The Trouble with Chickens by Doreen Cronin Read Free Book Online Page A

chicken parade to a halt.
    Sometimes your gut can tell you more than your nose. This was one of those times.
    I could see from the look in her eyes that Moosh was thinking about trying to get past me.
    I bared my teeth and moved in closer.

    That changed her mind.
    I’ve never backed down from a staring contest in my life, but her eyes were so tiny and close-set, it was making me cross-eyed.
    I was breathing in what she was breathing out.
    Her left foot was bouncing up and down, like she was standing on a hot plate.
    She looked down at the note, then she looked down at Dirt and Sugar. When she finally looked up at me, her eyes were filled with tears.
    I’m no stranger to tears.
    The sad truth about search-and-rescue work is that there isn’t always a rescue.
    So I’d seen plenty of tears before.
    But I had never seen chicken tears.
    I hope I never see them again.
    Moosh’s tears finally got the best of her. Her beak began to quiver.
    The note fell to the floor.
    I had what I needed.
    I didn’t want to hold her precious note, anyway.
    I wanted to sniff it.
    Sure enough, it reeked of one thing—the same chicken scent I had been following before the storm.
    The trail was right under my nose.

Chapter 7
Inside Job
    Behoove.
    Rendezvous.
    Twilight.
    I’ve been lowered from a helicopter, strapped to a snowmobile, and flown first-class to France to find a backcountry skier lost in the Alps.
    Not once did anyone find it necessary to use the word behoove .

    My bet was that a chicken the size of a golf ball wouldn’t find it necessary either. That note might have been covered in Poppy’s and Sweetie’s scents, but I was sure it wasn’t covered in their words.
    Behoove.
    Rendezvous.
    Twilight.
    They were “inside” words. Words you only learn inside, where there are things like comfortable chairs and fresh lemonade.
    Out here, with the chickens and the dogs, we don’t behoove .
    I don’t have a problem with big words.
    But there’s a time and a place for them. A muddy note in a chicken coop didn’t seem like the right place.
    Outside, the rain had gone from a storm to a standstill.
    I had been so busy thinking about that note that I hadn’t noticed the quiet.
    There wasn’t enough breeze to ruffle a feather.
    Moosh was staring at the note. I watched her eyes scan the page over and over.
    â€œWhat does it mean?” asked Moosh.
    I wasn’t sure who she was asking.
    Sugar spoke before I could.
    â€œIt means we need to be in the chicken coop by six thirty.”
    Sugar’s head wasn’t filled with feathers, that’s for sure.
    I was going to have to keep my eye on her.
    Right after my nap.
    â€œWake me up at six twenty-five.”

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.
    â€œIt’s time, it’s time,” Moosh clucked. “We have to get to the chicken coop. C’mon, c’mon.”
    â€œGo 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.
    â€œGo 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