牧羊犬案 英文名著｜第5章

He came bounding up to where I was standing.

“Great day, huh Hank? I just live for the first day of bird season and by golly here it is.”

“Yes, it’s here. Bird season.”

“As you probably know, Hank, I spend all year working out and getting ready for this.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Oh yes, I work out every day, every single day. I jog, I swim, retrieve sticks, point tennis shoes. I even do breathing exercises, Hank, to keep my nose in shape. The nose is SO important, Hank, so important.”

“Yeah, if a guy didn’t have one, he’d look a little strange.”

He stared at me for a long moment. “Okay, you’re joking, right? Ha, ha. That was good. By the first day of bird season, I’m so excited that . . . well, just look at me, Hank. I’m shivering. Is that being excited or what?”

Sure enough, he was shivering all over. “That’s being excited.”

“But I feel I’m in shape, Hank, maybe the best shape of my life. You may remember that last season I pulled a muscle in my shoulder.”

“I guess I missed that.”

“Did you? I got a bad muscle pull on opening day, and Hank, I’ll be honest with you. I thought my career was over. It was that bad.”

“Hmmm. I’ll be derned.”

“Right. But I worked through it, Hank. I went into a different program and made it back for the third week of the season.”

“Wow.”

“Thanks, Hank. It was tense and I had some trouble with depression, but,” he gave me a wink, “everything works out, doesn’t it?”

“How’s Beulah?”

“Excuse me? Oh, Beulah. Beulah is . . .” He smiled, closed his eyes, opened them again, and looked up at the sky. “Beulah is . . . how can I find words to, to express the Beulah-ness of Beulah?”

“I don’t know.”

“I often say, Hank, that Beulah is a painting in fur, a work of sculpture that lives and breathes before our very eyes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better finish my warm-ups. Will you be hunting with us?”

“Oh sure, you bet. I know a couple of things about birds myself.”

“Do you? Great. I didn’t know you were into birds. You’ve been practicing, I guess, working out, getting all prepared for the big day, huh?”

“Oh yes.”

“Great! We’ll see you at the hunt. Take care.”

And off he went to do his warm-ups and so forth. Imagine him asking if I would “be hunting” with them! Who or whom did he think he was? Of course I would be hunting. It was MY ranch, after all.

Loper walked up just then. I gave him a big cowdog smile and barked, just to let him know that I was ready for the hunt.

“Now listen, pooch, we’re going to be hunting behind a good dog today, and we don’t need your kind of help.”

HUH?

“And if you try to follow us, I’ll have to tie you up. Now, you stay here and keep out of trouble, hear? Stay.”

I didn’t even try Heavy Begs. I knew it wouldn’t work. What a lousy deal, confined to quarters on the first day of bird season and on my own ranch!

Loper joined the others and they hiked down into the brush and tall grass along Wolf Creek. They were not carrying shotguns, so it appeared that this was to be a practice day for the dog—who, of course, was out front and the center of attention, charging around in that Bird Dog Stealth pose of his.

If you ask me, he looked silly.

What’s more, I didn’t even care.

I hadn’t planned on going anyway.

Too busy.

Show me a dog with a steady job and I’ll show you a dog that doesn’t have time to chase birds.

Phooey.

All at once I noticed that Drover was acting strangely. He was near the back of Billy’s pickup. It appeared that he had fallen over backward and was kicking his legs in the air. Clearly, something was wrong with the little mutt and he needed my help.

I rushed to his side. “Drover, I saw the whole thing. You’ve been stricken with something terrible but don’t panic. Lie still and give me your symptoms.”

“Oh my gosh, thank goodness you made it! All at once I just lost control of my life.”

“Exactly. I have a couple of theories on that, but first let’s check out your vital signs. Heart?”

“Pounding like a drum.”

“Hmm. What kind of drum?”

“Well, what are the choices? And hurry ’cause I think it’s getting worse.”

“Choices? Let’s see: kettle drum, snare drum, bass drum, oil drum; bongos, congos, or kangaroos. Pick one, and hurry. I think you’re getting worse.”

“Yeah, I know. Kangaroos, ’cause my old heart’s about to jump out of my chest.”

I began pacing. “All right, Drover, your heart is jumping around like a kangaroo that is beating a drum. What color is the kangaroo?”

“Pink, with orange stripes.”

“Hmmm. This is worse than I thought. How’s your blood pressure?”

“I think it’s a quart low.”

“How about your vision?”

“Well, let’s see. I thought I saw an angel in the back of Billy’s pickup.”

“Mercy. Was he playing a drum?”

“No, she was just sitting there.”

“Hmmm. Give me a complete description. Facts, Drover, facts and details. No detail is too small to be large.”

“Well, let’s see here. She had . . .”

“Hold it right there. You said ‘she.’ Does that mean that she was a girl or a woman?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, go on. Finish your description of the angel.”

“Well, she had pretty brown eyes and . . .”

“Whoa. Were the eyes pretty AND brown, or pretty brown? It could be important.”

“Well, let’s see. Both were both.”

“You mean she had two eyes?”

“Oh yeah, and both of her two eyes were both pretty and brown and pretty brown. And she had long flaxen hair, and I just fell in love with her nose.”

I stared at the runt. “You’re sicker than I thought, Drover. What kind of creep would fall in love with a nose?”

“Well, it was on her face and I loved her face too.”

“Oh. Well, I think I’ve got this thing figgered out, Drover. The pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place at last.”

“Oh good. What’s happened to me?”

Once again, I began pacing back and forth in front of him. My mind seems to . . . I guess I’ve mentioned that before, but it’s true.

“All right, Drover, listen carefully so that I don’t have to repeat myself.”

“What?”

“I said, listen repeatedly so that I don’t have to care for myself.”

“Gosh, are you sick too?”

“Hush, Drover. Number One, the angel you saw—or thought you saw—was actually a mental image of a kangaroo. Number Two, that would account for the odd kicking behavior of your heart.”

“I’ll be derned.”

“But I’m not through. Number Three, your mind produced this strange mental image because you are mentally pathetic.”

“Gosh, you mean I can see things that other dogs can’t see?”

“Exactly. In cases of mental pathetica, the vision of a kangaroo-angel is fairly common, but the important thing is that she was just a filament of your imagination.”

“Oh good, I’m so happy. But there she is again.”

I couldn’t help chuckling. “Don’t worry, son. On the count of three, I will clap my paws together and turn my eyes toward the Angelic Kangaroo and she will be gone. One. Two. And you will feel much better. Three!”

I clapped my paws together and turned my gaze toward the . . .

HUH?

. . . toward the angel, and holy smokes, there she was before my very eyes, the most gorgeous angel I had ever seen!

And she wasn’t a kangaroo.