The Case of the Kidnapped Collie by John R. Erickson Page B

seated nearby, beaming glares at Pete the Barncat and trying to extract three cockleburs from my coat of hair. I had been ignoring most of Slim and Loper’s conversation, since it had been fairly boring, but I perked up when I realized that they were discussing a dog.
    â€œYou know, Slim, I’ve never gotten much of a kick out of hunting quail, and just the other day I realized why.”
    â€œâ€™Cause you’re a terrible shot?”
    â€œNo. The sport in bird hunting, the real sport, comes from watching the dogs work, and I’m talking about good dogs, trained dogs, dogs that are born and bred for birds.”
    â€œYalp, but instead of owning a bird dog, you’ve got one that’s bird-brained.”
    The conversation stopped and I realized that they were both staring at . . . well, ME, you might say. I thumped my tail on the ground and gave them my most sincere cowdog smile.
    Slim: “See what I mean? He’s eatin’ cockleburs.”
    What? Was he trying to be funny? All right, maybe I did have a cocklebur in my mouth at that very moment, but I was extracting it from my coat, thank you, and not EATING it.
    And just to prove it, to show what a silly mockery he was making of my dignity, I spit it out. There!
    I wasn’t eating cockleburs.
    Nor was I amused by his childish remark about . . . what was it? Something about a “bird-brained dog”?
    Not funny, not funny at all, but of course he laughed at his own stale joke.
    He thought he was such a comedian.
    Loper continued. “Anyhow, I invited Billy to come over this afternoon and bring that dog of his. I guess he’s a pretty good quail dog.”
    HUH?
    My head shot up and so did my ears.
    Billy? Quail dog? Holy smokes, Billy was our neighbor down the creek and his so-called quail dog was named . . .
    You guessed it. Plato.

Chapter Two: A Porkchop on the Eighth Floor

    M y eyes locked on Loper’s face. He wasn’t kidding. He had actually invited . . . oh brother, that’s all I needed: My least favorite bird dog in the whole world would soon be invading my ranch and my privacy!
    I was outraged, and just to show how angry I felt about this, I turned a Poisoned Glare on him. It should have ruined his day and made him feel guilty about his careless decision, but it didn’t. He didn’t even notice.
    Instead, he pushed himself up and said, “We’d better get this mess finished. Billy said he’d be here around four.”
    Moments later, the air was filled with the sounds of their work—crashing and banging. It hurt my ears so I decided to move my business to a quieter location.
    Also, my feelings were hurt. Apparently it had never occurred to the Ranch Executives (I’ll not mention any names) to give ME a shot at the bird dog job.
    Can you believe that? I couldn’t. I was amazed.
    Shocked.
    Deeply hurt.
    Wounded almost beyond repair.
    I mean, what’s the big deal about pointing birds? Ask the best dog trainers. Ask an experienced hunter. Ask, well, ME, since I’m here and handy and happen to have some pretty strong opinions on this matter.
    What’s the big deal about pointing birds? IT’S NO BIG DEAL AT ALL. Any dog with half a brain could point a bunch of stupid twittering birds. Drover could be a bird dog. Pete the Barncat could be a bird dog, only he’s not a dog, so . . .
    Well, you get the drift. It was totally ridiculous that Loper would even consider bringing in an outsider from the outside, when he already had a dog on staff that could do . . . well, almost anything short of magic tricks and miracles, and sure as thunder wouldn’t have any trouble pointing quail.
    Sorry. I’m getting carried away. My anger is showing. I tried to pretend that I didn’t care, that my feelings weren’t involved in . . .
    I had thought we were friends, pals, companions, comrades, and then he . . . oh well.
    They would be sorry, yes they would, all the scoffers