The Case of the Double Bumblebee Sting by John R. Erickson Page B

buzzardhood!”
    Junior grinned and ducked his head. “Th-thanks, P-pa.”
    â€œAnd yes, this dog is our friend, our true friend, and it’s a cryin’ shame he got snakebit but a dog can’t live forever. Eh, how long do you reckon we’ll have to wait, son?”
    At that point, I’d had about all the company I could stand. I pushed myself up and gave Wallace my most menacing glare.
    â€œBuzz off, buzzood. Skwam. Get wost. Go fwy a kite. I may wook pwetty bad wiff this swowen nothe, but I ain’t fixing to be wunch for the wikes of you. So skat, shoo, skwam!”
    Wallace gasped. “Son, he just told us to scram. Did you hear that?”
    â€œY-y-yeah.”
    â€œHe told us to scram and he’s no friend of ours, I can tell you that, and if that’s the best he has to offer . . . dog, you have ruined my day, completely ruined my day!”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œAnd this is good-bye, and in parting, I want you to know that you look silly with your face all swole up, and if I looked as goofy and talked as goofy as you, I’d . . . I don’t know what I’d do, but Junior, it’s time we got airborne and started huntin’ grub!”
    With that, he pushed himself off the limb and went flapping off in the morning sky. Junior shrugged and grinned down at me.
    â€œW-w-well, w-win a few, l-l-lose a f-few. S-s-sometimes I think P-pa’s w-worse than a s-s-snakebite.”
    â€œI’ll bet. Or even a wingworm.”
    â€œB-b-bye, D-d-doggie. I h-hope you g-get b-b-better. Or w-w-w-worse.”
    â€œThee you awound, Dunior.”
    And away he went, leaving me alone with my handicap.

Chapter Ten: Sally May Really Cares, After All

    T here was one small detail about the location of my sickbed that hadn’t occurred to me: Sally May had put it in a spot that she could see from her kitchen window.
    Do you realize what this meant? Maybe you don’t and maybe I didn’t either, but what it meant was that Sally May cared about my health, safety, and physical condition, even though she had gone to some lengths to hide her concern.
    Consider the evidence in this case. She had not allowed me into the air-conditioned comfort of her house, right? And that was . . . well, I won’t say that it was cruel and unfeeling of her. Or heartless. Callous. Cold-blooded.
    I’d be the last dog to say anything critical of my master’s wife. I know she had her priorities, and keeping her house neat and clean was high on her list—quite a bit higher than my personal health, safety, and well-being.
    I understood that. I accepted her just as she was, and I’d be the last dog in the world to suggest that she was, well, cruel and unfeeling, heartless, callous, and cold-blooded.
    No, you’d never catch me making critical re­marks about the very lady my master had chosen with whom to share his life. With. With whom. But her weird sense of priorities probably struck YOU as being cruel, unfeeling, and so forth, and what YOU think is important.
    Yes it is, and if YOU want to say that she had her priorities and sense of values all messed up and backward, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. It’s a free lunch.
    A free ranch, I should say.
    Freedom of speech is a precious right.
    I’m sorry you feel that way about Sally May, but just between you and me and the gatepost, there’s probably more than a germ of truth in what you’ve pointed out. And you know where I stand on the issue of germs. I’m totally against ’em.
    Germs are bad for everyone, and anything that’s bad for everyone can’t be all good.
    And where were we? Sometimes I get started on a thought, usually a deep philosogical point, and I forget whether it’s raining or Tuesday. Actually, it was sunny and Monday, and I have no idea what . . . something about Sally May . . . boy, sometimes I . . .
    Wait, I’ve got it. Okay. Here we go.
    For a while there,