The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado Read Online Free Page B

whole thing. The very mention of Alfred’s mom brought back a rush of unpleasant memories—our many misunderstandings, a relationship that had known its share of ups and downs, being chased around the yard by an angry ranch wife and her broom.
    â€œHankie, how come you wecked the scween?”
    Well, I . . . that is, we thought . . . there were all these huge loud explosions and . . . well, Charlie Monsters running around all over the place and . . .
    â€œWere you doggies scared of the storm?”
    Storm? Oh no. Storms had never bothered me. What had scared me and Drover . . . well, mainly Drover, what had scared Drover had been something much bigger and far more serious than your average little . . .
    â€œWell,” the boy dropped his voice to a whisper, “it scared me too, all that thundoo and wightning.”
    Oh?

    The boy was scared, huh? Well, yes, storms were, uh, pretty scary things. The big ones, that is, your major summer thunderstorms, we’re talking about. Pretty scary.
    â€œDo you doggies want to come into the house so we can be scared together?”
    Come into the . . . no, we had Night Patrol and many other . . . there really wasn’t time in our busy . . .
    But when he opened what was left of the screen door, I suddenly realized that taking care of the kids and making sure they got a good night’s sleep was the very most important job for every ranch dog and . . .
    Okay, what the heck, we had time. If it would make Sally May’s child sleep better and feel more secure . . .
    KA-BOOOM!
    We flew into the house . . . which might not have been one of the smartest things we ever did.

Chapter Five: The Bacon Temptation

    I went straight to the rug which lay in the middle of the utility room floor. There, I laid down and ordered Drover to do the same.
    I wanted Little Alfred to know, and to SEE through our very actions, that our motives here were as pure as the driveled snow, and that we had every intention of being good dogs in the house.
    I mean, some of your lower-class dogs will take advantage of every situation and every little gesture of kindness. You let ’em into the house and they go nuts.
    Not us, fellers. We knew our place: on that rug in the utility room. That’s all we needed or wanted, just a warm dry place in the same area of the house where the cowboys took off their dirty boots and spurs. That was plenty good for us.
    Shucks, we didn’t need to go even one step farther into Sally May’s clean house. A ranch dog had no business in the kitchen or the living room anyways.
    The utility room was just fine, and we laid down on that rug and became models of Perfect Dog Behavior in the House.
    Alfred looked at us. “Are you gonna sweep out here?”
    Oh yeah, sure, fine. Perfect place to sleep. We were just glad to have a dry rug and a roof over our heads.
    He wrinkled his nose. “Pew! You doggies are wet and you stink.”
    Yes, well, the Wet Dog Smell wasn’t one of my favorites either, but sometimes a guy can’t help how he smells. We were doing the best we could.
    I mean, we don’t try to stink. We don’t wake up in the morning and say, “Gosh, I think I’ll stink today.” Those things just happen.
    â€œWell, nighty night.” He turned out the light and went back to bed.
    Ah yes, this was the life! No dog could have asked for more. Outside in the Cruel World, the lightning tore through the dark fabric of night and the thunder boomed and the rain made a steady roar on the . . .
    It was a thunderstorm, see. Perhaps you had thought it was an invasion of Charlie Monsters and, okay, there for a few minutes I had thought so too, but the evidence was beginning to point toward a thunderstorm instead of an invasion.
    At first glance, they are very similar. Every dog gets fooled once in a while, and it’s no disgrace, no big deal.
    I stretched out on the rug and surrendered my grip on the world. At last, no cares