Humans just don’t get it. I mean, friends come up to me all the time and tell me “after all, you’re just a dog. What do you know?” I may be just a dog, but I’m a lot smarter than some humans I know. Humans seem to think that the ability to talk is some big deal. They think that ability puts them at the top of the evolutionary heap. I’ve known humans who could talk up a storm, and yet they can’t handle some of the basic necessities of life. Most humans I know cannot even reach their own hind ends with their noses, and yet they seem to think they’re something special because they can quote Shakespeare. They chastise me for having a perfectly innocent crotch sniff every now and then; they shudder when I take a little roll in a nice fragrant patch of road kill. This is the top of the evolutionary chain? I don’t think so. But what do I know? I’m just a dog.
Yes, I’m a dog, a Beagle in fact. My Dame named me Alexander Bovarius Dogson. I come from a long, proud line of pedigreed Beagles going back many generations. My ancestor Napolean Westfeld Dogson was a movie star back in the days before the “talkies”. Another ancestor, Dwight Eisenhower Dogson Jr., served in the K9 Corp during the Korean War and earned a medal for bravery. I’m proud of my lineage, and my name. When I introduce myself to others, it’s as Alexander Bovarius Dogson, my birth name, but my friends call me Boogie. That is the moniker I acquired when my humans the Feely family took me away from my Dame even before I was fully weaned. They named me Boogie, Boogie Feely, and that’s my people name.
I’ve tried teaching my humans to call me by my rightful name, but they just don’t get it. Humans can be very difficult to train. My friend Sally, a beautiful poodle who lives next door and who sports the most ostentatious hair-dos, has it easy. She has her humans eating out of her paw. They actually allow her to sit at the dinner table! She eats steak and chicken every night. Imagine that! My humans would never do such a thing. They make me eat horse nuggets out of a grungy bowl on the floor. Of course, when they’re not looking, I’ll grab a mouthful of table scraps and move over to the living room carpet, a proper eating surface. Still, one must do what one can to get along with one’s humans. I suppose I should be thankful that they’ve learned to feed me at all. I’ve known dogs who looked like their humans forget to feed them most of the time. Nothing like starvation to turn a nice dog into a raving maniac.
Compared to that, I guess I’ve got to admit I have it easy. Johnny and Cindy, the Feely pups, are fun to be around. I can always convince one of them to let me sleep on their bed with them, even though their parents disapprove. Joanne, the Feely Dame, is the absolute master of the house. Joanne does a lot of yelling. You’d think there was a full moon every night, the way she howls. But she’s a proper bitch, I’ll say that for her. She does the providing in the Feely household. John, the Feely male alpha, must not like that situation, because he’s rarely around. He gets up every morning and skedaddles; trying to get away from Joanne, I imagine. When he’s home, he spends all evening glued in front of the dazzle box. But Joanne, she gets out and brings home the bacon, then spends hours fixing it up for her pups and for John. The only things John brings home are beer and a nasty attitude. Well, he’s the one who takes me for my walks at night, so he’s not entirely useless.
Yes, I suppose I’ve got it easy. I spend a lot of time on my favorite pastime – sleeping. That is a time when I can be myself. Dreaming of chasing rabbits, and actually catching them. I dream of running through the woods, the master of all I see. I am my own dog. I chase a rabbit here; I jump at a startled pigeon there. I am all alone except for my prey. Except that I get to go home to my beautiful bitch, and we savor my catches together. Then we hump all night and start a new brood of pups. That is the life, even if it is just a dream.
My second favorite pastime is licking. Myself, mainly. My humans, when I can get away with it. Smell and taste. The grandest senses ever invented. Nothing is more pleasurable than licking the chocolate pudding off of Cindy’s face, or snarfing the scent of urine on Johnny’s hands after he’s had a pee. I’m sure Joanne’s got something against me, because she’s forever after Johnny to wash his hands afterward.
When I was younger, humping was my number one puppy pastime. I would hump anything and everything, you name it. I humped John, Joanne, Johnny, Cindy, their next-door neighbors Rufus and Eileen, the postman, the meter reader, and the parson. I would hump the coffee table, the refrigerator, the commode, the easy chair, and even the big oak tree outside in the front yard. But lately I just haven’t gotten the urge, ever since the last time Joanne took me to the vet. I guess that’s what happens when you grow out of puppy-hood. You move on to new and exciting adult pleasures. Like dreaming and licking.
Another puppy pleasure I’ve enjoyed was torturing the family wumpus. This fat furry weasel lived in a cage, and spent its life running around inside a wheel and never getting anywhere. Johnny and Cindy obviously loved the wumpus, because they were always feeding it, and taking it out of its cage and hugging it and holding it, letting it flee in terror between one hand and the other. The wumpus itself appeared to me to be close to death. All it did was eat and run inside its wheel and get fatter and fatter. I figured pretty soon it would get that wheel going so fast it would just keel over and die from heart failure. I have to admit, I contributed to its stress. There was nothing I liked better than to sneak up on it, like a coyote hunting a prairie dog, and jump at it with a ferocious bark. It would jump from one end of its cage to the other. Serves it right. I never liked that slimy rat. I never seemed to get the attention that it got. But, again, as I graduated from puppyhood, I put aside my childish pleasures and started ignoring it.
Same with the canaries. As if one slimy rat was not enough, the Feelys brought home another cage one day, this one filled with, of all things, birds. Now, birds are meant to sit in trees just out of reach and drop wet turds as you pass below them. That’s the natural state of things. They are not meant to sit in cages inside, and make their annoying noises all day long. Just what were the Feelys thinking? I ignored the canaries from the very start. They were beneath my notice.
Lest you think my life is perfect, there’s always the matter of going out. If there’s one thing that my Dame taught me, it’s that you don’t pee in your own den. My humans just don’t understand that. I’ll beg and beg for John to take me out for a walk, but he’ll just stare harder at the dazzle box and ignore me completely. I’ll go beg Joanne, who will yell at John to take me out. He ignores her, as well. I’ll go beg Johnny and Cindy, but that’s useless, because they never take me out. Then the whole family will get mad at me when I can’t hold it in any longer and have a nice, satisfying pee in the dining room, away from everything and everyone else. I mean, this just wouldn’t happen if they would take their responsibilities seriously. Afterwards, things will settle down until the next time. I try, honestly I do. But there you go again. They just can’t be taught.
Sometimes I wonder why they just can’t let us dogs be ourselves. We are perfectly capable of going in and out on our own. We don’t need leashes when we’re taken for a walk. That just slows us down. We just want a little sniff of things, a little taste. What’s wrong with that? You know what it’s like when you’re walking with a human. They are positively the slowest creatures. Here I am, wanting to have a nice leisurely trot from one fragrant spot to the next. They plod along, and if I try to hurry them along, what do I get for my efforts? A tug on the leash and they practically break my windpipe. And when we meet up with another dog and its human, us dogs just wanting to sniff each other’s butts and exchange a few greetings and gossip, what happens? They drag us away, thinking we’re going to rip each other up. I tell you, it’s enough to make me want to give up on humans altogether.
My best friend is Ratchet, a stray mongrel who spends all of his time wandering around looking for scraps. Ratchet is my source for all of the news of the neighborhood. Joanne will let me out into the backyard, and pretty soon Ratchet will come by and squeeze in through the hole in the fence. We’ll spend time greeting and sniffing, and then get down to business. Gossip. Who’s the new dog in town? Who’s been to the vet, who’s died, who’s had a new litter, who’s been sent away? I’ll let him gnaw on one of my old bones while he’s bringing me up to speed.
It’s sad, really. Ratchet has been homeless ever since I’ve known him. He won’t say much about his experiences with humans, except to leave hints that it was not pleasant. He is a wretched sight, with his spotted dirty fur, grizzled back, and old scars from fighting. He walks with a slight limp, which he laughs off by saying his rheumatism is getting to him again. But all the same I have to admit he is a handsome devil. He is a bitch magnet. They just can’t keep their paws off him. I have to admit that I admire that mangy mutt.
Sometimes I entertain the notion of inviting him to stay with my humans, letting him sleep a night in warmth rather than out in the cold. But he says eating horse nuggets for the rest of his life is not his style. He would rather find a nice pizza crust or fish tail in the garbage. He gets along. He’s a survivor. He’d rather stay away from humans. But my notion is pure fantasy, anyway. Joanne does not like him one bit. He’ll visit with me awhile, and then Joanne will come out banging two frying pans together and chase him away. I don’t know why she doesn’t like him, but that’s the effect strays have on her.
The one thing that scares me about Ratchet’s way of life is keeping clear of The Catcher. Now, I’ve never actually seen The Catcher. I used to think he was just a story that dames tell their pups to keep them from wandering away. “Don’t go far, or The Catcher will get you”. But Ratchet has seen him. Oh yes. Rarely does a day go by that Ratchet doesn’t tell me of some new escapade with The Catcher. But Ratchet is too wily to get caught. He has always managed to outfox that old bug-a-boo, and live another day to tell me about it.
You’ve heard all of the stories, I’m sure. The Legend of The Catcher. How an old man starves his dog, Blather, day after day. The old man turns Blather into a mean, nasty old cur, and has him guard the junkyard over by the swamp and keep out all the strays. One day the dog, in a fit of hunger and meanness, bites the old man. The old man in turn drowns the dog in a rain barrel. The dog’s ghost comes back and haunts him, driving him crazy. Since then, the old man can’t stand the sight of any other dog. He becomes The Catcher. He’ll sneak up on any poor stray unlucky enough to wander within his range. The Catcher will snare him in his lasso, strangle the poor mutt on the spot, and take him back to the junkyard and eat him.
Ratchet himself says he’s seen The Catcher. He was peeking in through the broken slats of the junkyard fence one night. The Catcher was just outside his shack, cooking up a meal in a pot over a fire. He was there talking to Blather’s unseen ghost and offering him scraps. Ratchet almost peed himself as he sat there watching that crazy old man. I don’t know if you remember Spot, the sweet old collie from down the street, but Spot up and disappeared one night. Ratchet says it was Spot there that night, or rather what was left of Spot, just scraps of meat the old man scraped from the pot and offered to the ghost of Blather.
That story gave me the shivers. I told myself it’s just old Dame’s tales meant to frighten small pups. But I got the shivers all the same. You would too, to hear Ratchet tell it. I’m just glad I’ve got a nice warm home to go to, where I can stay at night when The Catcher’s about. Sometimes, I can hear him sneaking around outside, after everyone’s gone to bed. He’ll be wandering past the house, and his angry muttering and rheumy cough will wake me out of a nice cozy snooze in Cindy’s bed. I’ll get up and go downstairs to investigate. I can hear him talking, probably to old Blather, and I’ll start barking to raise the alarm, warning the family that The Catcher’s nearby. As usual, they’ll ignore me. I’ll keep barking until the sound fades away, and then I’ll fall back to my dreams of rabbits and nightingales.
Yes, Ratchet is my best friend. I envy him, in a way. He lives the way dogs were meant to live, way back before we adopted humankind as our benefactors. He lives by his wits, and roams free across his domain. He’s had every bitch in town, and a few beyond. You would not believe the number of pups around who bear the hallmarks of Ratchet’s parentage, the brown and white coat, the thin but powerful build, and most especially, the yellow ring around the right eye. He lives in uneasy truce with humans. He knows all the right places to go to beg a beef bone or a few table scraps. He owns this town, every dog in it is part of his pack, and he’s the top dog.
I sometimes wish I could live such a life. I love my humans, but sometimes their ignorance and attitude of superiority bothers me so much I’m ready to run away at a moment’s notice. I’ve started to in the past. Johnny or Cindy will open the door and I’ll see my chance. I go racing out to freedom. Joanne will come chasing after me. I can easily outrun her, so I take it easy, sniffing and licking at spots as I ramble down the street and through the yards. Joanne will be behind me, and every time she gets close, I reluctantly abandon my delectable patch and run on ahead. She brings along a box of the old nuggets, thinking she can entice me back by rattling it. It’s just a game, just enough exercise to get me tired and hungry, and I’ll usually let her catch me when I’m good and ready. She’ll rant and rave as she shepherds me home. I’ll get a smack on the fanny, not painful but embarrassing enough for me to latch my tail between my legs. After a while, the incident will be forgotten and I’ll be snoozing away inside my nice warm house.
That was my life. Comfortable if a bit routine. Taking the good with the bad; living with my humans. Overall, I can’t say I was unhappy. Just a bit bored with it all. Dogs need stimulation. You live in a house long enough, and you’ve smelled and tasted just about everything a hundred times over. You need something new. Something exciting. In a short while, I was to get more stimulation and excitement than I bargained for.
It all began when the boxes started appearing. The Feelys were putting all of their belongings into boxes. Uh oh, I knew what this meant. I’d been through it before. The Feelys were moving. There is nothing more traumatic in a dog’s life than moving. First of all, they kept putting me out in the cold in the backyard. Complete strangers would roam through the house, my house, while the Feelys were not home. Joanne became even more strident, and she was constantly yelling. Nobody could do anything right. I guess moving affects humans as much as it affects us dogs.
To top it all off, I knew that moving meant that I would
lose Ratchet. It had happened before,
when we moved into our present house. My
best friend in the old neighborhood was a
But then the boxes came. I didn’t understand at the time. I thought it was just another of the incomprehensible things humans do. Like sitting for hours in front of the dazzle box. Or like listening to the screech box, to the sounds of wild tortured animals screaming and crying in pain. I thought maybe the Feelys were tired of the disorder in their lives, and had decided to straighten up and put everything in boxes. Then, strangers came and emptied the house. I tried to make them stop taking our things, but Joanne took me out back and put me on a chain. A chain! She put me out and chained me, as if I was old Blather fruitlessly trying to keep the strays out of the junkyard. It was confusing, but I never thought I’d lose Taco.
Then we all packed into the car. I’ve always liked to go for rides, to stick my head out the half open window, feeling the cool breeze on my muzzle and sniffing at stray scents as they fly past. But this ride was a nightmare. The car was packed, with lunchboxes, coloring books, makeup cases, suitcases, four humans, one dog, three canaries, and a half dead wumpus. The screech box was painfully loud. We passed Taco’s house and I stared mournfully at him in the front yard, as he barked in that yappy voice of his, asking what’s going on, amigo? I never saw Taco again.
We drove for hours and hours. I had to pee every twenty minutes because I was so upset. I threw up twice. Cindy got upset because I kept laying my head in her lap and drooling. I couldn’t help it. The smell in that car was just unbelievable. I was so depressed. I actually believed that we were homeless, and that we would spend the rest of our lives in that car.
We finally arrived at our new home, and my depression vanished. So many new sights, sounds, smells, and tastes. It was like being born again, when the world was new and everything was fresh. I was in heaven. I met Sally, and I instantly fell in love. I had never seen a poodle before. She was as glamorous as a movie star. She had bows in her hair and a gem studded collar. Her coat was fluffed up, and her fashionable hairdo made me crazy. I thought maybe we could have something here. Life was looking beautiful to me again.
On my second day in our new home, I caught my first sight of Ratchet. I was in the backyard. He was peaking in through the fence at me. I trotted over and sniffed him through the fence, and he sniffed back. He asked me if I had anything to eat. I went over to my bowl and brought back a mouthful of nuggets. He had a bite, but then spit them out, saying they were just not his thing. We started talking, and he told me all about my new neighborhood.
I asked him about Sally next door. He told me not to bother with that stuck-up bitch. She was way out of my league. He said she wouldn’t even have anything to do with him. She was one of the only bitches in town he had not humped. I didn’t believe what he said about her. Sally had been very friendly when we met, letting me sniff her rear and everything. I thought maybe she had been turned off by Ratchet’s scruffy appearance. Sally was the kind of girl who needed attention, who needed to be spoiled, and Ratchet struck me as someone who would not provide those things.
As a matter of fact, Ratchet and I did not hit it off well at all, at first. He struck me as something of a ne’er-do-well, a jackal who just went through life taking and not receiving. He lived on scraps and handouts. He slept wherever he could find a warm spot, maybe covering himself in leaves or crawling into some pile of garbage. I looked down on him. I was a nice housedog, and our kind didn’t take to his. I was peeved at him for talking the way he did about Sally, my love. We parted ways that day not on the best of terms.
But he came around the next day, and pushed through one of the fence slats. We talked again, and I got to know him a little better. I shared a soup bone with him. I dropped my uppity attitude with him. I am a Beagle, and Beagles are never ones to stay angry with anybody. I couldn’t help but respond to his friendly attitude. I enjoyed listening to his stories. He had a million of them. How he had escaped The Catcher just last night. How his beautiful bitch Buffy had had a litter of precious pups, every one of them with golden rings around the right eye. In return for his stories, I would share a bone or other treat with him. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
Oh, and he was right about Sally. She would be inviting at first, lifting her tail and using it to waft her enticing aromas my way. But every time I tried to mount her, she would shuffle away, saying go away, you filthy little mongrel. That hurt. But then, she would apologize for calling me names. She told me she was saving herself. She knew she would meet her Prince one day, and she wanted to remain pure for him. But then, she would invite me over to smell her rear end again. Yep, that Sally was a tease. I never did get me any of that, but we remained friends.
So, now, here I was again, surrounded by moving boxes. It was only a matter of time before they started taking our things away. The thought of losing Ratchet as I had lost Taco preyed on my mind. The thought of taking another horrid car ride terrified me. The thought of spending hours immersed in the stink of Wumpus and Canary turds revolted me. On the other hand, the thought of joining Ratchet in his carefree lifestyle intrigued me. I talked it over with him. He encouraged me. He told me that my biggest problem was that I thought I was human, that I didn’t know how to be a dog. He said he’d teach me every thing I needed to know about living in the wild. How to find the best garbage. How to beg handouts from strangers. How to keep warm on cold nights. How to look out for The Catcher. He told me I’d be humping so many bitches my balls would get numb. I was entranced. I started planning my escape.
I didn’t get my chance until the day the movers came. Joanne was so busy she forgot to chain me up out back. The movers propped the door open and I saw my chance. I just casually walked out. Nobody even noticed I was leaving. I walked out into a pleasant, late autumn afternoon. I strolled down the street, free as a bird. Nobody took notice. Rufus was out raking leaves and I nodded, but he barely looked at me as I trotted by. I went down to the end of the street, and there was Ratchet standing tall and proud. I joined him, and he told me to get ready to learn how to live. I was free! Free at last.
“Now, the first thing you’ve got to learn is that you’ll never have a full belly”, Ratchet was saying. “Never again. Every waking second you’ll be scrambling for a bite. Hustle, scramble, grab a mouthful of gristle here, a bite of bread there. Keep hustling, and don’t stop. If you stop, you might as well go back to your bowl of nuggets. You got that?”
“Well, come to think of it, I am a bit hungry” I replied. “I had breakfast this morning, but I skipped out before dinner. And, of course, I’ve missed my after dinner milk bone. Do you think we might find some treats back here?”
We were walking in the alley beside
“Oh Boogie, you’ve got a lot to learn” he said.
“To say nothing of missing my daily vitamins” I said, not missing a beat. “And my food additive for my arthritis. Maybe we could go back and grab them? We could be in and out in a second. I’m sure the movers still have the door propped open.”
Ratchet just stood there staring at me and shaking his head.
“Look, here’s your food additive”, he said, walking over to a nearby trashcan. He rose up on his hind legs and knocked the can over, spilling its contents onto the narrow alleyway street. “Ah, look at this. Someone threw away a perfectly good jar of peanut butter. It’s half full. Let’s give it a try.”
He propped his front paws on the jar and stuck his tongue in. “Ummm, quite tasty, maybe a bit spoiled, but otherwise delicious. Here, try some.”
I took a sniff. It was appealing. I stuck my tongue in. He was right, it was delicious. I eagerly devoured away. It took some getting used to, eating like this. But in no time at all I had cleaned the jar. While I was feasting, Ratchet was pawing through the pile of trash. He was almost entirely inside the over-turned trashcan, with only his tail sticking out. I would have laughed, but my mouth was quite sticky from all of that peanut butter I had eaten. It had the most remarkable after-taste.
“And now for the main course, the piece de resistance of this evening’s meal” Ratchet said as he backed out of the trashcan. In his mouth was, well, I’m not sure what it was, except that it was a jumble of bones and gristle. “Pheasant”, he said excitedly. He attacked the putrid mess with gusto. “Here, Boogie, dig in” he said as he tore it in half and pushed a pile my way. “Ha, we’re going to make a real dog out of you yet.”
I was not at all sure about this. The meat didn’t smell quite right. But I was hungry, and I figured Ratchet knew what he was talking about. I took a few small bites of gristly meat. It tasted as bad as it smelled and was a little too tough. I turned my attention to the bones. This was more to my liking, and we spent the next half hour savoring our meal.
By this time, the light was failing and it was getting chilly. I needed a drink badly. That peanut butter had dried my mouth out and the dry meat and bones had done nothing to slake my thirst. I started wondering where I was going to get a drink. I was used to having a bowl of water right next to my food bowl. But I didn’t want to disturb Ratchet during his repast, so I said nothing.
He finally completed his portion, looked at my unfinished meal, and said “You going to finish that? Do you mind”? Not waiting for an answer, he tackled my pile. I courteously allowed him to continue, and I started looking around for a bowl of water, or something. There’s got to be a bowl of water around here somewhere, I thought; people leave bowls of water around all the time. But there was not a bowl in sight. I would have settled for a toilet bowl right now, as thirsty as I was. But there were no toilets around either. I sat down, had a scratch, licked my chops, and started thinking the problem through.
“Ah, now that was rich stuff!” Ratchet said appreciatively. He finished and trotted over to a nearby rain spout. There was a small amount of water on the drain, and he lapped it up. I trotted over thirstily, but he had consumed it all. I licked at the wet concrete surface. It helped a little, but I was still dying for a drink. I’m afraid I let out a small whimper.
“Oh, sorry, let’s go find another spout” he apologized. We walked a short distance down the alley to the next rain spout. This one had a little more water in it, and I lapped it up, again licking the concrete dry. It helped, but I was still thirsty after it was all gone. It also tasted funny. The Feelys had much better water than this. I scolded myself for having these thoughts. Here I was, learning how to be a dog, and all I could think of was my former life. I decided I would banish all thought of the Feelys and concentrate on my new life.
“And now, it’s time to find refuge for the night”, said
Ratchet. He started trotting down the
alley. I followed, perhaps a little on
the slow side. I was feeling a little
weak, probably from hunger. Nuggets may
not be the tastiest meal in the world, but at least I was able to fill my
belly. Oh, there I go again, I
thought. I really must adopt a more
positive attitude. And I’ve been a
little conscious of my figure lately. A
little dieting will do me good. I caught
up to Ratchet, and we chatted as we left the alley and took a right onto the
We now entered unfamiliar territory. I had never gone this far on my walks with John. We were leaving town and entering an area of old, rundown houses. There was junk in the yards; old rusted cars, sofas, trash, and assorted other unrecognizable relics of human habitation. People sat on their porches, smoking and drinking. One man whistled to us as we passed and said “Here poochie”. I wagged my tail, turning on the charm and thinking maybe I could get a little more to eat from the man. Ratchet told me to ignore him, and we continued on. Now, the houses thinned out and the street turned into old, patched, two-lane country road.
I started noticing a horrible smell wafting out to us from down the road. I didn’t like it at all. I glanced inquiringly at Ratchet, but he ignored me and continued down the road. I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Just where were we going? Why did we have to walk so far just to find a place to sleep? We were headed away from town. Couldn’t we just sleep somewhere closer to the food?
“Ratchet, where are we headed?” I finally asked. “What’s that smell?”
“Oh, that’s just the junkyard”, he said. “But don’t worry; we’re not going all the way there. I know a nice place nearby where we can bed down for the night.”
“Oh, I see”, I said, not seeing at all. Why were we going anywhere near the junkyard? Why did it smell so bad? What about The Catcher? But I reminded myself that Ratchet had done this for years; he knew what he was doing. I decided that learning how to be a dog meant not asking so many questions.
My tummy was definitely not feeling right. Before, I could just chalk it up to nerves. Now, I thought maybe something I had eaten did not agree with me. It could be that peanut butter, which was slightly turned. But it was more likely that pheasant, or whatever it was. I was used to plain foods; not this rich stuff. The odor from the junkyard was even stronger, and that didn’t help at all.
Ratchet turned left off the road and entered a grassy field. I followed and we started walking single-file. The grass was higher than I was. I had to hop up on my hind legs every now and then to see where I was. Ratchet was taller than I was, and he could just barely see over the tops of the sea of grass. I saw in the moonlight that we were making our way toward a lone tree at the far edge of the field.
As we walked, I heard things scamper away from us. Small things. Maybe birds, or even some weasels. I thought maybe a nice weasel leg might help settle my stomach. Something fresh, anyways, not rotting like that garbage we went through. I hopped up to get my bearings. We were approaching the tree.
“Shhhh”, whispered Ratchet. “We’ve got to make sure nobody else is there. You go over to the right, and keep a lookout for anything suspicious.”
“Uh, what am I looking for? And what do I do if I find it?”
“Bark your fool head off. Growl. Show some teeth. Slobber a little. You know, the old Mad Dog Face.”
“Okay, Ratchet.” I wandered over a little ways and stopped. He had gotten me spooked a little. I didn’t want to go too far away from him. I practiced my Mad Dog Face while I was waiting. I was a little out of practice. I hadn’t gotten much opportunity to show my Mad Dog at the Feelys. I hoped it would be sufficiently convincing, should the need arise. I could hear him wandering through the grass, almost to the other side of the tree.
I was just about ready to go follow him when I heard a terrific ruckus over by where he was. Barking and growling. I was so surprised I dropped a load of pee right there in my tracks. It was two dog’s voices I heard, two dogs who did not like each other. One sounded like Ratchet, although I had never heard him acting so ferocious. A sudden scary thought entered my brain. The other dog was Blather’s ghost! Another stream of urine hit the trail below me.
I couldn’t see what was happening because of the grass. I didn’t know what to do. I was so frightened I couldn’t move. I had to talk myself into moving. I knew I had to help my friend. I summoned up my courage and started barking as well. I put on the fiercest face I could muster, and followed Ratchet’s path through the grass.
The grass stopped in a clearing around the big tree. There were Ratchet and a beat up, scarred old mongrel staring each other down, circling warily. The only sound coming from them was an eerie rumble from deep in the pits of their stomachs. The other dog was bigger than Ratchet. He looked like he could eat Ratchet for lunch. Neither of them had noticed me yet; they were staring intently at each other. I started barking as fiercely as I could. The mongrel glanced my way. It started backing off, trying to keep both of us in its line of vision. Ratchet advanced, and so did I. The mongrel retreated a little more.
My throat was getting a little raw from the barking. It was no longer ferocious, it sounded like I was choking. I kept it up, though. Ratchet took a short leap toward the mongrel, feinting like he was going to attack. The mongrel finally decided it didn’t like the odds it was facing. It turned tail and bounded through the grass back toward the road. I could see its tail as it retreated, and I could see its head pop up out of the grass periodically. It finally reached the road and turned toward town. That was the last I saw of it.
“Yes!” shouted Ratchet in joy. “You da dawg!” He came over and nipped playfully at my shoulder. “I’m da dawg! We’s da dawg!”
I was wiped! The adrenalin rush was over. I had to sit down. I was shaking all over. My heart was racing, and I was panting up a storm. I felt like I couldn’t take another step. I felt like I could just lay down right there and collapse from a heart attack. I summoned up just enough energy to ask “Was it Blather?”
Ratchet looked surprised. “No, it wasn’t Blather. Blather’s dead and gone. It was just some old stray who thought he could take over my den. I guess we showed him who’s boss of this town.”
Now that the excitement was over, I became aware again of my stomach troubles. I felt a searing pain, and felt a glob of something travel halfway up my throat. It sank back down, but I didn’t feel any better.
“Ratchet, I think…I think I’m going…”
“Boogs, what is it?” Ratchet asked with concern.
“…to be sick”. The glob erupted again. I started coughing, a deep, rasping, throaty, hiccupy cough. I knew it sounded like I was dying. Well, at that point, the way I felt, I think I wished I could die. The glob died down again but left an awful burning in my throat and an even worse taste in the back of my mouth. The pain was gone from my tummy, but it had this unpleasant, full, feeling to it.
“Spit it out, Boogie, spit it out” Ratchet said helpfully.
The glob erupted one final time, and I threw up. The stinking glob fell to the ground at my feet. The cool air met the heat of the quivering mass and a little cloud of mist quickly surrounded it. I sniffed at it, wondering if maybe I should lick it back up, maybe it was something important from inside me. I gingerly touched it with my tongue. Nope. Not me. Peanut butter and chicken, but nothing of me. I walked a little bit away from it. Then I laid down, put my head between my paws, and panted.
“Way to spit it out, buddy” said Ratchet.
“Ratchet, can we go to bed now?”
“Sure thing, Boogs. Come on, follow me.”
I got up on unsteady feet. He went to the base of the big tree, where there was a large pile of branches surrounded by dead grass. He got down on his belly and slithered through an opening in the pile. I followed. Inside was a nice, comfy, grass lined den. It felt kind of nice and safe, being surrounded on all sides. We lay down and cuddled up to each other for warmth. Yes, this was more like it. We lay for a while in silence.
“Ratchet?”
“Yes?”
“Are we going to see any of those bitches anytime soon?”
“I’m afraid not tonight, Boogie.”
“Good, because I don’t feel so good.”
“I hear ya, good buddy.”
“Ratchet?”
“What, Boogie?”
“Am I a real dog yet?”
“You’re close, Boogs, you’re damn close.”
I slept soundly almost the whole night. I woke up briefly when it started to rain, and drops started splattering through the branches of our den and onto us. Even that didn’t completely wake me. It was only when the floodgates hit that I became fully awake. The sky was just starting to get light. I lay shivering for a while. Ratchet was completely out of it, and snoring away. He was probably used to this kind of thing, but I was miserable. I was wet, cold, tired, and hungry. My stomach was making some strange sounds, sounds I had never heard it make during my pampered existence at the Feelys. I had to pee, but I didn’t want to go out into the rain.
I tossed and turned for a while, and shivered, but I must have gone back to sleep. The next thing I knew, the rain had stopped and the most enticing warmth from the sun seeped into our den. My bladder was bursting. I got up and went outside to relieve myself. I had a good stretch to relieve the aching in my bones from the cold and the rain. The sun was shining through an overcast sky, and I luxuriated in its warmth . My fur was finally drying. I was feeling so good I thought I might go weasel hunting and rustle us up some breakfast. That would be a nice treat for Ratchet, in return for his being so good to me.
I wandered around the field for a while, sniffing here and there, but didn’t catch any good scents. There was no rustling in the grass like there had been last night. At least I found plenty of puddles to slake my thirst. I went back to the den, feeling a little disappointed. Real life just wasn’t like those old stories my Dame used to tell me. Ratchet was just starting to stir. He came out of the den limping, looking grumpy and about 10 years older. The light patch on his back seemed greyer than ever. He relieved himself, stretched, and had a drink without saying much. He mumbled something about food and started off through the grass. I guess he wasn’t a morning person. I followed, respecting his mood and not saying anything.
We spent the day scrounging for food. Ratchet explained to me that today was trash pickup day, so the pickings would be slim in the garbage cans. We couldn’t find a thing worth eating in any garbage anywhere. We found a few cans lined with an evil smelling slime, but even Ratchet turned his nose up at it. Even Ratchet was grumbling about his stomach.
“Well, Boogs”, he told me, “there are some days where you just go hungry.”
I didn’t need to hear that. “Wait a minute”, I said. “You mean to tell me that you go a whole day without eating?”
“Now just be patient”, he said. “We’ve still got to make our rounds. We’ll find something.”
We made the rounds. We visited all Ratchet’s friends in the neighborhood. We managed to get a bite to eat here and there, just enough to make me more hungry than I already was. I had lost the queasy feeling I had last night, and now there was just a gnawing hunger in my belly.
We stopped by a house where a couple of bitches lived, but they weren’t home. “Must be out for a walk, or something”, said Ratchet. I was secretly pleased that they weren’t home. I just didn’t feel up to a romantic encounter. The previous night had taken a lot out of me. I thought I might like to stop by Sally’s, just to say hi, but Ratchet nixed that idea. He said it was a waste of time, we weren’t going to get anywhere with her.
“I don’t want to ‘get anywhere’ with her, Ratchet”, I objected. “I just want to say hello. She’s a friend. All you think about is humping. Not every bitch is only good for humping.”
“Hmmph, so you say”, he replied. “Okay, let’s go and see your girlfriend.”
So we went. I had some misgivings about going back near my old home. But the place was completely empty and silent. I wondered where the Feelys were. Did they miss me? Did they even notice I was gone? My disappearance certainly didn’t stop them from moving out. Well, who needed them? I had my best friend, and that was good enough for me.
We met up with Sally in her backyard. She took an instant interest in Ratchet. She shook her butt right in his face, but he ignored her. That upset her, so she started shaking her butt at me. I figured if Ratchet could ignore it, so could I. That rattled her even more, so she kicked us out and told us to be on our way. The only good thing about the encounter was that we managed to get a few bites of her kibble. That was good stuff. Much better than the sawdust the Feelys fed me. I felt much better. Not full, not satiated, but the grumbling in my stomach stopped.
We wandered around as the afternoon fled by, just hanging out and wasting time. Finally, it started getting dark and it was time to head back to our den. I was ready. I needed to make up for the morning’s lost sleep. Usually, I’ve had a few naps by this time of day, but today we were just too busy scrounging for food to think about sleeping. We set off for the den. We passed the poor side of town and arrived at the grassy field and started through it toward the big tree.
I noticed the scent at the same time as Ratchet. He stopped dead in his tracks, the hair rising on his back. Dog scent. It smelled like that mongrel was back in our den. But there was more to the scent than the mongrel. I couldn’t make out the other odors, but they were even more unpleasant than the mongrel’s. I prepared myself for another confrontation. We approached the tree stealthily.
Just as we reached the end of the grass, a barrage of barking greeted us. Three dogs growled at us from in front of our den. There was the mongrel, and it looked like he had brought friends. His friends were even bigger than he was, and they were uglier, if that was even possible. They were making that low, soft, rumbling, menacing sound.
“Okay, Boogie, nice and slow now, let’s back away” said Ratchet softly. “Looks like we’ll be finding us another place to stay tonight.”
We started backing away. The three dogs followed, still snarling. We continued backing up. Ratchet was staring intently at our three adversaries. I took a glance back, and saw through the gloom two tails poking up through the grass, coming our way from the road. I could just make them out in the light of the full moon overhead.
“Don’t look now, but there’s two more behind us”, I whispered. “What do we do now?”
“Don’t panic. When I say ‘now’, we’re going to turn left and take off. You’ve got to run like the wind, okay Boogs? Don’t stop, no matter what happens. Just keep running. Ready?”
“Okay, Ratchet, whatever you say”. I said it in a voice two tones higher than my normal voice. I was starting to shake. This was not how it was supposed to be, I thought. We’re supposed to be having a nice, pleasant dog’s life. We should be cozily sleeping in our den by now. Instead, we’re facing down three unpleasant dogs and two more on the way.
“NOW!” yelled Ratchet, and took off. I jumped at his yell, and was off just behind him. We ran as fast as we could, the tall grass whipping our faces. I took a look behind as I ran. The three dogs were following, and gaining. They’re not supposed to do that! They’re supposed to be happy that they drove us off and go back to their hard won den. This was not fair! They were not playing by the rules. It was so unfair.
“Keep running, Boogie” yelled Ratchet. “Don’t stop”. He kept going, and so did I. He was much faster than I was, and the distance between us was increasing. I risked another glance back. It looked like the three were slowing down. But as I turned my head forward, I heard some rustling in the grass to my left. The other two! They were still chasing, and it looked like they were paralleling us. No, they were getting steadily closer. Ratchet had noticed also, and was starting to veer to the right.
As I ran through the grass, I realized what they were doing. The two were herding us to the right. The three were flanking around to the right. They were trying to trap us! Those brutes were smarter than they looked.
I skidded to a stop. “Ratchet, they’re trying to trap us. Stop! Come on, back the other way! Quick!”
Ratchet stopped, looked around, and nodded. We immediately took off in the opposite direction, back toward the tree, following our tracks in the trampled grass. Ratchet quickly overtook me and passed me. It took a moment for the others to realize that we were no longer running into their trap. I looked back and saw signs of movement in the grass. We reached the tree, and kept running past it. I was hoping the others would give up now that we had gotten away from their trap, and would be satisfied with the den.
I could no longer see or hear any signs of pursuit, but we kept running. My lungs were bursting, my legs were numb, and still I kept running. The grass was getting longer, and it became harder and harder to run through it. I was so excited I didn’t notice the distinctive smell of the junkyard becoming stronger. I was looking back toward our pursuers, and was happy to see no sign of them. I looked forward, and saw no sign of Ratchet! I looked around me as I ran, crying out for him. I looked back again.
At that moment, I ran smack dab into something in front of me. It was a wooden fence, and I broke two of the slats as my head crashed into it. I went tumbling head over heels through the hole I had just created. I came to rest in a dusty clearing. I shook my head to clear it and looked around. There was junk all around me. There was a wall of old broken down cars to my left. There was a pile of metal to my right. In front of me, across the clearing, was an old wooden shack, lit up with lanterns hung along the rafters. In front of it was a pot on a smoking fire. A surprised looking human was just getting up from his chair by the pot, and was reaching for something behind him. It was a stick or something.
I realized then where I was. The junkyard. A second’s further cogitation, and I realized who the human was. The Catcher. If I had been in my right mind, I might have been a little quicker thinking. I might have taken off lickety-split. But I just sat there marveling at my realization. The Catcher. I was finally face to face with him. The only thing that saved me was the fact that it was dark, and he probably had a harder time seeing me than I could seeing him.
I figured I’d better get up, before he came after me with the stick. But I was still dazed from the bump my head had taken. My head was spinning. I was having trouble getting my back legs going in the same direction as my front legs. I started staggering around in the clearing. The Catcher came a few steps in my direction, and then stopped and did the strangest thing. He pointed the stick at me. I stared at him stupidly, trying to figure out what he was doing.
Just then I felt the clamp of jaws on the back of my neck. Oh no! Caught! The pack had been following after all, and had finally caught up. I was finished! I struggled, but was still too dazed to put up much of a fight. I looked back and saw the biggest, meanest, ugliest mongrel of the pack staring back at me. I smelled his foul breath. I felt the jaws catch on the skin on the back of my neck and start dragging me. Back toward the hole in the fence. I whimpered in pain. Oh, Dog in Heaven, why did I ever leave the Feelys? I didn’t want it to end like this, being torn apart by a pack of hungry wolves.
I looked back. The Catcher was still standing there, pointing his stick our way. I saw a puff of smoke come from it, and a second later heard a loud crack. The dog dragging me yelped, and he lost his grip on me. He tore off back through the hole in the fence. I got up shakily. I heard another loud crack coming from the direction of The Catcher, and a searing pane in my right hind leg. That cleared my mind. I jumped up and through the hole in the fence. I’d rather face that crazed wolf than face The Catcher. The dog was in the grass. I could hear his panting. I limped my way along the fence, trying to outflank him. But he was following me. He would not give up on his prey so easily.
I was moving slowly. My hind leg was in pain, and it was bleeding. The skin on my neck hurt where he had grabbed me. My head hurt from the bump it had taken. I heard the panting getting closer. The dog burst through the wall of grass and blocked my way. It was snarling and growling. It had a splotch of blood on its side, but that didn’t seem to faze it in the slightest. I started saying my prayers.
Just as I said my amens, a blaze of fur burst through the grass and landed on the dog’s back. It was Ratchet. He latched his jaws into the back of the big dog’s neck. The two spun in a fierce bundle of fur, teeth, and claws. The mongrel gave a heave, throwing Ratchet off him, and Ratchet gave a yelp of pain. Just at that moment, I saw The Catcher pointing his smoking stick through the hole in the fence. There was a third crack, and the mongrel gave its own yelp, fell, rolled a couple of times, and was still.
We didn’t waste a moment. Ratchet and I took off into the tall grass. We didn’t want to head back toward the pack, so we went a short ways into the grass and then started running parallel to the fence, away from The Catcher. My leg was killing me, but I kept running. I could only hope that The Catcher would stop to grab the mongrel and take it home for the night’s dinner.
We ran and ran. We passed the end of the fence as it took a turn away from us. The grass started thinning out, and we encountered rough, wet wooded territory. We were now close to the swamp. We slowed, and finally stopped in a small hollow, too tired to go any further. We saw no signs of followers. We started checking out our wounds.
I had what looked like a bite taken out of my leg. It was sore, but it had stopped bleeding. I had a couple of fang holes in the skin of my neck, but there was no blood. Ratchet’s left back leg, the one he always limped on, was sore but not apparently broken. Ratchet gingerly licked the blood off my leg wound. His saliva stung, but as he was cleaning it the pain lessened. The bite was not deep.
We took a look around. We were at the edge of the swamp. Further in, the vegetation got thicker. Huge, misshapen cypress trees poked out of the gloom, with moss hanging from the limbs. There were pools of black, stagnant water all around, with clumps of cattails along the edges. There was an eerie silence about the place, not even a wind rustling the leaves of the trees. There was a rotten odor emanating from the pools.
I looked back the way we had come. I could still see the junkyard fence, and peeking over the top of it was The Catcher, silhouetted by the light from his shack. He was staring straight at us. I was panicky, and got up to leave. Ratchet whispered to me to stay down. He didn’t think The Catcher could see us in the gloom; otherwise he’d be coming after us. After a while he retreated and disappeared from view.
We didn’t want to take any chances, with the pack or with The Catcher. Our only choice was to retreat farther into the swamp. We got up and wearily went deeper in. There were points where we could not avoid the pools, and we waded through the cold water. We finally had to stop to rest again. We stopped by an old cypress, and crawled under its curved roots and lay down, both of us still panting. We were wet and cold again. We were hungry again. I ached all over.
After a while our panting subsided. We started hearing the small sounds of the swamp, drops of water dripping from the trees, slight winds kicking up leaves, birds in the distance, an occasional branch falling. We even heard a train whistle way off. We cuddled up to each other for warmth, and started dozing off. So ends my second night of freedom, I thought unhappily just as I was drifting off.
When I awoke it was still dark. My hackles were rising. I thought I had heard something, or was it a dream? No, there it was again, a rustle in the vegetation. I peeked out from beneath the cypress roots. There, just a few feet away, was the biggest, fattest weasel I had ever seen. What luck!
I tensed myself, and sprung out. My shoulders banged painfully against the roots and slowed me down. The weasel jumped straight up, higher than any rodent rightfully ought to spring. It landed, gave a high-pitched squeal and took off. I sprang off after it. Just as I started running, I heard Ratchet sleepily mumble something, but I was in too much of a hurry to pay attention. I followed the weasel for a minute. The ground here was very wet and boggy. My feet were sinking into the mud and I had a hard time pulling them out. That slowed me down, giving the weasel a chance to reach a tree. It climbed it so fast it looked like it was hardly touching the bark.
I reached the tree and started springing up at it. It had lodged itself in the crook of a tree branch, and was looking down at me with those beady little eyes. It was out of my reach. By this time, I was barking up a storm. The weasel just sat there, knowing it was safe. I heard a noise behind me, and looked back to see Ratchet standing there watching me.
“Can you keep the noise down a little?” he asked. “I was trying to sleep.”
“Look Ratchet” I said excitedly. “I caught us some breakfast.”
“Doesn’t look to me like you’ve caught it at all”, he said. “Looks like the little bugger is laughing at you, you making all that ruckus and jumping around like that.”
“No, as soon as it comes down, I’ll have it”.
“It’s not going to come down as long as you’re standing there watching it. Forget about it.”
I knew he was right. So close! So close to my first hunt and kill. If only I had been a little quicker. But there was nothing to be done now. The disappointment must have shown in my face.
“Come on, Boogs, there’ll be other hunts. One day we’ll catch us a nice big fat one, and then we’ll have a feast. Let’s go back to bed.”
I reluctantly turned away from the treed weasel and started heading back toward the cypress. I thought Ratchet was following me until I heard his voice back by the tree.
“Uh, Boogie, I’ve got a problem here.”
I turned back and followed the sound of his voice. He was standing in a pool of water, and it was up to his elbows. I stood just at the edge of the pool, not wanting to get wet and cold again.
“My feet are stuck in the mud”, he said.
“Well, just drag yourself out and let’s get going”, I said. “It’s cold out here”. I was a little cross with him for being such a know-it-all and not giving me credit for an almost-kill.
“I can’t”, he said in a shaky voice. “The mud is sucking my feet in. I think I’m sinking.” He was getting a panicky look in his eyes.
“Mud is mud”, I said, perhaps a little too gleeful at Ratchet’s predicament. “It doesn’t suck. You don’t sink in mud.”
“It isn’t mud”, a voice said.
I looked around. “Uh, excuse me? Who said that?”
“I said it isn’t mud”. The voice came from the tree, from the tree with the weasel in it. I looked straight at it, still perched in its branch. I blinked. It blinked. I could hardly believe that I had just heard a weasel speaking to me.
“It’s suck-mud”.
This time I was starting straight at it and saw its mouth move as it spoke to me. “Uh, suck-mud?” I asked shakily. Sucking mud and speaking weasels. This was getting way too bizarre.
“Yes, suck-mud”, it said in a rather urbane voice. “Tell your friend to stop struggling so much. The more he wiggles, the faster it sucks him in.”
I looked at Ratchet. He looked at me. We were both dumbfounded. The water was now just touching his belly. “Better do as it says, Ratchet”.
“Yes, he had better”, the weasel said. “It’s best if he just completely relaxes. Try to float on the water. Spread yourself out. The more surface area you present, the slower you will sink.”
I didn’t know what it was saying, all this stuff about surface area. But it sounded like it knew what it was talking about.
“How does he get out?” I asked.
“Oh, now you want my advice”, it said. “A minute ago you were ready to eat me, and now you want me to help you?”
“Hey, drop the attitude, okay, weasel?” I said in an irritated tone. “This has not been a good day for us.”
“Boogie, listen to it” interrupted Ratchet. His belly was now submerged.
“I am not a weasel”, it said haughtily. “I am a Bograt”.
“Okay, Bograt, Schmograt” I said, rather cleverly I thought. “Just help my friend, please.”
“Do you promise not to try to eat me?” it asked.
“Yes”, I said impatiently.
“Do you solemnly swear on the name of your dear mother?” it asked.
“YES”, I said, getting more irritated by the second.
“Okay, here’s what you do. First, you, my dear fat canine, turn around and extend your tail to your friend.”
I hesitated. I was not fat. A little plump perhaps, but definitely not fat. If anybody was fat around here, it was that wretched weasel.
“Just do what it says, Boogie”, said Ratchet in a desperate voice, as the water seeped up to his shoulders. I did as it asked, although I didn’t like the direction things were heading.
“Now you, my fine sinking friend, will grab hold of the aforementioned nether part with your teeth.”
Ratchet immediately stretched out his neck, reached out to my tail and latched on gingerly. I grimaced in pain but endured it for my friend.
“Finally, you must do the following, and believe me; this hurts me worse than it hurts you. Clamp down your teeth as hard as you can. It might help if you use your canines.”
Ratchet did as he was told. It took a second for the pain to travel up my spine to my suffering brain. When it did, I yelped in agony. I loved my friend, but I could not endure this. I ran away. At least I tried to, but there was the small matter of the intervening length of Boogie flesh between us.
“Now hold tight”, said the Bograt with entirely too much mirth in its voice.
The pain was unendurable. I pulled with all my might to get away from the pain. I was yelping like a little puppy. My paws were slipping and sliding on the wet ground as I ran in place. I felt a little give, and maybe a small relief in my maligned tail. I ran faster. There was a wet sucking sound, and I looked back to see Ratchet’s belly rise up out of the water. At that moment, Ratchet’s teeth squeezed even harder on my aching tail.
That jolted me. I gave a final pull. There was another sucking sound, and suddenly Ratchet was up out of the mud. At the same instant, my paws found purchase in the ground and I sprung forward, dragging Ratchet with me. My momentum took me straight to the Bograt’s tree, and for the second time that night I used my head as a battering ram. This time there was no give, and I bounced off the tree like a rubber ball. Meanwhile, Ratchet’s momentum carried him forward along the muddy surface, and he inadvertently used his muzzle as a battering ram straight into my rear end. This knocked my head back into the tree. The two of us fell into a jumble.
“Oh, my aching head”, I complained miserably. “Oh, my poor tail. Oh, my butt hurts.”
We lay for a second where we had fallen. There was an unusual sound coming from the Bograt’s tree, a skittery, jittery, squeaking sort of sound. Both Ratchet and I looked up at it simultaneously. It was laying on its back, and its tiny legs were holding its belly and its sides were vibrating. At first I thought it was dying. Then I suddenly realized what that sound was. It was laughing. It was laughing at us.
“Oh, my, I have not had such fun in such a long time”, it said breathlessly. “That was absolutely hysterical.” And it was still laughing.
Suddenly, Ratchet started laughing as well. I stared at him in disbelief. I could not see what was so funny. So far tonight, I had bonked my head twice, gotten shot with a smoke stick, been dragged by the skin of my neck by a wolf, had Ratchet’s snout halfway up my anus, and had been humiliated by a fat Bograt. I was sore all over. I didn’t see the humor in the situation at all.
I sat and licked the raw skin at the end of my tail. The laughing went on. “Just let me know when you are done”, I said indignantly. That started fresh guffaws. I tended to my wounds as I endured the humiliation. After a few minutes of picturing the incident in my mind, I started to see the joke. I was too sore to really laugh, but I started chuckling softly.
Ratchet looked up at the Bograt. “Thank you, my friend, for saving my life. Will we have a tail to tell.” That started a burst of fresh laughter, and I was now laughing as hard as they were.
“Boy, this swamp really sucks” I said with tears in my eyes. Now Ratchet was on his back laughing. The Bograt almost fell out of his tree. We all laughed until we were exhausted and gasping for air. This went on, and finally we were sighing and relaxing our aching smiles. We lay in silence for a moment.
“I must say, you fellows are quite decent chaps after all” said the Bograt. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Humphrey Bograt, at your service.”
“Pleased to me you, Sir Humphrey”, said Ratchet, being his usual charming self. “I’m Ratchet, and this poor suffering fellow is my friend Boogie.”
“We’re best friends”, I added.
“And what, might I ask, has brought you two into this neck of the woods? A little far from home, I suspect.”
“Well, first there was the pack of wolves”, I began. “Then there was The Catcher. He chased us into the swamp, on account of we didn’t want to go back near the pack. So we decided to sleep under the cypress, and then you came along…”
“Ah, dear me, such a tragic story” Sir Humphrey said. “I had no inkling that there were wolves in the vicinity. And what, pray tell, is this catcher fellow?”
“Well, he killed his dog, you see, and he went crazy, and now he chases after poor innocent dogs and has them for dinner.” I was sure I had left something out of my account, but I’ve never been very good at telling stories.
“The Catcher is legendary”, said Ratchet. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him since you live so close.”
“Well, I’ve heard many legends” said Sir Humphrey, “but never any about any Catcher. Now, my favorite is the Legend of the Giant Elephant Shrew. Forgive me, but I’m just a little proud of this legend, since it involves a rodent. Those are really the best stories, I think. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Whatever you say, Humphrey”, said Ratchet. “Say, I’ve never heard of a talking weas – uh – Bograt before.”
“Well, I likewise would not have believed in talking dogs before you fellows happened by”, he replied.
“What’s really amazing”, I interjected, “is that we can communicate with each other.”
“Indeed”, said Humphrey. “I’ve always had a way with words. A sort of rodent for all seasons, you might say. It pleases me to no end to have someone to chat with. Life gets so lonely at times.”
“Why don’t you come down out of your tree”, I asked innocently, “so we can talk face and face?”
“I think not”, Sir Humphrey replied. “Whilst I appreciate that you fellows are grateful for my helpful advice, it was just a while ago that I recall you two discussing having me for breakfast. I can see your faces just fine from up here, thank you.”
“Well, it was just a suggestion” I said.
“Why do you call yourself Sir Humphrey?” asked Ratchet.
“That is a rather long and complicated story. But since you ask, I shall try to keep it brief. I come from a long line of illustrious Bograts. Many years ago, this swamp was much larger than it is now. It stretched farther than the eye can see. King Otterman Bograt the Third bequeathed it to my ancestor, Sir Jeffrey Macintosh Beaverly-Bograt. The King knighted Sir Jeffrey for his valiantry in battle. Since then, the family notables have all been addressed with the honorific. It is strictly hereditary, you see. There is no longer a King of Bograts in the swamp. However, I like to keep the family traditions.”
“What happened to the King of Bograts?” I asked.
“Time has taken its toll. That, and humans. The swamp has shrunken down to its present diminutive state. Humans come in all the time, hunting for quail and pheasant, but they will not hesitate to lower their sights and shoot a Bograt or two. Now, I am afraid that I am the last of the Bograts. There will be no heir, no Sir Humphrey Bograt the Second to carry on the family name, I am afraid.”
I wiped a tear from my eye. Such a sad tale. That was why he mentioned loneliness a while back. Imagine not having any other of your kind.
“What was this giant shrew you mentioned?” I asked.
“It was back in the days when the swamp was too large to walk across, even if you marched incessantly from the day you were born until the day you died. There were no humans then. There were strange creatures back then; long-necked four legged snakes, carnivorous flightless birds that terrorized the population, great warty wildebeests with horns growing every which way from their heads. But the largest of them all was the Great Giant Elephant Shrew. As big as a house it was. Its legs were like tree trunks, and its steps shook the earth. It was said that it ate an acre a day. I’ve heard that its bones are buried right here in this very swamp. I’ve also heard that the ghost of the Giant Elephant Shrew comes out some nights, and wanders the bog looking for innocent victims. Those it catches are dragged deep into the swamp, sucked into the mud, and drowned. You, Ratchet, my fine furry friend, were on your way to meet the Great Shrew, as we Bograts are fond of saying, when your brave friend risked life and limb to save you.”
“One limb in particular”, I interjected, still licking my sore tail.
“I cannot thank you enough for what you did, Boogie”, said Ratchet. “You truly are my best friend.”
“Please, I’m very interested in these wolves you’ve referred to”, said Sir Humphrey. “I might have had some dealings with them myself.”
“Well, they’re not really wolves, they’re just strays”, I said. “But they’re running around in a pack, and they stole Ratchet’s den. We would very much like to get it back. Then they chased us into the swamp. I don’t think you’ve met up with them. I think they’re new here. We had never seen them before tonight, and we only ran across the pack leader for the first time last night.”
“Uh, Boogie, I’ve got a confession to make”, said Ratchet. “I kind of lied to you. I know who the pack leader is.”
“Oh, really?” I replied. I could not imagine Ratchet lying to me. He was my best friend. Why would he lie to me?
“His name is Bosco, and he’s been around a long time” said Ratchet. “He’s the leader of what used to be my pack. But they kicked me out and Bosco became their new leader.”
I was shocked. “Ratchet, why would they kick you out of the pack? I didn’t even know you had a pack.”
“It was some time before I met you. Boogie, look at me. I’m getting old. I used to be the biggest and quickest dog around. Seems like every new pup that comes along is bigger and faster than the one before it. Meanwhile, I’m limping along, slowing down. It was only a matter of time before a Bosco came along and showed me my walking papers. It’s the way of the pack. It’s how the pack strengthens itself.”
“But you run this town, Ratchet” I objected. “You’re the top dog.”
“Was the top dog” he answered. “No more. Bosco took my pack, and he took my den. The last time I talked to him, he said that if he saw me again, he would tear my throat out.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was too disappointed to answer. I was angry. All of the admiration I had for him. All those boasts he had made. All of it was lies. I had left my comfortable existence with the Feelys on account of those lies. Hmmph. I bet he didn’t hump half the bitches he said he did.
“I was going to start a new pack, Boogie”, he said. “You were my first pack-mate”.
“How are you going to start a new pack when you don’t even have a den?” I asked pointedly. That remark hit home with him. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he hung his head. I felt bad hurting him like that. But I was hurting too.
We were both silent. There was nothing more to be said. We went to opposite ends of the clearing around the tree, lost in thought. Sir Humphrey sat in his tree, muttering occasionally but otherwise as silent as we were. The sun came up and its rays spread over us. But I did not feel its warmth. I felt like I would never feel warmth again.
“Yes, I think that would work”. I jumped out of my silent thoughts at the sound of the Bograt’s voice. Ratchet looked up at him, from over where he had been laying with his head on his paws.
“Come here, my friends”, said Sir Humphrey. “I’ve got an idea. I think I’ve found a way out of this predicament.”
Ratchet got up and limped slowly over to the tree. I stayed where I was. There was no way I was going anywhere near Ratchet. Not right now.
The Bograt looked over at me. “Look, my dear fellow, I apologize for calling you a fatty. You are actually quite svelte.”
I knew it! My dear old dame always told me I was the handsomest of the litter. And we beagles do tend to be big-boned. It’s in our genes.
“And I’m sorry for thinking you were fat, as well”, I said. “Actually, I realize now it’s just that fine, full pelt you have. It really is quite magnificent.”
“Why, thank you” said the Bograt, seemingly surprised at the compliment. Or perhaps he was just surprised that I had thought him fat to begin with.
“And now that you and I have made up” said Sir Humphrey, “it is time for you and your friend to make up. I have been around for a long time. Never have I seen a friendship such as I have seen with you two. I would never believe that one dog would endure what you have, for the sake of friendship. Never have I seen such sacrifices. You have restored my faith in canines.”
My Beagle nature was coming to the forefront. It was not in me to hold a grudge for long. I looked over at Ratchet. He looked up hopefully. I got up and walked over to him. I gave him a loving sniff, and he did the same. Despite what I had just learned about him, I could not help but love this mangy stray. If we had been human, we would have hugged and kissed and told each other how sorry we were. As dogs, it was sufficient just to look into each other’s eyes. But there was one thing I had to say to him.
“Ratchet, I would be proud to be your pack-mate.” Dogs don’t cry like humans do, but I swear his eyes misted over when I said that to him.
“Ah, all better”, said Humphrey. “Friends to the end. And now, to the problem at hand. If I understand canine dynamics correctly, the central problem seems to be the existence of this one hound ‘Bosco’. He seems to be the weak link in the chain. If we can but rid ourselves of him, I believe the situation would resolve itself with little or no effort.”
I did not understand any of what he was saying, except the part about getting rid of Bosco. “Yes, but how can we do that?”
“That is the crux of the matter, yes”, replied Humphrey. “Now, gather closely, and let us discuss the plan I have formulated.” We got as close to him as the tree would allow, and Humphrey explained his plan. We talked about it for quite some time. Ratchet seemed at first doubtful, and I was absolutely incredulous. But the more the Bograt explained, the more it seemed to make sense.
“Now”, continued Humphrey, “I suppose it is out of the question to teach you how to climb a tree in the next few hours?”
“Dogs and trees have been enemies for a long time”, said Ratchet. “Why else do you think we pee on them all the time? It’s not to mark territory, believe me. I doubt either of us could learn to climb them on such short notice.”
“I suppose not”, said Humphrey. “That really is a flaw in my plan. Let me think some more…”
I thought some more, as did Ratchet. Dogs climbing trees, what a silly notion. But while on that train of thought, I got an idea. I didn’t want to interrupt Sir Humphrey out of his brainstorm. So I waited. Sir Humphrey continued thinking. I waited some more.
“Uh, excuse me?” I said timidly.
There was no answer. Everybody was too busy thinking. I thought about my idea some more. The more I visualized it, the more convinced I became that it could work.
“Oooh, oooh” I said, trying to get somebody’s attention.
“Yes, dear fellow, you may relieve yourself over there” said Humphrey, looking somewhat irritated at being interrupted. “No need around here to ask permission.”
“No, I’ve got a plan”, I said. “What we need to do is to get some tree branches, see. Some really big, thick ones. And then…”
I told them my part of the plan. Sir Humphrey said I may have something there. I absolutely preened at his praise. We spent hours going over every little detail. It all seemed to work out. It could work!
“Then we’re all agreed?” asked Humphrey. “We shall put the plan into execution this very evening at dark. Until then, I suggest we all take a nice nap to make up for being roused so early this morning.”
“I don’t know about you, Boogs”, said Ratchet, “but I could use something to eat. Why don’t we take a stroll into town and pick something up?”
That was the best idea I had heard all day. The nap idea was a close second. I was torn – sleep or food? The growling in my stomach settled the matter. “Yeah, let’s do that, and then we take that nap.”
“Yeah. See you in a little while, Sir Humphrey.” With that, we were off. We exited the swamp and entered the field. But the unpleasant odor of the pack was still strong. I mounted a small rise and was able to see out to the road. We had trouble. Three members of the pack were patrolling the road. Ratchet said he saw some members of the pack in the field as well. Our way into town was blocked. More importantly, our access to food was blocked. Neither of us had foreseen this; that Bosco and company would still be looking for us. The only other way would be to go all the way through the swamp, which bent around behind our den. That way was impossible, Ratchet told me. He knew, he had tried.
So we ate grass, mushrooms, dandelions and sprouts. It was unpleasant, but we had to have something. It was pretty clear to me that this could not continue. We had to get to town, and Bosco and company stood in our way. Up until this moment, I wasn’t sure if we should go through with our plan. It was pretty drastic. But, desperate times call for drastic measures. We came back to Sir Humphrey’s tree, where he was still on his branch but fast asleep. We soon joined him in dreamland.
By the time the sun was all the way down, we were set up and in position for the operation. Ratchet would be the lead decoy, and I would be the backup. We set out for the old tree in the field, confident that Bosco and company would be keeping a close guard. We crept up, and soon caught a whiff of the pack. Ratchet nodded to me, and I stopped. He went on ahead.
After a moment or two, I heard him call out. “Oh boys, you want a piece of me? Here I am, come and get me.”
He gave two short barks, the signal that he had two of the enemy following him. I heard him crashing through the brush, and I heard the barks of his pursuers. I looked around, and sure enough, soon saw the signs of the other three, trying to perform their flanking maneuver again. I gave out three short barks, again a signal to Ratchet. The three flankers immediately started after me. I started running as well. The plan was proceeding pretty well. We knew that once the pursuers caught scent of their prey, all their prior planning and strategy was out the window. Ratchet and I were running parallel tracks, and our pursuers were as well. We had foiled their flanking maneuver, and we had separated their pack.
This was the dangerous part of the mission. We could not hope to outrun the pack. But we felt pretty confident that we could stay ahead long enough. We hoped we could. We wished and prayed to The Great Dog above that we could. The heavy brush was something of an equalizer. All the pursuers could do was follow their ears and noses. Ratchet and I were pretty much invisible in the grass. We ran as hard as we could, not daring to pace ourselves. We knew that the run would be over soon enough, one way or another, once we entered the swamp.
I was slightly to the right of Ratchet. I could hear him running, but could not see him. I didn’t dare risk looking over the tops of the grass to try and spot him. I could hear the pack of three behind me, and they were gaining quickly. I began to wonder if I had enough leeway to reach the swamp.
I did have enough, but just barely. As I entered the swamp, I could almost feel the hot breath of the big dog on my tail. It smelled like the wolf that had dragged me out of the junkyard. It must have survived The Catcher’s smoke stick after all. The skin of my neck was burning just thinking about it. I glanced to my left, and I could now see Ratchet racing through the pools and cattails, with Bosco and another dog close behind. I would not look behind me. It would just slow me down. I was getting tired now, and my legs were burning from the exertion. I bore down, ignoring the burning. I pictured in my mind my humans, and my friend Ratchet, and that helped give me the will to keep going.
I spied my goal up ahead. A large branch propped up against a large tree. I reached it and didn’t stop. I ran right up that branch, reached the crook of the tree, and kicked the branch away. This was a first. A dog climbing a tree to escape pursuit! This would be one for the legends to come.
The three dogs reached my tree and threw themselves at it. They leaped, they banged their bodies against the tree, they howled in frustration. They were not giving up. This was what we had hoped for. As long as they were not chasing Ratchet. For the moment I was safe. I had the luxury of watching Ratchet’s progress.
He was still running, and his pursuers were almost on him. Suddenly, a fat ball of fur raced across their track. One dog immediately started after it. If there’s one thing a dog can’t resist, it’s the sight of a furry creature running across its path. All conscious thought departs, and he can think of only one thing. Weasel meat!
Sir Humphrey led the dog to another tree, and climbed it even faster than he had the other tree. The dog ran right into the tree, smacked its head, and sat down in a daze, still barking. It recovered and started leaping at the tree, with Sir Humphrey safely out of reach. Scratch pursuer number four.
That left Bosco still chasing Ratchet. Ratchet approached a large branch across a pool, and he ran across it barely touching it. It was poetry in motion, watching that dog run across the makeshift bridge. Once he got to the other side, he kicked the branch aside and turned to face his attacker. Bosco saw his prey stop and all reason left him. He hit the pool at full speed, intending to crash headlong into Ratchet and put an end to him once and for all.
Bosco took two steps in the pool without slowing. I almost wondered if our plan had failed, and my heart skipped a beat. But then, Bosco stopped. He stopped so quickly his head dipped into the pool, and he pulled it back out covered in mud. Well, no, it was like the Bograt said. It wasn’t mud, it was suck-mud. And Bosco was stuck in it.
My three were still barking furiously and trying to find a way to get up to me. Sir Humphrey’s pursuer was howling its anger at the world. It was deafening. But then, a howl rose above the others, a cry from Bosco as he realized he was stuck. It was a long, drawn-out, mournful wail. All sound from the others stopped as they turned to see what was the matter. Ratchet was calmly sitting on his haunches, watching from the side of the pool, his tongue hanging out and his panting audible all the way over where I was.
Bosco was struggling furiously, trying to get himself unstuck. Uh oh, bad move, I thought, remembering Sir Humphrey’s lesson. The more you struggle, the faster it sucks you in. The others came over to the edge of the pool and watched helplessly. He begged and pleaded for them to help him. There was nothing they could do. I thought about my sore tail, and how I could help him. But the pack was there, transfixed by Bosco’s dilemma, and still a menace. I called out to him, telling him not to struggle or he would sink, but he was too panicked to hear me. I yelled out to the pack to use their tails, but they didn’t understand what I was trying to tell them.
No, there was no help for poor Bosco. We all watched quietly as he sank to his shoulders. Soon, only his neck was above the surface, but still he struggled. He was whimpering now, a poor pathetic creature who was about to meet his end. I had to look away. Soon, Bosco’s whimpering was interrupted by choking, as the water reached his head. Then the whimpering stopped and there was only a gurgling. Soon, even that stopped. I turned and looked again at the smooth pool of water, leaving no sign of what had transpired.
“Looks like Bosco’s gone to meet the Great Shrew”, said Ratchet in a strange tone of voice, devoid of all warmth.
The pack turned to look at him, somewhat confused at Ratchet’s pronouncement. “Your leader is gone, and now I’m the top dog in this pack again” he said. “Does anybody dispute my rights?”
The dogs looked at each other in stunned silence. I thought maybe the wolf might object, and he actually started rising. But he didn’t have the balls or the brains to be leader and he knew it. He sat back down and lowered his head.
“Right”, said Ratchet. “First thing, my friend over there is now a member of the pack, and he’s my number two. Come on down, Boogie, and say hi to your new pack.”
At that moment, I realized a possibly fatal flaw in our plan. How was I going to get down out of this tree? It was a long way down to the ground. It didn’t look that high when you were beneath, but up here it looked like an impossible leap. I stayed right where I was. Possibly the legends of this night would have to be amended.
Ratchet continued. “Second, the weasel is an honorary member of the pack, and no-one will give him any trouble, on pain of dealing with me. Is that absolutely clear?”
There were nods of assent from the pack, but they now looked extremely confused. Adopting small furry rodents was absolutely unheard of in dog circles. It was against nature. But their leader had spoken. I doubted that Sir Humphrey would take their word for it. Somehow I didn’t think I’d ever see a Bograt running with a pack of feral dogs. No, Sir Humphrey was much too smart for that.
That was one smart Bograt, I’ll give him that. His plan had worked to perfection. Of course, I was proud of my own small contribution. I was the one who had thought of using the tree branches. Looking down from my height I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t thought things all the way through. Oh well, I had time. Something would come to mind. Meanwhile, I could finally relax. Maybe I could take another nap.
At that moment, all thought of relaxation ended as a blinding light flashed and a loud blast shattered the silence of the swamp. The dogs scattered. I looked to where the sound had come from. There, standing on the bank of a pool, was The Catcher, with his smoking stick in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
“Boogie!” shouted Ratchet from somewhere under cover. “It’s The Catcher coming! Jump for it! Come on, you can do it!”
I looked down from my perch. My feet shuffled as I got ready to jump. But I couldn’t do it. Dog help me, I just couldn’t do it. I whimpered as I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Human footsteps.
“Jump Boogie! Jump!” Now all the dogs were barking out to me. There was another bang from the smoke stick, and the crashing sound of dogs fleeing through the undergrowth. I looked down, into the blinding flashlight, just barely making out The Catcher’s silhouette in the dark behind the light. I had to look away, the light was so bright.
“Well, I’ll be damned” said the voice of The Catcher. “Lookee here, Blather, we done treed ourselves a hound dog. Don’t that beat all?”
I was still whimpering. Something started scratching against the bark of the tree. “Here boy, here boy”, said The Catcher. “Come to Daddy”. I saw something snaking up at me. I realized what it was. It was The Catcher’s lasso, stuck on the end of a long stick. I bit at it, and started growling, but still it came closer. I made up my mind. I gathered up my feet under me and took a leap out of the tree. But just as I was in the air, the lasso swung out in front of me. I jumped right into it as I hit the ground running. But I was snared. I felt a wrenching pain in my neck as I struggled against the lasso. I turned to attack The Catcher, my lips pulled up in a snarl. I was ready to fight to the end. But the stick kept me from closing in. I lost my snarl and started whimpering again.
“Gotcha, you sonuvva bitch!” said The Catcher.
“Boogie!” screamed Ratchet, crashing out of his hiding place and coming my way. The Catcher dropped his flashlight as he struggled to turn his smoke stick on him and still keep control of me. Another bang rang out, and the smoke stick spit fire. But the shot went wide in the darkness. Ratchet stopped, growling and snarling. The Catcher reached down to pick up his flashlight, and then started getting ready to shoot again.
“Ratchet, save yourself!” I yelled. “Don’t you worry about me. You save yourself. Don’t let him shoot you.” With that, I gave a tug on the lasso stick. I felt it come free from his hands and I started running, away from Ratchet. I got about ten feet away when I was suddenly jerked to a stop, the lasso tightening around my neck until I was choking. There was a rope extending from the handle of the lasso stick over to The Catcher’s belt. The tug was enough to jerk The Catcher off his feet, and he dropped his smoke stick. It hit the ground and spit out another burst of fire and a loud bang. This time, I heard a yelp from somewhere in the darkness.
“Ratchet!” I screamed. I couldn’t see. The light from the flashlight had taken away my night vision. I struggled furiously against the lasso, ignoring the pain in my neck. But my struggles were useless. The Catcher picked himself up, gathered up his things, and started leading me away, pulling roughly at the lasso. I could hear the pack following at a safe distance, but they were helpless to do anything.
I was silently grieving. I didn’t know who had been hit. My one fervent hope was that it was not Ratchet. I stopped struggling. There was nothing I could do. I resigned myself to my fate. I prayed to Dog that my end would be quick. I prayed that The Catcher would choke on my bones.
He led me back to the smelly junkyard. We went in through the gate in the fence. He led me to a cage and pushed me in. I bit at the lasso as he unlooped it from my neck. I tried to get out the moment my neck was free, but The Catcher was an old hand at this and quickly closed the door of the cage. I howled, and I heard an echoing howl from outside the fence. It was Ratchet’s voice! He was not dead as I had feared.
I looked over at the hole in the fence I had made yesterday. It seemed like a century ago. I saw a dog’s head peek in through the hole. The Catcher was ready for it, and again his smoke stick blasted out into the night. I saw a puff of smoke appear in the fence to the left of the hole, and the dog’s head disappeared out of sight. No yelp of pain, thankfully.
I continued howling. I heard my mates baying from outside, and it sounded like the entire pack was replying in commiseration. The Catcher went over to the hole with a handful of wood, and started hammering the wood into place over the hole. Then he came back, stamped out his cook fire, and went into his shack. Well, at least he wouldn’t be cooking me tonight.
We traded anguished howls. It was dog-song. It was the sound of desperation. It was the music of sorrow. It was a funeral dirge for the condemned. My pack kept their vigil outside the fence all night long. I howled until I had no voice left, and then kept calling out silently. The calls from outside slowed, and then they ceased. Only once in a long while would I hear a great mournful cry, Ratchet’s voice calling out of the night. I answered in my hoarse whisper, hoping he could somehow hear me.
I slept fitfully. I would wake to Ratchet’s sorrowful notes, answer, and wait to hear him again before falling into uneasy slumber again. It was a long night. The longest night of my life. It was cold. I was sore all over. I began to wish it would all be over.
I awoke to the dawn. It was a silent, chilly morning. I was stiff from being cooped up in the cramped cage. I tried to call out to my pack, but there was nothing left of my voice. There was no sound from outside except the singing of the birds greeting the sun. The Catcher came out of his shack stretching. He brought two bowls over to me, one with some foul nuggets in it, and one with water. Last meal for the condemned. Fattening me up. I ignored it. The last thing I felt like now was eating.
I began to hear stirring and rustling from outside. I head Ratchet let out a short, quick bark, just to see if I was still alive. I replied. The noises outside faded away at the sound of an approaching car. It stopped, and I could hear the sounds of people getting out and knocking on the gate of the junkyard. The Catcher went over to it, out of my sight. I could hear low voices. I heard The Catcher come to my cage, and he unlocked and opened the door. I glared out at him, and gave a low growl from deep in my belly.
“He’s a mite beat up, but he’s a survivor, I’ll tell ya that”, said The Catcher to whoever had just arrived. I heard them approaching but could not see them. What was this all about?
“Would you believe I caught this critter up in a tree?” The Catcher said.
Then I heard a sound, a wonderful music to my ears. It was the sound of human children. Familiar voices. Just then, Johnny and Cindy Feely poked their heads around the corner of the cage, and both yelled out joyously at the same time.
“Boogie!”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. Still stiff from my long cold night, I crawled out of the cage slowly. As soon as I was out, I bounded joyfully over to my humans and jumped on them. I knocked Cindy completely over, and started licking her face. Then over to Johnny, and he grabbed me in a big hug and slobbered kisses all over me. Then Joanne was there, and she was hugging and kissing me as well. John was standing over by The Catcher, so I stayed away for the moment. My humans were down on the ground, laughing and smiling and hugging, as I ran from one to the other.
“I told you I’d ketch him, didn’t I, Mr. Feely?” said The Catcher to John.
“You sure did”, said John. He reached into his pocket and started counting out money and handing it to The Catcher. As he counted it out, he was saying to The Catcher, “This is worth every penny. My life wasn’t worth a damn when that dog went missing. My wife, Joanne, she loves that mangy mutt a lot. Sometimes I think she loves it more than she loves me. The kids too.”
“I hear ya, Mr. Feely, I hear ya.”
She loves me after all, I thought. Despite all her yelling, she loves me. She made John give The Catcher money just so she could have me back. I went over to Joanne and gave her an extra big sloppy lick on the face.
“I thank ya, Mr. Feely” said The Catcher, counting the bills in his hand. “I’m glad to get him off my hands. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, on account of them friends of his was howling all night. I thank ya, and my ole hound Blather thanks you as well.”
John looked around the deserted junkyard, somewhat bewildered. But I chose that moment to run up to John and plant my front paws on his hips. He bent down and let me lick his face, just for a moment. Then he straightened up and reminded me of my manners. Who could think of manners at a time like this?
Cindy was now staring at The Catcher’s smoke stick, leaning against his shack.
“Best you come away from that, Little Miss”, said The Catcher. “That ain’t for little ones to play with. Course, it ain’t loaded with naught but salt, but you’d get a good stingin’ if you was to accidentally shoot yourself. I almost did that to myself last night.”
Johnny came up to The Catcher. “Sir, you are the best dog catcher I’ve ever met! Thank you so much for rescuing my dog.”
“No problem, sonny. That’s why they call me The Catcher, ‘cause I’m the best there is.”
“Well”, said Joanne, “shall we go introduce Boogie to his new home?”
“Yeah”, yelled the kids in unison.
I looked at the open gate of the junkyard. I saw Ratchet peeking around the corner at me. I looked back at the Feely family. I had a choice. I could race out that gate and rejoin my pack. Or I could go with the Feelys back to my old life. I thought about it for all of about 5 seconds. Then I made my decision.
I chose the Feelys. We piled into the car and started off to my new home. As we were leaving, I looked out the back window and saw Ratchet and his pack, still outside the fence. I silently said farewell.
It turned out that our new home was just on the other side of town. It was a nice place, with a doggie door, a huge backyard, and a little house in the back just for me. There was a loose board in the fence here as well, and I supposed I could run away again and rejoin my pack if I really wanted to. The option was always there, but the thought of doing so just didn’t appeal to me. My nuggets seemed to taste better. The water in my bowl was as sweet as honey. Spending the night in Cindy’s bed snuggled up next to her was like heaven. I just couldn’t imagine giving all that up again.
I missed Ratchet. But four days after my return, I was in my backyard soaking up some rays. The kids were at school and Joanne was out hunting up some food, and John was wherever he goes most days. I heard a scratching at the fence. I knew who it was even before I saw him. It was Ratchet, and the first thing he asked me was if I had any left-over food. I invited him in through the loose fence board, and went over to my little house to get my prize steak bone. I turned around, and he was not alone. The entire pack crept through the hole into my backyard. They were all very happy to see me, and we had a great reunion. I showed them my new house, and dug up a couple bones I was seasoning for just such a special occasion.
“Boogie”, said Ratchet, “I realize now that you’re where you ought to be. So I won’t try to tempt you to rejoin us. But I thought we would all get together for this special ceremony, the awarding of your pack name.”
“Wow, you mean I get to have another name?” I was absolutely delighted.
“Yes” he said, adopting a solemn attitude. He cleared his throat. “By the power vested in me by virtue of being top dog, and in recognition of your bravery in defense of the pack, I hereby give you your pack name – Tree Climber. May it serve you well.”
There was a cheer from the pack. I received congratulations from everyone. I finally learned the names of my pack-mates: Sebastian, Bulldozer, Rattler, and last but not least, Wolfer. Sebastian and Wolfer were pretty beat up from their encounters with The Catcher. Wolfer made a point of apologizing for dragging me across the junkyard that night. I told him that was alright, I understood. It was for the pack. No hard feelings. We showed each other our shotgun wounds, courtesy of The Catcher. I was so proud. Now I had my birthname, my people name, and my pack name. I was Alexander Bovarius Boogie Feely Tree Climber Dogson. Now that was a name a dog could latch on to.
I turned to my best friend. “Ratchet, I’ve often wondered, what’s your full name?”
“Well, my pack name is Ratchet, and that’s what I like to be called. How I got that name is an interesting story. Remind me to tell it to you sometime. My birth name is Thurston Purvis Pettigrew, and if anybody ever calls me Thurston I’ll chew theirs ears off. My human name is – well, my human name is best left unsaid. I left that name behind long ago.”
We partied until I heard Joanne’s car pull in to the garage. I tried to hurry them out, but they were too busy bidding me a fond farewell to actually leave. It wasn’t until Joanne came out banging her frying pans that they started hopping through the hole in the fence. Wolfer was the last out. After he went through the hole, he popped his head back in and said “That’s one tough bitch you’ve got there, Tree Climber.”
“Yeah”, I replied, “but she loves me very much, and I love her.” With that my friends were gone, at least until the next time they came hustling for handouts. I was left alone in my backyard. But as things quieted and I settled down for my mid-afternoon nap, I heard a familiar voice.
“Congratulations, Tree Climber. It is an apt name.”
I looked up into the tree by the side of the fence, and there on a thick branch was a small furry bundle. It winked its eye and was gone, scurrying down out of the tree and off to its home in the swamp. I whispered to it as it disappeared. “Goodbye, Sir Humphrey. I hope you find what you desire.”