The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog Read Online Free PDF Page A

imagine what his mother must have looked like?”
    A growl came from deep in Bruno’s throat.
    â€œI don’t like his pointed ears,” said Drover.
    â€œYou know why they’re pointed, don’t you? When boxers are born, they have such big floppy ears that a surgeon has to cut off two yards of hide. And then they whack off the tail, and then they put the pup’s face into a shop vice and mash it until it looks just like Bruno’s.”
    â€œNo kidding?”
    â€œYup. And as you might expect, it affects the brain too, mashes it down to the size of a dog biscuit.” The growl in Bruno’s throat was growing louder. “That’s why boxers are so dumb, brain’s been smallered. It’s the mark of the breed. They tell me that you can’t get papers on a boxer unless he’s too dumb to walk across the street. They give ’em a test, see, and all the ones that flunk become registered boxers.”
    By this time the growl had become a steady roar.
    â€œAnd that’s why you never see boxers work cattle, just too frazzling dumb to hold down a steady job.”
    Bruno’s eyes were cloudy, as if they were filled with smoke from a fire burning inside. His teeth were snapping together. Maybe he was crushing imaginary bones.
    â€œWhy would anybody want a dog that was so big and dumb and ugly?” Drover asked.
    â€œI’ve wondered about that myself,” said I, “and the only answer I can come up with is that maybe if a guy had a piece of log chain that he didn’t know what to do with, he’d buy a boxer to hang it on.”
    That did it. Bruno erupted again and lunged at us, his mouth wide open and full of jagged teeth. I got a real good look at his tonsils, which appeared to be a little inflamed.
    I jerked my head at Drover and we was both sending up a line of Z’s when the cowboys came out again.
    â€œBruno, what in the world! Bad dog, bad dog! Why can’t you just lie still and shut up like these other dogs?” Bruno whimpered. “Well, I guess I’d better go. Bruno’s on a snort. See y’all later.”
    When the pickup drove off, me and Drover sat up and grinned and waved good-bye to our new friend. Bruno was so mad his eyes were crossed and foam dripped off his chops.
    That’s what makes being a cowdog worthwhile. Teamwork.

Chapter Five: Another Bloody Murder

    W hen we crossed the cattleguard that put us back on the ranch, I felt a change come over me.
    In town I had been just another happy-go-lucky dog without a care in the world. But back on the ranch, I felt that same crushing sense of responsibility that’s known to people in high places, such as presidents, prime ministers, em­perors, and such. Being Head of Ranch Security is a great honor but also a dreadful burden.
    I remembered the chickenhouse murder. I still didn’t have any suspects, or I had too many suspects, maybe that was it. Everyone was a suspect, well, everyone but the milk cow, and I had pretty muchly scratched her off the list. And the porcupine, since they only eat trees.
    But every other creature on the ranch was under the shadow of suspicion. Except Drover. He was too chicken to kill a chicken.
    When we got home, I trotted up to the chickenhouse and went over the whole thing in my mind. While I was sitting there, lost in thought, a chicken came up and pecked me on the tail. Scared the fool out of me just for a second. I snarled at her and made her squawk and flap her wings.
    That’s another thing about this job. Every day, every night you put your life on the line, and for what? A bunch of idiot birds that would just as soon peck you on the tail as tell you good morning. Sometimes you wonder if it’s worth it, and all that keeps you going is dedication to duty.
    In the end, that’s what separates the top echelon of cowdogs from the common rubble . . . rabble, whatever the word is, anyway the dogs that