The Case of the Hooking Bull by John R. Erickson Page A

leaving gates open, and I had a hunch that this was some of his work. I confirmed this hunch by subjugating the area around the gate to a Sniffatory Analysis.
    I don’t want to scare anybody with these big technical terms. A Sniffatory Analysis means pretty muchly the same as “checking the area for scent,” but those of us in the Security Business, and I’m talking about those of us who live with it day and night, tend to refer to things in heavy-duty technical terms.
    I mean, it’s just second nature to us, and I guess we forget that most of the world doesn’t understand big scientific words. I’ll try to keep it as simple as possible, but you must bear in mind that . . .
    All at once this seems a little boring.
    Okay, where were we? Yard gate, that’s where we were. I had just run an S.A. of the area around the yard gate, and, yes, it turned up positive for Little Alfred. The little stinkpot was running loose, and since I couldn’t hear him making the sounds of bulldozers or dynamite, I suspected that he was up to no good.
    I crept up the hill and checked it out. Ah yes, there he was, roping chickens in front of the machine shed. That was good clean entertain­ment for the boy. Roping cats might have been even better, but I noticed that Pete was nowhere in sight.
    Pete was no mountain of intelligence, but he had figgered out that rope business. The moment Little Alfred stepped out the door with a loaded rope in his hands, Kitty-Kitty tended to vanish.
    And somehow the world always seemed a better, brighter place when Pete disappeared.
    Well, the boy was busy and happy roping chickens, so I went back down to the yard gate to run a more thorough search for scraps. It was then that I heard Drover’s voice.
    â€œHank, have you counted to four yet?”
    â€œNot yet, son. We’re at 3.5 and holding. Just be patient.”
    â€œI’ll try, but I sure could use some scraps.”
    â€œI understand, Drover, but we mustn’t jump the count. The entire universe is like a giant clock, with mathematics as its spring. If we ignore the numbers, there’s no telling what might happen.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNo!”
    I sniffed out the ground just outside the gate. Nothing, not a single trace of eggs, bacon, or even burned toast. For a moment I considered going through the gate into Forbidden Territory—into Sally May’s yard, in other words—but I was well aware that dogs weren’t allowed there. I was also very much aware of the consequences of getting . . .
    On the other hand, she was nowhere in sight, and Little Alfred just might have left a few juicy morsels of breakfast scraps within the fence, and rather than run the risk of letting Pete devour all the scraps, I decided to make a small penetration of the yard.
    My front paws crossed the line. I waited and watched. No sign of Sally May or her broom. I moved forward, causing my hind paws to cross into the Danger Zone. Still no sign of Sally May.
    Well, this could mean only one thing. She had softened her position on Dogs in the Yard and had finally realized that a yard with dogs is a safer yard.
    A happier yard. A better yard in every way. And it’s true. A yard without a dog is like a house without a home.
    Well, now that she had come to her senses on that score, I felt as though a heavy burden had been lifted off of my soldiers. Instead of creeping and cringing, cowering and crouching, flinching at every little sound for fear that I might be thrashed with a broom, I loosened up and began to enjoy my new freedom.
    I was SO proud of Sally May for working out a compromise on the yard business. I mean, even your bigger and tougher breeds of dog can admire a nice, well-kept yard, with its mowed grass, edged edges, neat little patches of flowers here and there, shrubbery . . .
    And speaking of shrubbery, I passed one of her shrubberies and noticed that it had never been marked. Can you imagine