Lament of a Rat Terrier named Lucky

[Hugh]

LAMENT OF A RAT TERRIER NAMED LUCKY
By Phil Carrico as published in The Vindicator, Liberty, Texas

Preface: Dogwatch is that lonely watch aboard ship just before dawn. It has been dreaded by mariners since man has gone to sea. On the other hand, you could change the word around to watchdog and have a new ballgame. (Phil Carrico is an aging ex-Navy Seal who has returned to his rural roots.)

I try not to think about it, because every time I do, I get mad again. Lucky, I ainâ??t, so why did they name me that? Of course, on second thought, maybe they figured that name would be advantageous to my job. They must have known that a little luck would be essential.

As you know, Iâ??m head of security on this farm and itâ??s my job to police the area against predators â?? skunks, possums, coyotes, etc. My little force had been fairly successful. The old chickens here could cluck all over the place and never have a feather ruffled, at least, until yesterday morning.

Yesterday morning, when Phil came out of the house and found that pile of feathers which once was a chicken, it was truly a day of infamy. I crawled on my belly and licked his boot, but he just shook his head, frowned and said, â??Some watchdog you areâ?�. That hurt, it really hurt, and I made up my mind right then that I was gonna catch that varmint and get back in â??graceâ?�.

I called a meeting of my troops. We met in the barn and Tom, the brindle cat, sat high on the feed trough as usual. He and Charlie didnâ??t mesh-up right and Charlie could never get through a meeting without making a lunge at him. Charlie was the only girl in the lot. She had been bought by Philâ??s wife as a house dog. Being a pedigree poodle, she was supposed to be mannerly, with her toenails painted and pink ribbons on the ears.

However, Charlie didnâ??t like staying in the house. She would much rather follow Phil around the farm, and ride the tractor. This would not have been so bad except that once outside, she could not resist rolling in every fresh cow patty she found. After bathing Charlie several times a day for about a week, Philâ??s wife finally gave up and Charlie lost her house privileges.

Tom was really a lost cause as a security agent. The reason, although understandable, was no less grating. The neighboring farm had in excess of 20 cats (most of them female) and Tom must have thought he was in heaven. He was sleepy and washed out during the day and never here when we needed him at night.

At the meeting, I tried getting their attention by talking about our slipping prestige, but Tom just yawned and Charlie looked around longingly at the nearest cow patty. In desperation, I mentioned the fact that our failure may also affect our feedbags and that got their attention.

Making a plan to save these dumb chickens was very distasteful. They were a bunch of idiot birds who would just as soon peck you on the nose as say â??good morningâ?�. Sometimes you wonder if itâ??s worth it and all that keeps you going is dedication to duty.

I had to change my strategy. Instead of patrol, we would try the stakeout approach. Stakeout is a technical term we use in this business and in layman terms it means to â??trapâ?�. You leave the chicken house unguarded, donâ??t you see, and watch and wait until the villain makes his move, then you swoop in and get him.

After dark, I spaced my troops out and hid them in high weeds on three sides of the chicken house. I felt confident we were gonna catch â??em this time. Not an hour passed until I heard a squalling from the neighboring farm. I knew it was Tomâ??s latest ladylove and wondered if he had the right stuff to stay put. I didnâ??t have to wonder long. In a few minutes, I heard the weeds shaking where Tom had been and the shaking continued in a straight line for the squalling feline. Of course, I could have commanded him to stay, but what the heck, lifeâ??s short and we could probably handle it without Tom anyway.

After Tomâ??s departure, the night seemed to settle down and things got quiet, except for that mocking bird. That old bird had a nest full of babies in the tall sycamore by the corral. Anytime one of us came in the vicinity, we were fair game to be dive-bombed. She was the one making all the noise as she lullabyed her babies in the night, it sounded more gator than bird. At least we didnâ??t have to worry about being dive bombed in the darkness.

While thinking about the bird, my eyelids began to droop and pretty soon I was dreaming about giant dog biscuits and farms without chickens. Must have been 3 am when the ruckus started. It was a bunch of things that snapped me awake.
First, there was the blood curdling squawk of a chicken doing battle for mortality, the flapping of wings and the sound of all her comrades clucking sympathy for her passing. (Secretly, Iâ??m sure they were thinking, â??Iâ??m glad itâ??s that sucker and not me.â?�) Then came the shrill yips of Charlie from the other side of the chicken house. She was shouting, â??Murder! Murder!â?� However, she must have been sleeping on a soft cow patty, because she seemed reluctant to approach the action.

With the Mockingbirdâ??s rasping voice joining in, the sound was holy bedlam on my ears. As I cleared the weeds and rounded the corner of the chicken house, I saw a blur streaking under the corral fence. As I increased my speed toward the action, I noticed a white bundle under the fence. Slowing down, I could see it was the remains of a chicken. The villain had evidently dropped it in his haste to escape.

As I was standing there nosing the warm chicken, my mouth began to water. I was having thoughts like, â??What would be the harm, this chicken is already dead!â?� Just at that time, Charlie trotted up and I turned my head away, embarrassed for her to see the saliva dripping down my chin. My stomach had also caught the notion and as I turned, it growled loudly in anticipation. This stopped Charlie in her tracks. She looked all around and said, â??What the heck was that?â?� I dropped my head and replied, â??Musta been rigor mortis setting in, you know, chickens do that.â?�

Charlie had begun nosing the body and suddenly yelled, â??Hey, this chickenâ??s not dead!â?� I looked over and sure enough, the old hen was beginning to move and her eyes were blinking like the railroad signals down at the crossing. By the time we had checked her over, it was beginning to turn light. She had a few punctures and a lot of loose feathers, but once she figured out that she was not dead, she seemed overcome with appreciation and was trying to plant wet kisses on each of us. If youâ??ve never been kissed by a chicken, you canâ??t imagine how painful it is.


Anyway, about this time, Phil came out of the house and, after observing what was going on, figured it out right quick. He said â??You security people did good.â?� Then after watching the devotion being showered on us by the hen, continued; â??Think Iâ??ll increase your manpower by adding that hen to your force.â?� Just as I was beginning to mouth my objection, Tom walked up, looking all used up, and shook his head to quiet me.


We walked off looking for a cool place to sleep out the day and that old hen was right on our heels clucking blissfully. Well, in the beginning I told you I was unluckyâ??and DAMN, I hate chickens!