The Case of the Double Bumblebee Sting (4 page)

Chapter Six: Okay, Maybe It Was a Rattlesnake

S
o there you are. The song had allowed me to work through the trauma of my situation and to admit what was becoming more and more obvious:

The thing that had attacked my nose was neither a rabbit nor a bumblebee, but rather, a RATTL­E­SNAKE!

Does that shock you? I'm sorry. Facts are facts, and until something better comes along, we must face the facts and deal with them as though they actually mean something.

To do otherwise would be to dwell forever in the land of fantasy and dreams . . . which, come to think of it, doesn't seem all that terrible.

Hmmm. Maybe it really was a bumblebee and . . .

Perhaps you thought it was a bumblebee. Or two bumblebees. Yes, there for a minute or two, I'd embraced that theory myself, but on further analysis and deeper inspection, that theory just hadn't cut bait.

I mean, we had this huge throbbing nose right in front of us which pointed to the Rattlesnake Skinnerio. That kind of nose couldn't come from a mere rabbit bite or a bumblebee sting. It was the work of a
rattlesnake.

Once again, I'm sorry for wrecking your theory. The fact that it was a pretty stupid theory shouldn't discourage you from proposing other stupid theories in the future. Where would we be without stupid theories?

I don't know.

Ask Drover. He's the expert on stupid theories. In fact, wasn't it Drover who had raised the Bumblebee Theory in the first place? Yes, of course.

At last, the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and I made a mental note to lower Drover's daily grade by three points for coming up with that nitwit Bumblebee Theory.

You have to watch him all the time. You never know what kind of bonehead idea he'll come up with next.

Where were we?

Oh yes. The weight of evidence had finally forced you and Drover to admit . . . and we've covered that already and I hate to repeat myself.

And you know how much I hate to repeat myself.

Rattlesnake bite. And I was one sick puppy, getting sicker by the minute.

At last Sally May came out of the house. Baby Molly was forked upon her left hip and Little Alfred was making bulldozer sounds with his lips. They came out the yard gate and started down to Slim's pickup, which he had left parked near the gas tanks.

Sally May called to me and asked if I could walk. I didn't know, but I saw no harm in trying. I jacked my hind end off the ground.

That's the way a cow gets up, did you know that? It's true, but a horse gets up front-legs first. Just thought I'd throw that in.

I jacked my hind end off the ground, pushed hard on my front legs and raised my south end to the same level. It was then that I noticed that my head and face now weighed in close to a hundred and fifty pounds (the swelling, don't you see), which made it difficult to hold my head at its usual proud angle.

My lower lip was dragging the ground, is where we were, and walking is not easy when your lip has become a road grader blade. But I'm no quitter, and I forced myself to make the long walk down the hill to the pickup.

I'm sure that small minds would have thought that I looked ridiculous, and would have laughed and poked fun at my condition. It didn't seem so funny to me.

At last, I made it to Slim's pickup. Sally May opened the door on the driver's side, looked inside, and gasped.

“How can that man ride in this thing! My trash barrel is cleaner than this!”

She set Molly on the ground and began pulling out . . . well, things: five-buckle overshoes, hay hooks, a yellow slicker, a coffee can full of fence staples, wire pliers, a nylon catch rope, a box of cow pills, jumper cables, a pair of spurs, two calfpulling chains, and a tuna fish can that had been sitting on the dash.

I don't know what was inside the can but it must have been pretty awful. She looked into it and . . . mercy, crossed her eyes, curled her lip, and threw it as far as she could. Then a shiver passed through her entire body and she said, “Ohhh, nasty bachelors!”

She sprinted back to the house and returned with a roll of paper towels and a spray can of . . . something. She swabbed the seat with paper towels, wiped the dash and steering wheel, and I was beginning to wonder if she might consider hurrying up a bit.

I mean, we had an emergency snakebite victim waiting to be rushed to the hospital, right?

She finished the cleaning, picked up the spray can, pointed it inside the cab, held it at arm's length, turned her head away, and filled the cab with a fog of spray.

She opened both doors and fanned the fog with a chainsaw manual she had found beneath the seat. When the fog had cleared enough so that we could breathe, she pitched Molly into the seat and tied her down with a seatbelt, and told Alfred to load up.

Then she looked down at me. Her hair seemed a little mussed and she swept a wisp of it out of her eyes. “Come on, Hank, get into the car . . . pickup . . . truck . . . whatever you call this junk­heap. Get up, come on, boy. Jump!”

Jump? Was she serious? Jump, with a two-hundred-pound face? I didn't think so, but I did manage to wag my tail and give her a mournful look.

She heaved a sigh. “I guess I'll have to pick you up and load you. I'll try to be gentle.”

She wrapped her arms around my chest and gave a mighty lift and, my goodness, you should have heard the groan! She got me off the ground but maybe that threw her off balance just a little bit, because she staggered two steps backward and we all ended up on the ground, with me on top.

Well, the least I could do was to give her a lick on the face for her effort. I mean, I really appreciated . . . I tried to give her a lick of appreciation but, alas, my face was swollen so badly that the old tongue just wasn't working and . . .

I guess I drooled on her. A little bit. My face was very drooly, see, because that's what happens when your face and mouth are swollen up, you can't control the flow of . . .

Well, she didn't like the drool, I guess, and after some kicking and squirming, she made it back to her feet. She tore off five paper towels and wiped her face and arms.

Panting for breath, she turned back to me. “Hank, will you please jump up into the car? Please?”

Okay, I would try, but it wasn't a car. No dog in history had ever managed to load himself into a pickup with a two-hundred-pound face, but for Sally May, I would try.

And by George, it worked. Somehow, against tremendous odds, I dragged myself into the cab and collapsed immediately on the floor. I was worn to a frazzle.

She climbed in behind me and slammed the door. “Alfred, sit down and don't say one word until we get to town. Molly, don't touch anything. This whole pickup is poisonous.”

“Mom, I smell bananas,” said Alfred.

“It's peaches, dear, peach-scented spray.” She stared at the instrument panel. “How do we start this thing?” She spotted the ignition key and turned it. We lurched forward and she let out a scream. “A-a-a-a-a!”

Alfred grinned. “It's a stick shift, Mom. You have to put in the cwutch.”

She burned him up with a pair of flaming eyes, then said, “Yes, darling. I know that now.”

She took a grip on the steering wheel and plunged her left foot to the . . . oof! . . . floor. Trouble was that I happened to be down there in the vicinity of the clutch pedal.

“Hank, move!”

Huh? Me? Gee whiz, I thought I'd done pretty well just to load myself into the derned pickup and I didn't know she . . .

“MOVE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!!”

Okay, okay. I could take a hint, but it wasn't easy, let me tell you. I crawled and squirmed and managed to drag my wounded self a few inches to the east, enough so that she could push the clutch pedal to the floor.

She pushed it to the floor and started the motor. She seized the gearshift lever in her right hand, pushed it straight up, and popped the clutch. We lurched forward: chug, chug, chug!

“Hank, you're in the way again.”

Huh? Me? Hey, I had just moved and . . .

“I can't reach the gas pedal. You're going to have to move out of my way. Alfred, can you get this dog out from under my feet? Hank, go sit on the other side. Go on, boy, be a good dog. Hank, MOVE OVER!”

She seemed to be kicking at me with her foot, a clue that she was pretty serious about getting me moved out from under her business. Okay, fine. I just hadn't realized . . . I had taken some comfort in being close to her, don't you see, and moving around in my condition wasn't all that much fun and . . .

Yes, somehow I summoned up the energy and strength to drag my wounded, swollen carcass around the gearshift lever and move it to the other side of the cab.

I collapsed at Little Alfred's feet and gave the boy a mournful gaze. He laughed.

“You wook funny, Hankie, wiff your face all puffed up.”

Thanks, pal. “Funny” didn't even come close to describing how I felt, but I was glad that somebody was able to enjoy my snakebite.

Anything to make the kids happy, I always say.

And so it was that we made our emergency trip into town in Slim's pickup. Little did I know that . . . well, you'll find out soon enough, but only if you keep on reading.

Chapter Seven: Molly Eats Bugs

W
e went up the hill in front of the house in first gear, known in the trade as “Grandma Low.” By the time we reached the top, Sally May had the motor wound up so tight that it was screaming, yet we were not moving very fast.

It was then that she began to realize that the pickup had four gears, and that she would have to do some shifting. With a grim expression on her face, she took a double grip on the steering wheel, pushed the clutch pedal to the floor, reached for the gearshift lever with her right hand, and pulled it straight down.

The gears began to grind. We coasted to a stop as she continued to search for second gear. At last she found it and popped the clutch. That sent everyone's head snapping back, and the pickup leaped forward.

It was a little rough, but we were on our way to town.

At the mailbox, she turned left onto the county road. She was in third gear by then and probably should have shifted down to second, but she was accustomed to driving an automatic transmission instead of a standard stick shift, and she didn't shift down.

I noticed this, and so did Little Alfred. He even offered some advice. “Hey, Mom, you're s'posed to shift the gears.”

“Honey, I'll take care of the driving. I'm the parent and you're the child, and if you don't mind, I'd rather not hear your commentary all the way to town.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“I know that you're trying to help, but this is not the time or place for that. But thanks, anyway.”

“Okay, Mom, but you're s'posed to shift the gears.”

“Alfred, hush.”

The U-joints clanged, the tappits rattled, the motor wheezed and groaned and jerked, and slowly, very slowly, we pulled away from the mail­box. So far, so good.

We came to the first cattleguard and bounced across it. Little clouds of dust drifted down from the ceiling, and seven crazed miller moths came flying out of the heater vents on the dash.

Have we discussed miller moths? I really dislike them a lot. Or to put it another way, I HATE 'em. I mean, here is a bug that can't even fly in a straight line! They fly in those crazy spirals, bump into things, and somehow they always manage to get into your face.

I have been known to watch them for minutes at a time, and then to snap them right out of the air. Shooting down millers is very satisfying, but not for long because they're covered with this powder, this brown dust that tastes awful.

“He who biteth a miller moth soon spitteth.”

Have you ever heard that old saying? Maybe not, because I just made it up, heh heh, and I think it's pretty good. It's definitely true.

I love to blast 'em out of the sky, but the taste that follows is no fun at all. It makes a guy have second thoughts about blasting them out of the sky, is what it does, and this time, in the pickup, I merely observed.

I observed them flying their stupid spirals, bouncing off the windshield and the roof and the window glass; accomplishing absolutely nothing, contributing nothing to the good of the world; buzzing around my face and leaving a trail of miller dust everywhere they went—in other words, being totally worthless.

I watched this with mounting rage and irritation, but chose not to snap them out of the air. Why? Simple. First, my face was much too swollen to be an effective snapping device, and second, I had no wish to repeat the follies of my past. I had already learned my lessons on biting millers: Don't.

Well, Sally May coughed on the dust, fanned the air, and managed to bat two of the millers out the window. “I will never drive this pickup again, never! Alfred, try not to breathe the dust.”

“What should I bweeve?”

“I don't know, but try not to breathe the dust. Stick your head out the window until it settles.”

He stuck his head out the window. At that same moment, one of the crazed millers landed in Baby Molly's lap. I watched this closely to see what she would do. I had a feeling that she might . . .

Uh-huh, she did. She snatched up the miller in her fat little fist and ate it. She chewed it three times, made a sour face, and spit it out. The miller ended up hanging by a wing on the point of her chin.

I saw the whole thing and had a pretty strong suspicion that Sally May wouldn't approve. I whined and thumped my tail, which succeeded in pulling her eyes away from the road.

When she saw that brown ring of miller dust around her baby daughter's mouth, and the dead bug hanging off her chin, she almost had a stroke and a wreck at the same time.

“Molly, nasty miller, nasty! Spit, spit.”

By the time Mom had gotten all the nastiness wiped off of Molly's mouth and chin, the pickup had wandered off the side of the road and into the ditch and was heading toward a big cottonwood tree.

Alfred saw it coming. “Hey, Mom, you're heading for a twee.”

Sally May jerked the wheel back to the left and got us back on the road. “Alfred, I saw the tree. I'm not blind.”

“Yeah, but you were fixing to have a weck.”

“We were NOT fixing to have a wreck, and don't tell your mother how to drive. Molly ate a bug.”

Molly laughed and blew bubbles of spit. Alfred gave her a disgusted look.

“Mowee, don't eat bugs. That's dumb.”

“Honey, it's not dumb, it's just unsanitary. And take my word for it, you ate plenty of bugs when you were Molly's age.” The pickup had begun to stray toward the ditch again and she jerked it back. “Now, let's all sit back and relax and try to enjoy the ride to town, and let Mommy concentrate on her driving.”

Hear, hear.

Sally May took a double grip on the wheel, turned her eyes to the road ahead, and let out a big breath of air. We rode in near silence to the main highway.

You may not believe this, but when silence finally fell over our little group, I began thinking of a song about kids eating bugs. It was a pretty cute song, and it's too bad I don't remember it.

You would have enjoyed it.

Boy, I hate to forget a good song.

Should have written it down, I guess, only dogs don't write.

Wait a minute, hold everything. It just came back to me. It's called “Eating Bugs Is Lots of Fun.”

Eating Bugs Is Lots of Fun

I know that some amongst you will more than likely think

That eating bugs is yucky, they're ugly and they stink.

But stop and reconsider before you make a leap.

The bug supply's unlimited, and boy, they're really cheap.

Eating bugs is lots of fun,

It won't require a hotdog bun.

Nourishment for everyone.

Eating bugs is lots of fun.

You're s'posed to drink a glass of juice before your breakfast meal.

Well, bugs are juicy as can be, the price is just a steal.

You'll find no cheaper protein than a cricket served for lunch,

And with every bite of cricket, you get a pleasant crunch.

Eating bugs is lots of fun,

It won't require a hotdog bun.

Nourishment for everyone.

Eating bugs is lots of fun.

But here's a few precautions, in planning your attack.

Beware of wasps and scorpions 'cause they will bite you back.

And earthworms are a special case, they have no legs or toes,

And if you try to eat 'em fast, they'll wrap around your nose.

Eating bugs is lots of fun,

It won't require a hotdog bun.

Nourishment for everyone.

Eating bugs is lots of fun.

Bugs are better for you than corndogs on a stick.

The only disadvantage is that bugs can make you sick.

Don't eat too many june bugs or miller moths or flies,

'Cause if you do not chew them up, they'll tickle your insides.

Eating bugs is lots of fun,

It won't require a hotdog bun.

Nourishment for everyone.

Eating bugs is lots of fun.

Pretty good song, huh? You bet it was, just full of important dietary information and good practi­cal advice. I mean, kids like Molly are going to eat bugs anyway, so we might as well give 'em some instructions on how to do it right.

Anyways, where were we? Oh yes, we were in the pickup, rushing me and my snakebit nose to the doctor in town. How was I feeling? Very puffy, I guess you'd say, and not too full of energy. My highest ambition at that point was to lie down in a shady place and stare.

And drool. We were still getting a lot of action in the Drool Department.

Well, we came to the place where the county road runs into the main highway. Sally May stopped at the stop sign, mashed the clutch to the floor, and went looking for first gear. She missed and got third gear instead, and we went clattering and jerking out onto the highway.

A big eighteen-wheeler cattle truck came zooming around us and blew his horn. You know how that irritates me, smart aleck truck drivers blowing their horns and playing big shot on the highway. On a better day, I would have given that guy a barking he never would have remembered . . . a barking he would have remembered and never would have forgotten . . . a stern barking, in other words, but with the swollen face and everything, I had to let him go with a growl.

Sally May heard the growl, and I guess it must have sounded kind of pitiful. She reached down and scratched my ears.

“Poor old Hank. I know you don't feel good. Now that we're on the highway, I'll try to make up some time—if this garbage can of Slim's will hold together.”

Boy, I appreciated that. I mean, Sally May and I had had our ups and downs and our little periods of misunderstanding, and the fact that she would exceed the speed limit and go streaking into town just for me . . . well, that meant a lot.

And I was very sorry that the highway patrolman was waiting over the next hill, but I can't take the blame for that.