The Case of the Falling Sky - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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I had picked up a sound, not a smell, I switched off Snifforadar and punched in the commands to activate Earatory Scanners. I adjusted the tuning knob that brought our two huge micro­wave receivers into focus and . . . yes, there it was again. The clucking of a chicken.

      See? My instincts had been right. Something strange was going on, and now I had my first lead in the case.

      My heart began to race and I moved on silent paws toward the sound—past Sally May’s garden, past Emerald Pond, and up the hill. When I reached the top of the hill, I paused to catch my breath and reconnoodle the situation.

      In the deep dark silence of night, I heard . . . more clucking.

      Well, that settled it. I had no idea what manner of fiend or monster I would find in the chicken house, or if I would live to tell the story. But you know what? It really didn’t matter. When you’re Head of Ranch Security, you do your job and hope for the best.

      I began my Approach Procedure, creeping closer and closer until I was standing right outside the chicken-house door. There, I stopped and listened. Hmmm. I could hear whickens chippering . . . chickens whispering, let us say, which struck me as very odd. Chickens don’t whisper at night . . . do they? I don’t think so. They sleep.

      Okay, the moment of truth had arrived. I had to storm the chicken house and there was no sense in putting it off. One way or another, it would all be over in five minutes. I took a deep breath of air, gave myself the order to Lock and Load, and stormed the house.

      I burst through the door. “Bonzai! Ranch Security! Freeze, turkeys, you’re under arrest! Hands up, reach for the sky, on the floor, everyone down! This is a raid!”

      It was a pretty impressive raid, one of the best in my whole career. There I stood in the middle of the chicken house, with twenty-eight pairs of chicken eyes staring at me. They had their wings raised over their heads and I had their full attention. I must admit that . . . well, I kind of enjoyed this, you know, being on center stage, so to speak, and having the full undivided attention of an audience.

      I know, they were only a bunch of dumb chickens, but still . . . it was kind of fun.

      I swaggered across the room, glaring into every pair of eyes. “Okay, what’s been going on in here?” Silence. “We know you birds have been up to something. We’ve been watching this place for weeks. We have the names of everyone who’s come and gone. You might as well come clean and make it easy on yourselves. Who wants to go first?”

      The chickens glanced around but no one spoke.

      I moved around the circle of nests until I came to a familiar face. “You there, stand up and spread your wings. I’ll have to frisk you. Move!”

      It was a rooster, and he didn’t move. He said, “Lay a paw on me, pooch, and I’ll show you what these spurs are for, is what I’ll do.”

      Were you aware that roosters have sharp little horns on their feet? They do and they’re called “spurs.” Every once in a while we run into a blow-hard rooster who thinks that he can scare us by threatening to use his spurs on our nose, eyebrows, lips, ears, and other sensitive parts.

      Ha! What a joke. One good snap from a dog’s enormous jaws will fix those spurs, and two good snaps will fix the rooster who’s wearing them.

      On the other hand, I, uh, saw no good reason for pushing this crisis into a deadly combat situation. After all, I had come to rescue the dumb birds from . . . something.

      See, one of us had to be wise enough and mature enough to defuse the bomb of anger and violence, and it appeared that it would have to be me. Hencely, I decided, on my own free will, to ignore the rooster’s provocatory remark.

      “Okay, J.T., have it your way. This time we’ll let it slide, but only because I’m mature enough to spare you from your own big mouth.”

      “I ain’t got a mouth. I’ve got a beak.”

      “Fine, you’ve got a big beak.”

      “And the reason you’re letting it slide, pooch, is that you remember what I done to you last time we squared off.”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Sure you do. I came within an inch of spurring your ears off.”

      “You must have me confused with some other dog.”

      “And I’ll tell you something else, mister.” He leaned forward and stuck his beak into my face. “You’ve got your nerve, busting in here in the middle of the night and calling us turkeys. We ain’t turkeys, we’re chickens, and proud of it too.”

      “I never said you were turkeys.”

      “Sure you did, I heard it myself. You came a-busting in here and a-yelling at the top of your lungs, ‘Freeze, turkeys!’ That’s exactly what you said, and if you don’t believe me, ask Elsa. She heard you too.”

      I pushed his beak out of my face. “For your information, featherbed, we always say that when we make a forced entry. The ‘Freeze, Turkey’ command is part of the procedure we follow.”

      “Oh yeah? Well, if you’re gonna bust into a chicken house, you ought to say ‘Freeze, chickens!’ It don’t make sense to be a-yelling and a-carrying on about turkeys in a chicken house.”

      “It doesn’t make sense, J.T., because you don’t have any sense to begin with. Now shut your trap and let’s get on with my interrogation.”

      In case you haven’t figured it out, the guy I was about to interrogate was J.T. Cluck, the head rooster. I’d never had much use for the guy, and now I was fixing to give him a merciless grilling.

      Chapter Two: The Chicken Riddle of Life

      I began pacing back and forth, as I often do when I’m about to launch myself into a heartless interrogation. Every eye of every chicken was glued to me as I paced.

      “Okay, J.T., let’s cut the nonsense and get down to business. I have to ask you some questions.”

      “Fine with me. Ask me anything, anything at all. Ask me about heartburn.”

      “I’m not interested in heartburn.”

      “Well, you would be if you had a gizzard. You dogs have no idea what it’s like, going through life without teeth and having to grind up all your food with a gizzard full of rocks.”

      “I’m not interested in your problems, J.T.”

      “I know you ain’t, and that’s shameful. How would you like it if you had to eat rocks every day of your life, huh? Buddy, you talk about heartburn! You try eating rocks and crickets and grasshoppers and I’ll show you some heartburn.”

      “Are you finished?”

      “No, I ain’t finished. The worst heartburn of my life came from eating a squash bug.”

      “Drop it, J.T., and answer my questions.”

      He twisted his head and stared at me with his red rooster eyes. “You ain’t asked any questions, so how am I supposed to answer ’em?”

      I paced over to him and glared into his face. “J.T., something funny was going on in here tonight, and I want to know what it was.”

      J.T. cut his eyes to the side and lowered his voice. “It wasn’t funny, I can tell you that right now.”

      “Keep going. What wasn’t funny about it?”

      “It wasn’t funny because . . . well, just because it wasn’t funny. You didn’t hear anybody laughing in here, did

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