The Case of the Vampire Vacuum Sweeper Read Online Free Page A

we’ve got to get this place cleaned up!”
    Here he came, lumbering and thundering right over the top of me. Fortunately, I saw him coming and was able to scramble out of the way. His big bare foot missed smashing my nose by a matter of inches. Too bad his big bare foot didn’t miss the bone.
    Let’s get something straight right here. I refuse to take responsibility for what happened next. Remember, I was just minding my own business. Remember also that the bone had been in that same room, on that same floor, in that same mess of papers for months.
    Okay, maybe my chewing had sharpened some of the ends and edges, but don’t forget that turkey neck bones, even those that haven’t been chewed, are pretty jagged, nothing you’d want to pounce on with a bare foot.
    That’s what he did. He pounced on the bone, the jagged, sharp turkey vertebra, with his bare foot, and that began a very strange chain of events.

Chapter Four: Attacked by— Something Awful . . .

    A s near as I can figure, he stepped on the bone pretty hard, which probably hurt. Of course it did, which explains his howl of pain. But that wasn’t the worst part. He also twisted his ankle and went crashing to the floor.
    The crash brought Drover out of his stuporous state. He leaped to his feet, staggered around, and began squeaking. “Help, murder, mayday! The pork­chops are coming! Oh my leg!”
    In a flash, he was gone. I heard his claws scratching on the floor as he crawled beneath the bed in the back room.
    Slim grabbed his ankle (his own ankle, not Drover’s) and let out a groan. I rushed to his side and began administering Emergency Licks to his face and ear—for the second time that evening, I might add. I mean, this was clearly a serious sit­uation, him falling to the floor, and I was willing to forget his hateful remarks about my barking and put the past behind us.
    Do you suppose he was grateful? Oh no. He turned to me with wild eyes and clenched teeth and screeched, “Get away from me, you meathead, I think I’ve broke my ankle!”
    Fine. By George, if he thought he could cure his broken ankle without Emergency Licks, that was sure okay with me.
    I was just trying to help.
    Sometimes I wonder what it takes to please these people.
    I retired to the northeast corner of the room, sat down, and began beaming him Hurtful Looks and Brooding Glares.
    He clenched his teeth against the pain and struggled to his feet, using a chair for support. He tested the ankle several times before putting his weight on it, and that brought another grimace of pain. Then he tried walking on it—or hopping might be a better word for it, because he sure was packing it around. But he managed to walk a few steps before he hoisted ’er up and stopped for a rest.

    â€œWell, I don’t think she’s busted. I hope not, ’cause a broke leg don’t fit into my plans right now.”
    Was he talking to me? Too bad, because I wasn’t listening. I no longer cared, and to prove it, I turned my eyes away from him.
    I mean, we dogs are very sensitive animals. We can be screeched at and yelled at so many times, and then something terrible happens to our . . . whatever.
    He limped a few more steps. “I guess it’ll be all right. I wonder what that thing was that I stepped on.”
    My ears jumped. My gaze slid over in his direction. Stepped on? Had he stepped on something? I, uh, had no idea what it might have been. Probably some irregularity in the, uh, floorboarding. The floor was pretty old.
    He hopped and limped over to the scene of the accident and peered down into the jumble of papers and so forth. His brows jumped. Uh-oh. He reached down with his hand and came up holding the . . . uh . . . that is, holding some sort of white, irregular-shaped object, perhaps a bone. He turned it around in his fingers, then I felt his gaze moving across the room and . . . well, searching for me,