Dandy Do-Little, Page 2

  "The Lazy G," Goldie sighed. "I had to fight for it, you know. That's the way it is for a cat. Fight and scratch and claw for every tidbit you get. You know there are a lot of cats around here, cats without a home, so they make the land their home. You know—the alleys, the yards, the garbage cans, the porches and back doors and trees and gardens." Goldie paused to look up through the branches of the spruce. "You get the picture.

  "Well, scrounging around the alley one day I thought jeez, there's gotta be a better way. I mean, here we are, Tom and Jess and Stella and Cry-Baby and Murt and me all clamoring and clawing over the same piece of greased-up, left-over, discarded chicken wing and what do I get for it? A black eye. A piece of slimy chicken skin. Hardly enough to live on. All I wanted was my own piece of land with some mice and birds and bugs and a little lawn for grazing and shelter and maybe some nice shrubbery … Is that too much to ask?

  "Well, right then and there I spit out that little piece of fatty chicken and started hiking. I kept my eyes and ears open and soon here I was at this nice-sized plot that seemed to have it all. Trees for the birds. Bushes and undergrowth for the mice. A full lawn of varied vegetation for all the little bugs and grubs and slugs and things. A good hunting ground, mind you, with shelter nearby."

  "The Lazy G!" Buster shouted.

  "Yes, the Lazy G," Goldie said. "The only problem, as far as I could tell, was a ferocious black dog who despite total ineptitude at hunting had claimed this paradise ranch for his own. I heard tale after tale of attempted fights with this canine, and how time after time the attacking cat was chased off."

  "Dandy Do-Little!" Buster Brownie Boy shouted.

  "As soon as I saw it, I knew this plot of land was just what I wanted," Goldie continued. "I used the bushes and shrubbery as blinds for hunting and to keep watch over the ferocious black dog. I slept under a nearby porch and hunted early in the morning, when the birds sang high in the trees, and again in the evening, when the mice came out, scurrying heedlessly to and fro. I fought other cats who tried to sneak onto the ranch, and with every victory I came closer to laying my claim.

  "I began to observe the black dog closely and realized that he paid little attention to me as long as I stayed out of his way. I decided that, for a dog, maybe he was okay. Maybe we could share this ranch. This black dog and I, I thought, might make a pretty good team."

  "The Lazy G and Dandy Do-Little and Goldilocks Dreamsicle!" Buster Boy shouted.

  Goldilocks Dreamsicle rolled onto his back and stretched his legs fore and aft. Slowly he relaxed, folding his paws back into his soft, white, rounded belly. A grin crept up along his face, and his eyes closed.

  "That black dog was quite gracious," he said. "We became friends. I name this ranch the Lazy G, you see, because now I can take it easy. Mr. Do-Little protects the borders; I protect the food supply—taking only what I need, mind you—and it suits me. Yes indeed. No more fighting and scratching and clawing …"

  "Dandy Do-Little, Goldilocks Dreamsicle, the Lazy G, and ME!" Buster shouted. "What about ME!?"

  "What about you?"

  "Where did I come from, Dandy Do-Little?"

  "What?"

  "Where did I come from?"

  "You don't remember?"

  "No."

  "Oh." I looked at Goldie. He lay still with his eyes closed. I figured the truth is how you tell it, so I said very gently: "We found you in the gutter, Brownie Boy …"

  "What?" Buster said. "In the gutter?"

  "Yes."

  "NONONONONO!" Buster Brownie Boy stood firm on his straight little legs, his body tense, his tail erect, his beard jousting with the heated clouds of his breath.

  "Yea yea yea yea yea," Goldie suddenly yowled. "Somebody threw you out. It happens all the time. It happened to me. It happened to you. I dare say it happened to Dandy Do-Little here. Pardon me if I'm mistaken, Mr. Do-Little."

  "No, no. You're quite right, Goldie. It happens to the best of us."

  After all, it was true. I had been on my own as a pup. I had been in the gutters, in the alleys. … I had spent years forgetting it, but you never do, quite, forget.

  Buster Boy flipped his head to look at me. "You, Dandy Do-Little?"

  "Yes."

  "You didn't always live here?"

  "Oh my, no." I couldn't help but smile. "I've lived many places."

  "Bow wow wow wow wow. Bow wow wow wow wow."

  "Criminy. Who's that?" Goldie muttered, still on his back with his paws dangling in the air.

  "It's The Yorkie, Goldilocks! It's The Yorkie!" Buster bellowed as he tore over to the fence.

  Yorkie, the Yorkshire terrier with the garbled messages, is well-bred, well-clipped, and often well-dressed. He is very excitable and trembles uncontrollably, bouncing up and down and even back and forth in erratic spurts. As he yapped with Buster, his nails sporadically tapped the sidewalk.

  "What's wrong with Goldilocks? Why's he laying like that?"

  "I don't know. Why you laying like that Goldilocks Dreamsicle?"

  "I'm trying to catch some shut-eye if you all don't mind!" Goldie growled.

  "Hey Yorkie! You know I was found in a gutter?!"

  "A gutter! Well, why're you telling me? That's disgusting. Yuk! A gutter!"

  "What's so disgusting about it? A lot of us come from the gutter."

  "Well, not me, dear sir. Certainly not me." The Yorkie's nails made a sudden rat-a-tat-tat on the pavement.

  "Where'd you come from?" Buster asked.

  "A breeder," The Yorkie answered.

  "Oh." Buster sat and tilted his head one way and then the other. The Yorkie was small, even smaller than Buster, but his ears were bigger than any ears Buster had ever seen. Buster had once asked me why Yorkie's ears were so big and I said I didn't know, it was probably in his breeding.

  The Yorkie wandered over to a tree on the parkway to sniff about. Buster came over to me.

  "He comes from a breeder," the Boy whispered.

  "Yes, I know."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Not much. He'll get over it."

  "You sure can't get under it," Goldie yawned.

  SUMMER EVENING

  One warm summer evening I was in my usual warm summer evening spot, just off the patio in the grass by the garden. Goldilocks Dreamsicle was nearby in his lair, the garden, in the depths of the moonbeam tickseed, hidden, or so he seemed to think, from view. A few feet away Buster Boy was digging a hole. I must admit, it was rather peaceful. The night fell in long, slow shadows, and a momentary stillness settled on the yard.

  Suddenly, Goldie bolted. Off he was to the spruce trees to hunt in the brush. Buster streaked after him. As they disappeared behind the shed, I tucked myself in and settled down to nap and dream. I dreamed that Buster and Goldie were in a parade. No, Buster and Goldie were a parade. A marching band parade. With one musical instrument. A cicada. You know—a bug. A locust. An insect. A cicada. A chirring, whizzing, whirring, buzzing, screeching in the key of G sharp cicada.

  Goldie brought the cicada in from the brush. Buster was thrilled. He stood still for a moment and stared at the colossal bug that Goldie dropped at his feet. The bug buzzed softly. Then it hopped. Goldie slapped it down. Goldie took the cicada in his mouth and stood there, erect and still, in all his marmaladen, golden-striped, silken glory, the butt end of the bug sticking out between his whiskers. Goldilocks Dreamsicle began a high-step march around the yard, keeping time with the tip of his tail, flicking its whiteness left-right, left-right in time to the beat, the Cicada March.

  Chirra chirra hey! (flick)

  Chirra chirra rah! (flick)

  Chirra chirra

  Chirra chirra

  Chirra chirra, hey! (flick flick)

  Oh, Buster was in awe! He bounded behind and alongside Goldilocks Dreamsicle, a.k.a. His Royal Regal Feline Grand Poo-bah of a Parade Master, yapping, "Let me try! Let me try!"

  Goldie came to a halt and released the cicada. Buster lunged at it. Goldie boxed his hea
d.

  "Easy, Buster," he purred.

  Buster leaned forward and down and gingerly grasped the cicada between his teeth. The bug chirred loudly. Buster leaped straight in the air and landed legs stiff and straight as broomsticks. His eyes crossed.

  "Par-a-a-ade," hissed Goldie.

  Buster's brain unlocked and he began to walk, stiltedly at first, then in a nimble prance, high stepping as Goldie had, buzzing bug held high, tail antenna-up with a rigid, to-the-beat wag-wag. Goldie followed along behind, tail lashing, fur puffed. Soon Buster dropped the cicada and Goldie picked it up. They traded off and on and on and off like that for a while, and then the bug stopped buzzing, the dream blurred, and I woke up. Goldie and Buster were a few feet away, crunching on an insect.

  "Supper, Dandy Do-Little?" Goldie asked.

  "No, Goldie, thanks," I said. "Is that a cicada?"

  "Why yes, yes it is."

  "Chirra chirra hey!" Buster yelled.

  Goldie's Groove

  The birdies sing,

  Ring-a-ding-ding,

  Suppertime, suppertime, suppertime!

  The crickets chirp,

  Doo wop ba-burp,

  Suppertime, suppertime, suppertime!

  Ratsie scats,

  Doodle doodle dat's,

  Suppertime, suppertime, suppertime!

  AUTUMN

  "Hey, Rocky, where're you from?"

  "Rottweil, Germany."

  "Huh!" Buster sat down abruptly and scratched behind his right ear. "Huh!" he repeated.

  "Sounds like there's something rotten in Germany," Goldie said softly.

  As I mentioned, Rocky is a Rottweiler and that means he's big. Buster is small. They have become the best of friends, and this is good. When it comes to Buster Brownie Boy, I much prefer being a mentor to being a pal. Nowadays, Rocky often comes over to the yard and romps about like a circus bear, and Brownie Boy travels along beside him as if he were a trained poodle gone awry. Sometimes I think I could dress them up in bows and ruffles and collect ten cents admission.

  "Hey Rocky! I'll run around in circles see if you can catch me!"

  Goldilocks Dreamsicle is often nearby, watching, and if Rocky gets close enough and happens to notice he gives Goldie a sniff and Goldie's ears lie back flat.

  "What are you? A cat?"

  "Whaddaya think, Rocky-Tocky? A parakeet? Yes, I'm a cat. Mister Dreamsicle to you, by the way."

  Then Rocky backs up and Goldie hisses. Buster comes tearing between them yah! yah! yah! catch me! and Rocky goes lumbering off. Later they will rest by the crab apple and Goldie, in the barberry bushes, will eavesdrop.

  "I came from the gutter."

  "I know."

  "You don't mind?"

  "No, I don't mind."

  Here comes the mailman! I'm off like a shot! Like a rocket! Like a watermelon seed in your eye! Every day this guy comes by in his uniform and heavy shoes and jungle helmet and bangs that box hanging on the side of the house! It really gets me going so I bark and bark right up against the fence, run back and forth, let him know he better be careful or else …! Oh no! Rocky's right alongside me getting in my way! I bang into the forsythia, then Rocky's thick foreleg, then Buster Boy's in the action, underfoot, yapping like a hurricane; Rocky's roaring like a diesel engine; FWAP! That mailman's banged the box on the side of the house! I'll get him this time! I tear through the arbor vitae, evergreens swaying in my wake. I smack into Rocky's big ham hock, recover, cut back and then forward again, down the fence following the mailman's scent until he quits, crosses the street, cuts the corner, gone.

  Buster yaps like crazy running in a circle around Goldie and the barberries.

  "Buster Brown, silly as a clown, Buster Brown, going downtown," Goldie is mewing melodiously.

  "I'll git you!" Buster yap-yap-yaps.

  I give myself a good head-to-tail shake and the yard a 360. All secure. I return to the barberries, where things have taken a turn for the worse. Goldilocks Dreamsicle is hissing and spitting and once in a while flinging out an open-clawed paw in the direction of Buster Brownie Boy's wet, sopping nose. Buster is frenzied. He flings the front part of his body back and forth as his back paws root in the earth. He twists his neck and stands on his head, pushing his crown into the ground, baring his teeth all the while, growling, barking, yapping, and gurgling way down in his throat.

  "Buster Boy Buster Boy, just a toy Buster Boy."

  Wait! Who's this? I look around and see Rocky lying under the crab apple. His eyes glass over, his ears go cock-eyed, and a goofy grin plasters his face. He is chanting in a high-pitched, sing-song voice.

  "Brownie Boy Brownie Boy, just a Mister Clownie Boy."

  "What's going on here?" I bark.

  Then Goldie slowly gathers in his paws and sinks low, turning into a tidy ball. Buster Boy stops in mid-growl, stands up, stares at me. Rocky stands, shakes himself, and says, "Mister Dreamsicle to you, by the way," and trots home.

  As Buster trots over and sits next to me, Goldie stretches his way out of the bushes. We all touch noses and Goldie says: "Did you get that mailman yet, Dandy Do-Little?"

  AUTUMN LEAVES

  It wasn't long before Buster Brownie Boy got back to inquiring about how Goldilocks Dreamsicle and I found him. I knew he would get back to it, because although he's young and the leap-before-you-look type, he's canny. By this time I was teaching Buster about the yard patrol and Thorough Preliminary Sniffing, and we might get as far as the crab apple before he would dash off to chase a dandelion seed or a butterfly—or Jasper. Once, Jasper teased Buster into chasing him and then disappeared, circling back around and suddenly chittering at Buster from behind, causing him to jump and giving Jasper a good laugh. The second time Jasper tried this Buster Boy whirled around and chased the surprised squirrel up a tree. Goldie, who follows along on the tutor patrols, sat down and cheered.

  It was during one of these sessions that Buster suddenly said: "I don't remember when it was that you and Goldilocks Dreamsicle found me in the gutter, Dandy Do-Little. It seems to me I've just always lived here."

  "Well, you were awfully young, Brownie Boy. Just a couple of months old, if that. What do you think, Goldie?"

  "You were young all right, Buster Boy. Why, you barely had any fur, let alone a memory."

  Buster seemed to give this some thought, and then said, "Tell me about it?"

  Goldie and I exchanged a glance, then I shook myself head to tail. Goldie sat down and idly licked his right paw, which he then used to clean behind his ears. Buster looked at me expectantly.

  "There's not much to tell. Goldie found you on the other side of the fence, out there, across the sidewalk and parkway, in the gutter and on the curb squirming about."

  "I thought you were a rat," Goldie interrupted. I gave him a stern look and continued.

  "Goldie called me to come over, and I realized you were a puppy—not a rat at all." Goldie was about to say something so I continued hurriedly. "It would have been dangerous to leave you out on the street unprotected, so Goldie hopped the fence and you immediately ran over to greet him. In fact, you ran over Goldie, which is how he came to name you."

  "Yeah, I said, 'Watch it, Buster!' and gave you a whack, too." Goldie smiled.

  "Goldie nudged you over to the fence where I had dug a small hole and we pushed you through. You've been with us ever since."

  "But how did I get in the gutter?"

  "I don't know, Buster."

  "Somebody threw you out," Goldie said.

  "But why?"

  "No good reason." Goldie met Buster's gaze.

  Buster sighed and lay down, his chin on his paws. I lay next to him, my chin on my paws. The late autumn yard was all bristly grass scattered with brown, curled leaves. Faded flower heads hung on grey stalks. Bright red hips adorned one cane of the rambling rose bush. The musty aroma of spent vegetation hung heavy, almost overwhelmingly so, and I was thankful for a cool breeze. I lifted my nose and inhaled. Winter was nearby.

>   I noticed Jasper in the garden, fussing in the stalks of the purple coneflower. Lately he'd been busy stuffing himself with nuts and berries in anticipation of the barren season ahead. I called to him. He looked up, sat on his haunches, turned my way.

  "Dandy Do-Little! How have you been!"

  "Fine, Jasper, fine. How are you?"

  "Busy, busy. Hard to keep up. Gotta harvest, harvest, bury and eat and hunt and search and bury and eat. It's tough, it's tough you know."

  "Yes. My best to Squirrely," I said. Buster did not move.

  Goldie walked over to the shed. He disappeared behind it then suddenly appeared on top of it. He sat up there staring into a spruce tree.

  Suddenly Buster sighed. "It could've been worse, couldn’t it, Dandy Do-Little."

  "Yes," I told him. "It could've been worse."

  Buster's Bodacious Brag

  Gottamouse

  Gottamouse

  Gottamouse

  Gottamouse!

  WINTER

  The first snowfall began late one afternoon, when it was almost dark. Suddenly it lightened by a ghost's shadow, and tiny snowflakes twinkled in the dusk.

  "What's happening, Dandy Do-Little?" Buster asked. Brownie Boy and I were snuggled on the sofa. I had discovered that, although small, Buster generated a nice bit of heat. From our spot we looked out on the yard.

  "It's snowing, Brownie Boy. The first snow of the season. Perhaps later we can go out and snuff around in it. You'll find it adds a nice frosty clearness to the odors, greatly enhancing the TPS process."

  Buster reached up and licked my chin a couple of times. This startling habit of his, of handing out kisses willy-nilly, had annoyed me at first. Lately, however, I had been finding the kisses somewhat endearing.

  Buster jumped up, hopped off the sofa, ran over to the ottoman by the window, hopped up, and sat next to Goldie.

  Goldilocks Dreamsicle had moved from his box by the shed to the indoors once it began to get cold. He liked to sit on the ottoman and look out the window, keeping watch over the Lazy G.

  "That's snow, Goldilocks," Buster said.

  Goldie slowly turned his gaze to Buster and stared, silently, motionlessly. Buster wagged his tail slightly and repeated, "It's snow."