Lost in the Blinded Blizzard by John R. Erickson Read Free Book Online

treat me like a common crinimal.
    I resented that. It really hurt.
    On the other hand, I did happen to notice that he had left a little crack in the door, and I wondered what might happen if I hooked my paw around . . .
    SLAM!
    He couldn’t take a joke, that’s all. No sense of humor.
    He left me alone in that prison cell and re­turned a few minutes later. He was holding an old boot top that had been stitched at one end so that it would hold cow medicine.
    He shoved the bottle of cough medicine inside the boot top, rigged up a kind of harness device out of whang leather, and tied it around my neck.
    This deal showed every indication of getting out of hand. I mean, it appeared that he might actually go through with it.
    He left the room again, and when he came back, I was sorry to see that he was dressed for cold weather. The worm of fate had crawled another step toward the apple of . . . something.
    Disaster, probably.
    â€œWell, Hankie, all these years we’ve been a-saying that you ain’t worth eight eggs. I guess this is your big opportunity to prove us wrong. Or maybe right. You ready?”
    You bet I was ready—so ready that I tried my very best to crawl into the cabinet where he kept his towels and wash rags. He grabbed me and I sank my claws into the nearest towel and went to digging.
    He got me out of there, but he knew he’d been in a struggle. And I carried one of those towels all the way to the front door.
    As we passed Drover, he raised his head and gave me a grin. “Good old Hank, what a guy! I’d sure like to go with you, but this old leg of mine . . .”
    I wasn’t able to come up with words to express the thoughts that marched across the vast expanse of my mind. So I just glared at him and hoped that the cruel slant of my eyes would convey the message.
    Suddenly we were outside in the raging ferocious blizzard. I could hear the wind roaring like a freight train through the cottonwoods. Frozen limbs creaked. The snow swirled before my snow-blinded eyes. I gasped for breath.
    Surely Slim wouldn’t . . . it was time for Heavy Begs. I moaned and whined and tried to kick my legs. No luck.
    Slim didn’t put me down at this point, which struck me as a shabby cheap trick and a vote of no confidence. I mean, did he think I would try to scramble back into the house or hide behind the wood pile or make a run for the feed barn?
    Yes, apparently that’s what he thought, and come to think of it . . . but I didn’t get the opportunity because he carried me away from the house, out into the storm, and down the road, which wasn’t there anymore because it was buried under six inches of snow.
    Oh yes, and along the way he pulled a limb off a tree and I couldn’t imagine what he might . . .
    At last he stopped and dropped me into the snow. It would be hard for me to express just how awful that snow felt as it closed around my nice warm paws and invaded the inner warmth of my inner being.
    Let’s just say that it felt awful, and that I looked up into his eyes and switched my tail over to the I-Don’t-Believe-You’re-Doing-This-to-a-Loyal-Friend Mode.
    That didn’t work either.
    â€œGo home, Hank. Take the medicine to Molly. Double dog food if you make it.”
    Oh yeah? And what if I didn’t make it? It would be double dog food for the buzzards, right?
    â€œGo on! Go to the house. Find Loper.”
    I whimpered and moaned and howled and cried and tried to . . . but he raised his stick in a threatening manner, almost as though he planned to . . .
    â€œGO HOME!”
    Okay, all right. I just hadn’t understood his . . . he wanted me to find my way back to the house, it appeared, and perform a very dangerous mission of mercy, which was sort of my specialty, and there was no need to yell and threaten and . . .

    GULP.
    It seemed that heroism had been thrust upon me, and as I’ve said many times before, when all else fails, a guy