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

ridicule.
    When you do serious backhoe work with your nose, it becomes muddy, and that was nothing to ridiculate.
    He chuckled to himself and started walking toward the machine shed. “Well, if I was you, pup, I believe I’d get out of that garden. Sally May’s liable to take a dim view of you plantin’ bones in the midst of her tomater plants.”
    I had to admit that he had . . . gee, was it so obvious that I had . . . that a strong wind or something had blown down a plant or two? Maybe so, and yes, leaving the garden area before certain parties arrived seemed a pretty good idea, even though the idea had come from one of the smaller minds on the ranch.
    You probably think that I left the garden right then. Not true. First, I scanned the entire garden area and committed to memory the locations of all three of my precious bones.
    See, a lot of your ordinary ranch mutts will go to the trouble of burying a bone and then leave. Only later will they realize that they have no idea where they left it. That falls into the category of Dumb Behavior.
    If you’re going to bury a bone, doesn’t it make sense to remember where you left it? Of course it does. That’s what I did, and then I made a rapid exit, so to speak, from the scene of the, uh, accident.
    I felt pretty bad about the damage, but history has proven over and over that if you’re going to make an omelet, you have to break a few tomatoes.
    On the other hand, I’ve heard Sally May and other leading experts on gardening say that tomato plants actually do better after they have been “flailed,” I believe they call it.
    Flailed or frailed or flogged. Whipped. Beaten. Thrashed with a stick. No kidding. Some people whack on their tomato plants with a stick, so in a sense, you might say that I had actually helped Sally May with some of her, uh, gardening work.
    Hey, I was glad to do it. Sally May was a very busy wife and mother, and she had no business thrashing tomato plants in the hot glare of the sun’s hot glare.
    I made my way back to the gas tanks. Drover was just as I had left him, conked out—snoring, wheezing, twitching, grunting, and doing all the other things he does in his sleep.
    I sat down and watched him for a few minutes. Did I make such noises in my sleep? I didn’t think so. I also took this opportunity to figure out how I would break the sad news to him. At last I came up with a plan, which began with a gentle wake-up call.
    â€œWake up, half-stepper, arise and sing!”
    Well, you won’t believe this. I hardly believed it myself, and I was there and saw the whole thing. Before my very eyes, the little mutt arose and sang. Here’s how it went, and he sang it more than once, if you can believe that.
    The Wake-up Song
    Murgle skiffer porkchop on a summer day.
    Skittle rickie snicklefritz eat a bale of hay.
    Elephants.
    Sugar ants.
    Steak fat snork.
    Porkchop mork.
    I listened to the entire mess. As far as I knew, Drover had done very little singing in his lifetime, and it certainly showed. It was pretty bad.
    I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, but unless I’m badly mistaken, you are not only sleeping in the middle of the day, but you’re also singing on the ranch’s time.”
    His eyes came into focus and that silly grin of his slithered across his mouth. “Oh hi, Hank. You’ve got a mudball on the end of your nose.”
    â€œOh yes, I . . . uh . . .” I turned away and swiped my nose with a paw. “Thanks. I can’t imagine how it got there.”
    â€œMaybe you were digging.”
    â€œDon’t be absurd, Drover, and don’t try to change the subject. The point is that you were singing on ranch time.”
    â€œMe? I was singing?”
    â€œThat’s correct, on the ranch’s time and during business hours.”
    â€œI’ll be derned. I can’t even sing.”
    â€œI noticed. Now brace yourself, Drover. I have some terrible