up in our bedroom beneath the gas tanks. I've been thinking that we need something to liven up our bedroom.”

“Yeah, me too. It's kind of drab.”

“It's very drove, Drabber. The only question I have is, will a red box go with our color scheme?”

“You mean, with our gunnysacks and spills of diesel fuel?”

“Exactly, and with the silver tanks and the green pigweeds and the brown dirt?”

“Gee, I don't know about that.”

“Nor do I. We'll just try it and see. If we don't like it, we'll get rid of it and try something else.”

“Good idea. But it's a pretty big box. You think we can roll it all the way to the gas tanks?”

I gave him a sideward glance and smiled. “You saw what we did to those giant cattle trucks, didn't you? Do you suppose a box will cause us any trouble?”

“Well, I don't know. Are you sure those were cattle trucks?”

“Of course they were cattle trucks. What other kinds of trucks would pass down this road?”

“I don't know, Hank, but they were all painted up—kind of like circus trucks or something.”

“Don't be absurd. There are no circuses around here, hence, there can be no circus trucks. All that stuff painted on the sides was probably a clever disguise to keep us from barking at the trucks. But as you noticed, it didn't work.”

“Sure didn't. I wasn't scared even a little bit.”

“Just another cheap trick, Drover. Well, let's get this thing rolled down to . . .”

That box was made out of three-quarter-inch plywood, and it was heavier than you might have thought.

“On second thought, Drover, I don't think we need a big red box in our bedroom.”

“Yeah,” he stopped pushing on the box and caught his breath, “'cause we can't even budge it.”

“That's correct, and budgets are crucial to ranch management. Let's leave her right where she lays.”

“I'm for that. Hey, look. There's something written on the side of the box.”

I moved around to the east side of the box and studied the large white letters. “Hmmm. You're right. Let's see if I can make it out.”

WARNING! MONKEY!

DO NOT OPEN THIS BOX!

Drover was waiting for my translation. “What does it say, Hank? Can you read it?”

“Very interesting, Drover. In fact, VERY interesting. I've broken the code and translated the secret message.”

“What does it say?”

“Give me a second to work it all out.” I began pacing back and forth in front of the box, my mind moving outward into the realm of deepest concentration. “All right, I think I've got it. Drover, there's something inside this box that monkeys are not allowed to see.”

“No foolin'?”

“That's correct. What tipped me off was the first line, which contains a warning to all monkeys. The only question remaining is, what could be hidden inside that monkeys are not allowed to have?”

“Well, let's see. Bananas?”

“Possibly so. Or peanuts? Or how about monkey wrenches? Yes, that's what it is. Drover, we have intercepted an illegal shipment of monkey wrenches!”

“You'd think they'd want monkeys to have monkey wrenches, wouldn't you?”

“Don't ever fall for the obvious, Drover. These people are clever beyond your wildest dreams. At this point we don't know why they want to keep the monkeys away from the monkey wrenches, but we have enough evidence to build a case. Now we must rush down to the house and sound the alarm.”

“Or I guess we could open up the box and look inside. See, there's a wooden peg holding the hasp shut.”

I turned to the runt and gave him a glare.

“
Hasp
?”

“Yeah. The hasp is the thing that locks the door.”

“Where did you learn that word?”

“Oh, I don't know, just picked it up somewhere.”

“Well, I've never heard it before, and I don't appreciate you using big words around me.”

“Oh, it's not so big, just a four-letter word.”

“Exactly my point, and I've warned you about using four-letter words on the job. In security work, we have an image to protect, and nothing destroys an image faster than the casual, careless, indiscriminate use of four-letter words. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yeah.”

“There's another four-letter word! Watch your step, Drover, before I have to take corrective measures.”

“Okay.”

“That's my last word on four-letter words.”

“Good.”

“Now, to the house. I think Sally May will want to know that we've discovered an illegal shipment of monkey wrenches in the horse pasture. Come on, let's fly!”

And with that, we made a dash back to headquarters to alert the house.