The Dungeon of Doom by John R. Erickson

Author:John R. Erickson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cowdog, Hank the Cowdog, John R. Erickson, John Erickson, ranching, Texas, dog, adventure, mystery, Hank, Drover, Pete, Sally May
Publisher: Maverick Books, Inc.
Published: 2015-05-06T18:48:12+00:00

Chapter Eight: Drover’s Secret Sanctuary

A moment of deathly silence fell over the place, then Drover started bawling. “I don’t want any company! I want to be alone so I can hide from the world!”

“I’m sorry, son, but you happen to have the best hiding place on the ranch, and I happen to need it. Now, we’re going to make some changes around here. First off, get out of Sally May’s chair.”

He stopped blubbering and stared at me. “You mean . . .”

“I mean you ought to be ashamed of yourself, plopping down on her chair.”

“Well, she left it in here . . .”

“Drover, she didn’t leave it in here so you could paw it and leave ugly dog hairs all over it. Now get down, immediately.”

He whined and moaned, and hopped down. “Where will I sit?”

“I don’t know. There’s a tricycle over there. Try it out.”

“It’s got a metal seat.”

“I don’t care.” I hopped up into the chair and fitted my bohunkus into the soft folds of the cushion. “I see what you mean. This is a great chair.”

“No fair, you stole my seat!”

“I didn’t steal it. I’m merely putting it into service for The Cause. If you’ll try to improve your attitude, maybe I’ll share it with you.”

“Not me. I’m getting out of here before the trouble starts. Bye.”

And with that, the runt made his way to the big double doors and vanished into the light of day.

Well, with Drover gone, I had the place all to myself and that was no bad deal. When a guy is desperate for company and is down to the bottom of his list of friends, Drover can provide a certain degree of companionship, if you don’t mind listening to him complain about his “bad leg,” his allergies, his stub tail, and all the other things he moans about.

“Anyway, where were we? I don’t remember, but . . . hmm. Listen to those three words again, and say them fast: “Where were we, where were we?” Taken together, they make an odd combination of sounds, don’t they? We not only have a repetition of W-words, but spoken rapidly, the words also take on the flavor of . . . well, nonsense. “Ware wurr wee, ware wurr wee.” Do you suppose there’s any way in the world we could work up a wacky little song out of those three words? What the heck, let’s give it a shot.

Where Were We?

Where were we, where were we, and were we wearing tennies?

Where were we, where were we, and were we spending pennies?

Walking wacky warbler birds,

Wasting wanton weary words,

Warmly washing wardrobe things,

Wearing weasel waterwings.

Where were we, where were we, what was the weather doing?

Where were we, where were we, what weirdness was ensuing?

Watching weary walnut shells,

Witching weedy waterwells,

Waltzing walruses around,

Warming wafers on the ground.

Ware wurr wee, ware wurr wee, ware wurr wee ware ware ware.

Ware wurr wee, ware wurr wee, ware wurr wee ware ware ware.

Ware wee wurr, ware wee wurr,

Ware wee wurr wurr wee ware,

Ware wee wurr, ware wee wurr,

Ware wee wurr wurr ware.

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