Lost in the Blinded Blizzard by John R. Erickson Page B

Full Alert Position, punched in Manual Lift-Up on the hackles circuit, switched all guidance systems over to Smelloradar Control, and began the approach procedure.
    Sounds pretty complicated, huh? You bet it is. A lot of your ordinary dogs just go blundering into a combat situation and won’t take the time to use their instruments. I mean, they’d probably say that a little mouse wasn’t worth all the effort.
    Me? I figger that combat is combat, whether you’re going up against a Silver Monster Bird or a sneaky little mouse. On my ranch, we take this stuff pretty serious.
    Okay, I eased forward two steps—nose out, ears up, eyes narrowed, hackles raised, tail thrust outward and locked in at the proper angle. (We like to run that tail at about a 20 degree angle on deals like this, although I’ve gone as high as 25 degrees on a few occasions.)
    I stopped and rolled my eyes toward Slim. He wasn’t paying any attention to me, which meant that he was unaware of the trespasser on the toe of his boot.
    I went to a Manual Eyeball Shift and turned my gaze back to the mouse. He was sitting on his back legs now, staring at me with his beady little eyes and . . . I don’t know, biting his fingernails, sucking his thumb, picking his teeth, whatever it is that mice do when they put their paws in their mouth.
    That’s what he was doing, which was serious enough in itself. But it also appeared that he was smirking at me. That little mouse had just made a foolish mistake. No smirk mouses at Hank the Cowdog and tells to live about it.

    Slim was talking again. “Yes, the lights went off about five minutes ago, wind must be blowing the lines around. Coal oil? Sure, I’ve got a gallon of it somewhere, if I can find it. You bet, come on over.”
    I eased forward another step. The target had not moved. I was now within range. I prepared all systems for launch and punched in the commands to raise lip-shields and arm all tooth-cannons.
    All systems were ready. I entered the countdown: five, four, three, two, one, charge, bonzai!
    Mice are quicker than you might suppose, which probably explains why I missed the stupid mouse and sank my teeth into Slim’s boot and set off a very strange chain of events.

Chapter Two: Hickory Dickory Dock: The Mouse Ran up Slim’s Leg

    I think Slim was startled when I snapped his boot, but that was a small surprise compared to the one that followed when he felt the mouse running up his leg—inside his pants.
    His eyes grew as wide as the lenses of his glasses. His eyebrows shot straight up. “Holy smokes, Billy, I think a mouse just ran up my pant leg! ”
    Fellers, in my long and glorious career as Head of Ranch Security, I had witnessed my share of crazy things, but this deal promised to top them all.
    Slim dropped the phone and grabbed his left thigh with both hands. Then he jumped two feet into the air and said—and this is a direct quote—he said, “EEEEEE-YOW! Ow, oh, ee, yipes, stop that, help!”
    When he lit back on the floor, he was dancing. I never dreamed he could move so fast. I mean, on an average ranch day, Slim moves around with something short of lightning speed, but he was sure moving now.
    He danced. He stamped his feet. He slapped at his legs. He hollered and bellered and made some very odd squeaking sounds. Hopping around the room on his left leg, he tried to pull off his right boot. Then he hopped around on his right leg and tried to pull off his left boot.
    No luck there, so he sat down in the middle of the floor and tugged until the left boot came off.
    He cut his eyes from side to side. “Where’d he go?” He peeked into the boot. “Maybe . . . EEEEEEEEE-YOW!”
    He was on his feet again, but now his hands were tearing at his belt buckle and zipper. He got his left leg out of the jeans and something small and brown hit the floor.

    By George, it was the mouse. Slim had finally flushed him out and