Monkey Business (7 page)

Chapter Eleven: Pasha Breaks the Law and Other Things

D
rover, it occurs to me that . . .” The dunce had fainted, I mean, flat out on the floor. “. . . that I am dreaming.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “This is only a dream. I don't believe in monkeys and what's happening here is against the law and therefore impossible. I repeat, this is only a dream.”

With that out of the way, I opened my . . . AND THERE HE STOOD!

Red hat, red jacket, big grin on his face, evil wickedness in his eyes, crooking his finger at me, telling me to . . . no way I was gonna . . . holy smokes, I was trapped!

I tried to dive under the couch. Nope. I ran around in a circle but found that I was just going in circles. I barked—squeaked, actually. Some­times dreams can be more real than . . . mois­ture on my leg? Not just moisture. Wetness. Water. I knocked over, or shall we say, the antique lamp on the end table fell over and crashed to the floor.

I took dead aim for the underside of Sally May's bed but didn't quite make it.

He grabbed me by the ears and shook my head so hard, it turned my eyeballs around backward. Then he said, “I am Pasha of Shizzam, and you are my slave.”

“You're a monkey's uncle and lum wum lum lum!”

He'd got me by the tongue, see. “Do not call me a minkey. I am not a minkey. I am Pasha!”

“Lum wum lum.”

“You have taught Pasha good treek, sizz tongue of dug and pool hard. Good treek, yes? Pasha like treek!”

“Wum.”

Drover let out a groan. “Oh my gosh, I just had a terrible dream! I was locked in a house with a monkey!”

Pasha released my tongue, swaggered over to little Drover, and booted him in the tail section. “Do not say minkey! Geet up and be slave for Pasha.”

“Oh my gosh, it's HIM! I thought it was a . . . Hank, what are we gonna do?”

“Get up and be a slave for Pasha, what do you think?”

“You mean . . .”

“I mean we've been captured by a mon . . . by the Pasha of Shizzam.”

“But I thought we voted . . .”

“You'd better do what he says, Drover, before you get your tongue yanked out by the roots.”

Pasha glanced at me and grinned. “Ver-ry good you understand Pasha!” The smile slipped into a snarl and he raised one hairy little finger in the air. “Now you leesen to Pasha. Pasha ees hungry, want food very much.”

“Yeah, well, if you'll open up that back door, Pasha, we'll run up to the machine shed and get you some dog food. Great stuff. Co-op. You'll really . . .”

He shook his head. “Pasha not eat dog food, you fool. Pasha want Pasha food.”

“Yes, I see, Pasha food. In that case, I suggest you open up the refrigerator and check it out.”

“What meaning is refrigerator? Pasha not know refrigerator.”

“Here, follow me.” I headed for the kitchen. Passing by Drover, I whispered, “Play along with him. I've got a plan.”

“Oh good!”

“Shhhh!” I marched into the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator. “Here you are, Your Worthy Worship.”

Pasha's eyes lit up. “I like that, ‘Your Worthy Worsheep.' Ees ver-ry good, yes?”

“Nothing but the best for our Pasha of Shizzam. Now, with your hands, you can open that door. That's right, just grab the handle and pull.”

He pulled and the door swung open. My eyes darted over the contents until I found what I had hoped would be there. I pointed toward two amber bottles near the bottom.

My plan was beginning to unfold. You see, whilst the monkey was holding my tongue, I had remembered a song I had learned as a pup:

The monkey he got drunk

And jumped on the elephant's trunk.

The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees

And what became of the monk, the monk, the monk?

You get the picture? Pretty clever, huh? Some­times I even scare myself.

The monkey—Pasha, that is—reached a hairy little hand into the icebox and pulled out one of the bottles. He shook it, put it up to his ear, rolled it around in his hands, and tried to take a bite out of it.

“Not good! Pasha not like thees. Too hard to chew.”

“Eh, no, Your Majesty. You don't eat it. You twist off the lid and drink it in one big gulp.”

Pasha grumbled around for a minute, then twisted the lid. It fizzed and spewed in his face. He didn't like that. “What ees thees thing that speets in Pasha's face?”

I chuckled. “That's soda pop, Pasha. You'll love it. Just gulp it down and you'll be the happiest monkey . . . oops.”

He came over to me, and he didn't look too happy. “You said minkey. Pasha is not minkey. Pasha is Pasha!”

“Yes, well, uh, hush my mouth, I never should have . . .”

“Steek out your tongue!”

Well, old stupid me had said the wrong word and now I was going to get another tongue twisting, but that was okay because my plan was working to perfection. I opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, and prepared myself . . .

HUH?

I was definitely surprised when the monkey stuck the bottle in my mouth and turned it up. I mean, I thought he was going to . . . sure was fizzy and foamy, and I can't say I liked the taste of it very much, but I either had to swaller it or drown.

I swallered and then did some serious burping.

The monkey pitched the empty bottle over his shoulder and gave me a smile. “Now! Eef thees ees poison, you weel die and Pasha weel watch.”

For some reason, I started laughing. “No, it ain't pashion, Poisha, just a little old bottle of soda pop. You'll see, won't he, Djrover?”

“Hank, you're sure talking funny.”

“Huh? Spick up, son, you're mumbering. Say, did anyone ever tell you that you have two heads and two faces? 'Cause you do.”

“Hank, are you feeling okay?”

“Huh? Never fell better in my whole life, Djrover, just seeing double, izall.” I turned my bleary eyes to Pasha. “You know what? You look juss slike a monkey to me.”

His eyebrows shot up and a grin curled on one side of his mouth. “Eet ees not poison. Eet ees something else.”

“You better believe it, Charlie, and I don't belief yer monkey enough to djrink one lum wum wugg lum.”

He grabbed my tongue, pulled it out with one hand, and spanked it with the other. “I am not a minkey, you weel not call me a minkey, but I weel drink one nevertheless.”

Whilst I was getting my tongue sorted out and stuffed back into my mouth, he reached in, got the second bottle, twisted off the cap, turned it up, and chugged it down.

He pitched the empty bottle over his shoulder and it crashed into a thousand pieces on the floor. He burped and shook his head.

“Eet does not work for me. I feel nothing. Now I weel find something else to itt.”

He turned back to the refrigerator and fell into the second shelf, amongst the fresh spinach leaves and radishes from Sally May's garden.

I thought that was about the funniest thing I'd ever seen. I laughed like a fool, so hard I stumbled into the kitchen table and, well, sort of knocked the jelly jar and sugar bowl off on the floor.

Old Pasha climbed out of the spinach and came up wearing a big silly grin. “Eet ees ver-ry strange, thees soda pop stuff.”

Oh, I howled at that! Laughed like crazy, right up to the moment when the first egg hit me between the eyes. “Hey, are you throwing eggs at me? Somebody around here's throwing . . .” SPLAT! “. . . eggs at me.” SPLAT!

“I deed eet!” Pasha laughed. “'Twas I who threw theem.”

“Why, you sorry outfit,” I was laughing so hard I could barely talk, had egg dripping down into my eyes. “I'll fix yer wagon.”

I swept my paw through the jelly that had spilled on the floor and rubbed it into Pasha's face and hair. Howling with laughter, we wrestled around, rolled into the refrigerator, and somehow managed to collapse a couple of shelves, which explains how a gallon of milk ended up spreading across the kitchen floor . . .

Drover was about to have a seizure. “Oh my gosh, Hank, no, stop, the floor, Sally May's going to kill us all!”

“Oh dry up, you little squawk box, she'll never suspect a thing.”

Pasha and I ended up on the bottom shelf, with our arms around each other's shoulders. We had become the best of friends, is what had happened, in spite of the differences between us.

He gave me a crooked smile. “I haff a confession to make. I am really a minkey, not a Pasha. In circus, I do treeks and beg for money. I am only a beggar minkey.”

“No kiddin'? Well, I have a confession to make too. I'm really a dog but I love this monkey business. I also love to sing, and I have an idea for a song about monkey business.”

His eyes lit up. “You like to sing, yes? Maybe we sing together, yes?”

“You got a deal, pardner! Come on, Drover, let's tune up and knock the socks off of this song.”

Drover had placed one paw over his eyes. “Hank, Sally May's going to kill us!”

Chapter Twelve: The Firing Squad

M
onkey Business

Now, every creature on this earth

Needs a business to prove his worth,

Something to test his skills and express himself.

You've got plumbers and cowboys and carpenters,

Butchers, bakers, and saw sharpeners,

Guys who sack up groceries and stock the shelves.

Your business kind of sets the tone

Of who you are and how you're known.

And it's pretty important to pick one you understand.

So get yourself a business, son,

If you ain't there yet, I'll tell you one.

And you'd better buy stock in this one while you can.

Monkey business, monkey fun,

Monkey room for everyone.

Enroll yourself today in monkey school.

We've got a booming business here.

Depression-proof, owned free and clear.

And all you've got to do is act a fool.

Your local Better Business folks

Will probably tell you funny jokes

And call our line of work a big charade.

But the joke's on them, it seems to me,

When the truth's so very plain to see,

That monkey business is everybody's favorite trade.

So eat your heart out, Wall Street smarties,

Take GM, we'll take our parties,

And in ten years we'll just see what we've done.

We'll have show-and-tell, we'll have a quiz,

I'll put my dough on monkey biz

'Cause fools outnumber wise men ten to one.

Monkey business, monkey fun,

Monkey room for everyone.

Enroll yourself today in monkey school.

We've got a booming business here,

Depression-proof, owned free and clear,

And all you've got to do is act a fool, oh yeah.

You've got to play this game by funky monkey rules, oh yeah.

In monkey business, boys, just act a fool.

Well, me and my monkey pal sang the heck out of that song, had us a big time. We not only made a great contribution to music and culture, but we also notched up a few points for the Brotherhood of All Animals.

I mean, there I was, a very important dog, socializing with a low-class monkey who went around begging nickels in the circus. The fact that I would stoop so low made my heart swell with pride and almost brought tears to my eyes.

One of the advantages of being wonderful is that you can share it with others. Gives you a warm feeling inside.

Well, me and Monkey had a great time to­gether, but old Sour Puss Drover sat through the whole thing and didn't sing a lick. When we finished, instead of cheering and shouting, as any intelligent dog would have done, he started whining and moaning.

“When Sally May comes home, your monkey business is going to get us killed!”

I glanced around the kitchen. It was a little messy, now that he mentioned it.

“Relax, Drover. We've got plenty of time. We'll get us a bite to eat and clean this mess up. Then our pal Monkey will open the back door for us, and we'll all vanish into the sunset, so to speak. Right, Monk?” He nodded. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

“Hank, I want out now. I'm scared.”

“Okay, fine, and who cares anyway? Monk, go open the back door and let the runt out so he can play chicken with the chickens.”

Monk nodded, and they went to the back of the house. While they were gone, I turned to more important business. Among the items that had, uh, somehow spilled out of the open refrigerator was a package of, hmmm, hamburger.

I gave it a good sniffing. Sure smelled good. Fresh meat. Of course, I knew that Sally May had thawed it out for the supper meal and I wouldn't have dreamed of . . . but on the other hand, hamburger doesn't keep well at room temperature and . . .

I found my nose nuzzling at the wrapping paper. You know, I was sniffing it out and, by George, would you believe that the wrapping paper just fell off, leaving two pounds of fresh, juicy ham­burger exposed to germs and dangerous microbes and . . .

Have you ever stopped to think how dangerous microbes are to little children? Very dangerous, and once germs have lit on a two-pound package of hamburger, it's next to impossible to get rid of 'em.

About the only precaution you can take is to eat the hamburger right away, and I mean all of it. Otherwise, you'll have plague and disease and sick kids laying around everywhere.

Well, you know where I stand on the issues of plague and disease. I'm 100 percent against 'em, and if I had my way, I'd abolish 'em completely. If a dog can't—this is for the record and you can quote me—if a dog can't protect the kids on his ranch from plague and disease, by George he ain't much of a dog.

So, in a selfless effort to save the ranch from an outbreak of deadly microbosis, I began disposing of the infected meat in large gulps.

I heard the door slam, then footsteps on the floor. “Hey, Monk, come here, son. I've got something . . .”

Those were pretty heavy footsteps . . . for a monkey . . . I began to get this funny feeling . . . that I was being . . . stared at . . . you know how you get that feeling sometimes?

Very slowly, I turned my head away from the pool of hamburger blood on the floor and the wreckage of the refrigerator and the busted eggs and the jelly smears, and I'd sure expected her to stay longer at the dentist office.

That dentist sure hadn't done much . . . you'd think . . .

I, uh, whapped my tail on the floor and tried to squeeze up a smile. She was probably about to jump to a hasty conclusion. That was my impression. I could heard the air rushing through her nostrils, and suddenly her eyes . . .

Where were my friends when I really needed them?

I'd be the first to admit that Sally May and I had experienced our ups and downs. No relationship is easy. But never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that she would chase me around the house with hands that had become like claws.

Or drag me out from under her bed, or take a loaded shotgun from the bedroom closet. Or tie a blindfold around my eyes, carry both me and the gun down to the corrals. Or line me up against the fence and take up a position twenty paces away.

Never in my wildest dreams . . .

The drums began to roll. “Ready!” I heard the hammers click on the shotgun. “Aim!”

“Wait, Sally May, I think I can explain everything. There was this monkey, see, who escaped from the circus and turned into a terrible despotic Pasha . . .”

“Lies, lies!”

“No, it's true, honest. And he forced strong drink upon me and made me do monkey business and terrible things, and never in my wildest dreams . . .”

“Hank? You'd better wake up, I've got some bad news.”

“Drover, when she pulls that trigger, all the bad news will be bad, because . . .”

HUH?

Drover?

I pried my eyelids open and stared at the runt. “Why, you traitor! You back-stabbing, two-faced snake in the grass! You left me in the kitchen to face the firing squad alone!”

“Firing squad in the kitchen? What are you talking about?”

I cut my eyes from side to side. It appeared that I was lying on my gunnysack bed, under the gas tanks. The sun was shining and, best of all, I saw no traces of Sally May or her shotgun.

With each new piece of evidence, it became clearer and clearer that I had just awakened from an incredible dream.

I pushed myself up on all-fours and staggered around, waiting for the fog to lift, so to speak, from the area between my eyes and whatever it is that resides behind the eyes.

Brain. Mind. Data Control Center. Whatever.

“Drover, let me ask you a question. To your knowledge has there ever been a monkey on this ranch?”

“Oh, yeah. He was in a box and the box fell off the back of a circus truck.”

“Okay, that checks out. Question Two: Did this alleged monkey ever reach into your mouth and pull out your tongue?”

“He sure did, after you taught him to do it.”

“Strike that from the record. I asked about the monkey, not about me.”

“Oh. Yeah, he pulled my tongue. He was a mean little cuss.”

“That checks out too. Now, Question Three: Did this alleged monkey follow us into the house, present himself as an impostor called the Pasha of Shizzam, and force me to drink a bottle of beer?”

He stared at me and twisted his head. “That sounds crazy to me. I think you must have dreamed it.”

“Yes, that checks out too. I remember saying over and over, ‘Never in my wildest dreams.' But it WAS in my wildest dreams, Drover. Do you understand what this means?”

“It means you were dreaming, I guess.”

“Exactly. And I won't be shot after all! Oh, happy day, Drover. The very best kind of day is one in which you know you won't be shot by a firing squad.”

“Never thought about that, but Hank, I've got some bad news. While you were asleep, a man from the circus came by and got his monkey. He's gone.”

I'm sure Drover didn't understand my spasm of insane laughter, since he hadn't participated in my dream. It took me several minutes to get control of myself.

Then Drover went on. “I thought you'd be sad, but I can already see that you're not.”

I filled my lungs with fresh, clean air and gave myself a good stretch. “Well, Drover, as usual, there's a lesson to be learned from all of this.”

“All of what?”

“And I'll expect you to make a note of it and refer to it in the future. Never open strange boxes, Drover, and leave monkey business to the monkeys.”

And with that, we went streaking out into the home pasture to bark at starlings and blackbirds, and to guide our ranch safely through another day.