The Case of the Bone-Stalking Monster Read Online Free PDF

I knew that Sally May would understand.
    I mean, those bones were a very precious cargo.
    Once in the garden area I set up shop and went to work. I dug a hole in the soft dirt near the northeast corner, dropped the first precious bone into it, and covered it up with my . . . well, with my nose.
    Why do we dogs dig holes with our paws and cover them up with our noses? I’ve seen it happen over and over, and it’s always the same. To be perfectly honest, I don’t understand it but I do it very well, so maybe it doesn’t matter.
    I mean, if you can do it, who cares if you understand it? And if you understand it but can’t do it, what’s the point?
    The point was that I buried the first bone, then hurried on and buried the other two, following the exact same procedure: digging with paws, covering with nose.
    On completing the third and final bone deposit, I paused to rest a moment, to gaze out upon a job well done and . . .
    Suddenly the silence was shattered by a voice coming out of nowhere!
    Hey, I had thought I was all alone in the world—just me and my precious buried bones and the warm glow of a job well done. But hearing the voice behind me, I knew that I was not alone in the world.
    The voice startled me, jolted me, so to speak, out of a dreamy state of mining. I jumped, twisted my entire body to the left, and heard myself deliver a kind of gurgling growl. It wasn’t my best growl, I’ll admit, but very few of us are at our best in such awkward moments.
    The important thing is that I did manage to fire off a growl or two before . . . well, landing in the midst of another tomato plant. And, yes, maybe I transplanted a few sprigs of lettuce.
    She had—Sally May, that is—it appeared that she had planted a few rows of lettuce, but of course nobody had turned in that report either, and when they don’t turn in their paperwork, how am I supposed to know where the silly lettuce is planted?
    Who can run a ranch when he has to tiptoe through the tulips and lettuce and tomatoes? We have to keep the Big Picture in mind, don’t you see, and . . .
    I turned all my sensory equipment toward the sound of the voice, half expecting to see a huge shaggy . . . okay, relax. It was Slim. He was leaning on a fencepost.
    Grinning at me.

Chapter Six: I Break the Tragic News to Drover

    H ave you noticed that Slim always seems to be leaning on something? It’s true. He never stands up straight on his own two legs. He leans.
    This could be caused by simple laziness. I’ve suspected for a long time that Slim is, at heart and down deep where it really counts, a lazy man.
    Or perhaps his body is crooked, and it just naturally falls into a slouching state whenever he is at rest—which is fairly often, if you ask me. If they ever gave me full authority to run this ranch, I would . . . but never mind that.
    He was draped over the corner post and he was grinning at me. “Hey pooch, has anybody ever told you that you’ve got mud on your nose?”
    I . . . there wasn’t a simple answer to that question. Of course I knew that mud existed on the end of my nose, but technically speaking, nobody had ever pointed it out before.
    But I was aware of it, and I was also aware of why it was there.
    â€œHave you been playing backhoe with your nose?”
    No, I certainly had not . . . okay, maybe I had done some backhoe-type work with my nose, but I hadn’t been PLAYING. It was very serious business. Heads of Ranch Security don’t PLAY.
    We WORK, which was a concept he wouldn’t understand.
    â€œYou know, Hank, only your best friends would tell you this, but you look pretty silly, standing there with a mudball on the end of your nose.”
    I held my head at a proud angle and glared daggers at him. Not only was I not ashamed to have mud on my nose, I was proud of it. So there.
    Small minds will always find something to ridiculate. Ridicule, I guess it should be, something to