Lost in the Dark Unchanted Forest Read Free Page A

discipline . . . 
    I squalled. I cried. I moaned. Heck, a guy has to do something to protect himself from these little monsters.
    It was my good fortune that Sally May had good ears. She came flying out the back door, sized up the situation with one sweep of her eyes, and marched over to Little Alfred.
    â€œAlfred, what on earth are you doing?”
    He gave her a nasty little grin. “I’m pwaying wiff Hank.”
    â€œYou’re hurting Hank. Hank doesn’t like for you to pull his tail. Now let go, right now!”
    The boy let go of my tail. “I don’t wike Hank. He’s a dummy.”
    Oh yeah? Well, I could have come up with a few choice names for him, too.
    Sally May took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake. “If you can’t be nice to Hank, you can’t play with him. You play quietly with your trucks while we put Molly down for a nap.”
    Alfred glared up at her and stuck out his lip. “I don’t wike Mah-wee either!”
    â€œHush now. Mommy will be right out to play with you.”
    She went back into the house. When she was out of hearing range, Alfred made a spitting sound with his lips. Then he made another grab for me, but this time he was half a step too slow. I went sprinting out of the yard and picked up Drover at the gate.
    â€œCome on, Drover, let’s get out of here.”
    I didn’t know what had come over the boy and I didn’t care to find out. I figgered it was time to let Little Alfred stew in his own tomatoes.

Chapter Three: Swimming Lessons for Pete

    W e went sprinting up the hill, trotted past the chicken house, scattered the chickens, and went to the machine shed.
    I’ve always enjoyed scattering chickens. Even on days when I’m in a bad mood and nothing seems to be going right, I can run through a bunch of chickens and, I don’t know, it just seems to give new meaning to my life.
    I was still feeling sore from my beating the previous night, and also hungry, so I spent several minutes crunching Co-op dog food from the overturned Ford hubcap which serves as our bowl.

    Many times I’ve wondered how much it would cost the ranch to buy us a real bowl, instead of a nasty hubcap that retains the taste of axle grease. Yes, I know. Grass is short and cattle prices are down, but I also know that the cowboys on this outfit eat out of plates and bowls, not hubcaps.
    It’s funny to me that there always seems to be enough grass and enough cattle market to buy plates for them, but you mention buying anything decent for the Head of Ranch Security, and suddenly we’re in the midst of a drought and a plague and a depression!
    I mean, the cattle market has fallen off the edge of the world and there ain’t a sprig of grass left in the pastures and everybody’s going around in rags and their toes are poking out of the holes in their boots and they’re having to boil tree bark to feed the children.
    It makes a guy think that the people in charge don’t realize just how important their dogs are to the overall . . . oh well.
    I ate dog food out of the hubcap and tried not to think of all the injustices in the world. Too much brooding can ruin your digestion, and life without digestion is . . . something. Unbearable. Full of burps. Hard to bear.
    Yes, we crunched our dog food: hard, dry, yellowish kernels that come in a fifty pound sack. Some­times I wonder what kind of stuff they put into those kernels, and other times I’d just as soon not know.
    I noticed that Drover was making a lot of noise. “Do you suppose you could be a little quieter in chewing your food?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know, Hank. It’s pretty hard.”
    â€œOf course it is. It’s always harder to eat with manners than to eat with the wild abandon of a hog, but who wants to sound like a hog?”
    â€œNot me.”
    â€œHogs make no pretense at being civilized, Drover. They