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the next thing I heard was Bernie saying, “Hey, Shooter—how about a Slim Jim?”
    â€œHe’s not allowed any damned—”
    All it once it got very quiet and still outside the gate, like the chase was over. How could it have been over so fast? I knew chases: this one was just getting started. Something was very wrong.
    â€œGood boy, Shooter,” Bernie said. “Come on over and get your Slim Jim. Attaboy. Now sit. Excellent. Funny little guy. Here you—”
    Some things in life can’t be tolerated. At the top of the list would be an upstart puppy getting hold of a Slim Jim meant for me. I’m sure you’d feel the same way, feel it so strongly that there’d be no holding you back from jumping that gate. Which you couldn’t do. Sorry for pointing that out. But there happened to be a gate-jumping dude extraordinaire on the premises: namely Chet the Jet!
    Bird’s-eye view: The next moment I finally got to understand what it meant, on account of that’s what I now enjoyed! What a life birds had! So why were their eyes mean and angry? No time to puzzle over that. Instead I just delighted in my view from above, a view of Bernie, Special Investigator Newburg, and Shooter, all standing in a sort of circle, completely unaware of me way above them. One correction: Shooter was sitting, not standing, in fact sitting just as Bernie had suggested, sitting up nice and proper in anticipation of the Slim Jim which Bernie was about to hand over right that instant. What’s an instant? Something pretty quick is all I know, meaning less than an instant had to be even quicker! Wow! Was I on fire or what? All this going on in my mind and at the same time I was dive bombing down like . . . like a dive bomber, whatever that might be. I snatched that Slim Jim out of Bernie’s hand just as Shooter’s cute little jaws were closing on it, one of the very best things I’d ever done! This Slim Jim was mine!
    I cut one way, then the other, raising a dust cloud, the Slim Jim hanging out one side of my mouth but completely secure, baby, better believe it. Did Ellie throw up her hands in fear and scream, “Oh! Oh!”? Did Bernie yell, “Chet! Stop! For God’s sake!”? Did Shooter come zooming after me, zigging and zagging with every one of my zigs and zags, plucky little dude, actually jumping up to make a play for that Slim Jim, and . . . and whoa! Snatching it right out of my mouth. None of that, amigo! I snatched it back, bowling him over in the process, and then without another thought, always a sign I’m at my best, I took off into the canyon at top speed, or even faster. And what do you know? The little fella took off right after me! We charged up a long rise, scrambled, and rolled down the far side, flew over a dry wash, and headed for points far distant, leaving the whole world in our dust.
    â€œCHET!”
    â€œSHOOTER!”
    â€œCHET!”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    We came back much more slowly, Shooter and I side by side, our tongues possibly hanging out the slightest bit. It’s also possible we had thorns of some sort in our coats—I was pretty sure I did—and Shooter had learned a hard lesson or two involving javelinas and those pesky tusks of theirs. But most of all we were filled with the feeling you get from a job well done, although what the actual job had been wasn’t superclear to me. Something about a Slim Jim? That seemed right. As we climbed over the crest of the last rise and came to our back gate—mine and Bernie’s—I wondered about the chances of another Slim Jim real soon. Pretty good, right? I could think of no reason why not.
    The gate was closed and no sounds came from behind it. We walked alongside the house—Shooter giving me a little bump for no reason and me bumping him back for the reason that . . . that he’d bumped me! Phew! Almost