The Trouble with Chickens (3 page)

Chapter 8
Detour

O
ur shadows were long and thin as we headed over to the chicken coop for our rendezvous.

Dirt and Sugar were covered in mud and wet grass and napping in my empty food bowl.

It looked like an Easter basket gone horribly wrong.

“It's time, it's time,” Moosh clucked. “We have to get to the chicken coop. C'mon, c'mon.”

“Go on ahead, Moosh. I'm gonna keep an eye out from here.”

I had a hunch I should stay outside the coop.

I had a hunch once about a roast-beef sandwich I found in an alley in Detroit. It didn't smell quite right, but I was hungry. I ignored the hunch and ate the sandwich. I woke up three days later with an IV needle jammed into my front paw courtesy of the Detroit Animal Clinic.

That was one bad sandwich.

The same little voice I had ignored in Detroit was now telling me to stay outside.

I stayed outside.

Moosh was not completely convinced that I wasn't gonna ditch her as soon as her back was turned.

I wasn't completely convinced myself.

“Go on, Moosh,” I repeated.

Dirt gave her mom a little tug and led her into the coop.

Sugar stuck around just long enough to throw me a dirty look.

I threw it back.

I was walking away to find decent cover when the scent hit me square in the face.

I may have actually tripped over it.

It was the same scent that was all over the note.

The rain hadn't washed away the chicken scent after all.

But it didn't lead to the chicken coop.

It led to the house.

Moosh shot her head out of the coop. “It's six thirty-three—where are they? Where are they? Where are they?”

I had to put my paw over her face to can the clucking.

Once again, I noted her sharp beak.

“Moosh, we got a new development here.”

I held her beak closed with my paw and explained the scent trail leading right up to the house.

“Mmmrrrnneee,” she mumbled.

I let go of her beak.

“It can't be,” she said again.

“Noses don't lie,” I answered.

“But what about the note?” she asked.

“Decoy,” I grumbled.

“But it doesn't make any sense . . .”

Before she could finish her sentence, a dark shadow appeared in the window. The shades were drawn, but you could clearly make out the silhouette.

There was no mistaking that silhouette.

Vince the Funnel.

Chapter 9
Vince the Funnel

V
ince was thirty-seven pounds of shiny brown mutt.

He had a long, skinny build, beady eyes, and a giant white funnel around his neck.

He looked like a cross between a dachshund and a lamp.

We had met the very first day I'd arrived here at Barb's country house.

I had nodded at him that morning almost two weeks earlier.

It was a gesture of goodwill.

He didn't nod back.

Fine by me.

I didn't need any new friends.

I could, however, have used a lamp.

Up to now, I had never exchanged a word with Vince the Funnel.

He spent his time inside.

I spent my time outside.

I preferred to keep things that way.

But a deal is a deal, even if you make it with a crazy chicken.

What little I did know about Vince, I knew from a distance and from the grapevine.

I knew that a dog walker came by every day to take him outside.

And I'd heard he was a little off his rocker.

While I was taking an inventory of what I knew about Vince, Moosh kept herself busy by losing her mind.

“Vince the Funnel has my chicks!” screamed Moosh.

She was running around like a chicken without a head.

Dirt and Sugar were frozen in place, their fuzzy little chicken brains on overdrive.

Inside dog.

Inside words.

It was all beginning to make sense.

Before I could think any further, my stomach rumbled.

I was starving.

I should have asked for that cheeseburger up front.

Chapter 10
Funnel Vision

O
h, how Barb loves losers,
I thought, watching J.J. the Hero Dog march around the yard with Chicken Mom on his tail and his face to the ground. Only an arrogant search-and-rescue dog could undergo years of training but not recognize a simple trap when it's right under his nose. Makes me laugh out loud. But Hero Dog isn't like Barb's usual rejects—the orphan baby birds, the mangy stray cats. I'll have to figure out his weak spot when I have him up close and personal.

“Welcome to my school, Hero Dog,” I muttered. “No medals and no parades here, pretty boy. Just my house, my yard, and my rules. Soon you'll meet one brilliant alpha dog who doesn't like company.”

I chuckled to myself and then leaped off the table in front of the window. On the way down, the funnel caught the edge of the lamp, and it crashed to the floor.

The lamp shattered.

A bulb burst.

Two tiny chickens squawked.

I couldn't have planned it better myself.