Tags:
adventure,
Mystery,
Texas,
dog,
cowdog,
Hank the Cowdog,
John R. Erickson,
John Erickson,
ranching,
Hank,
Drover,
Pete,
Sally May
bark up the sun most every morn, I was here at the ranch when her babies were born
I guarded the steaks that she put out to thaw . . .
And maybe I was foolish for eating them raw.
But what of the nights Iâve stayed up and barked?
And tussled with monsters and things in the dark?
Protecting the cattle and chickens and sheep
And got myself shot at for jarring her sleep!
Well fine, okay, itâs a poor-me kind of day.
When you need a friend, just call me and Iâll look the other way.
Poor me, poor pay! Thatâs all I have to say.
Thatâs fine, all right, Iâm out on strike,
Itâs a poor-me kind of day.
So when there is trouble or monsters or stuff,
I plan to be sleeping or warming my duff,
Iâll tell them too bad and stay on my seat.
Emergency calls can be handled by Pete.
And then weâll just see what happens from there.
When theyâre getting their due and getting whatâs fair.
And as the ranch crumbles, Iâll cry out with glee,
âYouâve caused this by being so mean to poor me!â
Well fine, okay, itâs a poor-me kind of day.
When you need a friend, just call me and Iâll look the other way.
Poor me, poor pay! Thatâs all I have to say.
Thatâs fine, all right, Iâm out on strike,
Itâs a poor-me kind of day.
The little mutt stared at me in disbelief. âGosh, I hate to hear you talk like that. Somebody has to care . . . about something.â
I laughed in his face. âNot me, pal. Iâm off duty, and caring isnât in my contract. Let somebody else care.â
Just then we heard singing in the house. It was a church song, something about . . . letâs see if I can remember the words. Something about . . . here we go:
âGloria in excelsis Deo,
Et in terra pax hominbus.â
It was a lousy song and they were lousy singers, sounded like a barn full of chickens and stray cats. Horrible noise and a stupid song.
They deserved a skunk, all of them.
Drover was listening to the music. âGosh, thatâs so pretty! Weâve never had music like that out here on the ranch.â
I curled my lip at him and rolled my eyes. What did HE know about music? Was he some kind of expert on the subject? He didnât even have a decent tail, is what kind of expert he was, only a chopped-off stub.
Okay, maybe the song was a little better than Iâd thought, but still . . . pretty good, actually, and there we were, sitting under this deep black sky full of stars, looking out on the whole entire universe that sparkled with ancient light, and the music seemed to be reaching out to the light . . .
Not a bad sound, for a bunch of country people. Pretty good, actually. There they were, doing their little part to make the world a better place, and there I was . . . well, feeling sorry for myself, you might say.
I heaved a big sigh. âDrover, do you know who cares?â
âNobody, I guess.â
âThatâs where youâre wrong. I care. I shouldnât, but I do. I canât help it. I guess that just goes with being a cowdog.â I pushed myself up. âCome on. Weâve got a skunk to whip.â
âBut I thought you said . . .â
âNever mind what I said. Thereâs more to this life than potato soup.â
âWhat does that mean?â
I gazed at him in the starlight. âIâm not sure. It just popped out. Stars were put here to shine. People were put here to sing, and dogs were put here to protect the ranch from skunks. Does that make sense?â
âI guess so.â
âGood. Letâs move out. Weâll have to jump the fence.â
âOkay, but this old leg . . .â
I leaped over the fence and made my way around the southwest corner of the house. There, I picked up visual readings of the skunk. He was sniffing around in the iris patch, slowly working his way toward the open crawl space. At his presÂent course, bearing, and speed,