Monkey Business by John R. Erickson

Chapter One: Chapter One Always Precedes Chapter Two

    I t’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. It was morning on the ranch, the beginning of another spring day. I had been up since before daylight, monitoring the forces of nature and guiding them through their morning routines.
    While others sleep, the Head of Ranch Security is out there in the darkness, planning out the day. I had put in orders for the sun to come up in the east, and for a light dew to sprinkle the grass.
    At 0700 hours, everything checked out. The sun and dew had followed my orders to perfection. At 0705 I issued a new set of orders, allowing the sun to rise in the sky, and the dew to begin sparkling on the grass.
    At 0710, feeling pretty good about things, I made my way up to the machine shed. I had gotten another day off to a good start—or so it appeared. Little did I know that within a matter of hours, Drover and I would discover a Mysterious Red Box out in the pasture that would change the course of our lives.
    Perhaps you don’t believe in Mysterious Red Boxes. Well, that’s too bad, because I found one on my ranch. Hang around and you’ll see just how fast one of those things can turn a day around.
    When I arrived at the machine shed, I found Drover sunning himself on the south side—sunning himself, gazing up at the clouds, and wasting time.
    â€œHi, Hank.”
    â€œWell, Drover, I see that you’re sunning yourself, gazing up at the clouds, and wasting time.”
    He grinned. “Yeah, I get a kick out of that.”
    â€œYou certainly do.” I kicked him in the behind. “There’s your kick. Now get up. We’ve got to make a Cattle Guard Patrol.”
    â€œBut Hank . . .”
    â€œHush. And chase rabbits.”
    â€œOh rats.”
    â€œRabbits.”
    â€œOh rabbits.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing.”
    In security work we have certain jobs that we attend to every day, others that we take care of on a weekly basis. Cattle Guard Patrol falls into the latter category.
    It’s one of those jobs that has to be done every once in a while but not necessarily every day. It’s important, but when we get involved with murder cases and reports of monsters on the ranch and other dangerous assignments, we tend to let the cattle guard work slide into the background.
    We hadn’t done a thorough Cattle Guard Patrol in several weeks and it was sure ’nuff time to do one. We went streaking past the chicken house, scattering chickens in all directions and barking, “Out of the way, you fools!”
    I get a big kick out of scattering chickens, always have. It’s a very satisfying part of my job. Give me two different routes to choose from, one clear and the other blocked by a bunch of chickens, and I’ll take the chicken route every time.

    There’s something about the way they squawk and flap their wings that gives me a feeling of . . . something. Power. Total control. Superiority. It seems to tune up my savage instincts and get my blood to pumping.
    Chickens were put on this earth to be scattered, and your better breeds of dogs rarely miss a chance to run through a crowd of them.
    After plowing through the chickens and leaving them in squawking disarray, we continued on a northwesterly course out into the home pasture, and beyond to the country road. There we found the cattle guard, just where it had been the last time we’d patrolled it.
    â€œAll right, Drover, do you remember the procedure we follow on cattle guards?”
    â€œWell, let’s see. It’s been a long time. Seems to me that we . . . bark?”
    â€œThat’s correct up to a point, but also incorrect up to a point. Perhaps I should refresh your memory. Are you ready for me to outline our procedure for Cattle Guard Patrol?”
    He yawned.
    â€œWhat kind of answer is that?”
    â€œIt wasn’t an answer. I just yawned.”
    â€œI know you yawned, you yo-yo, and you