The Trouble with Chickens (2 page)

Chapter 4
Poppy and Sweetie

P
oppy and Sweetie.

Their names annoyed me too.

But it wasn't time for more nicknames.

Nicknames are only cute when your mother knows where you are.

I had Dirt and Sugar take me to the last place they saw Poppy and Sweetie. It was just outside the chicken coop.

I told the fluffy family to stand still. I didn't have any of Poppy's or Sweetie's belongings to sniff, but I had their siblings.

Close enough.

I had no idea how hard it might be to track the scent if I found it. On the job we call it “probability of detection,” POD for short. With no personal effects to sniff and no experience tracking poultry, the probability of detection in this case was low—very low. But now was not the time to burden a chicken mother's heart with a low POD.

There's an easy way to do a search and a hard way.

The easy way is early in the evening with a cool breeze and a steady partner.

The hard way is high noon with a crazy chicken clucking in your ear and two feather balls riding your tail.

This search was gonna go the hard way.

I had to give it to Moosh straight.

“Humans have a knack for finding themselves in places where they don't belong—dark woods, cold snow, and deep canyons. Lucky for them, they stink. But I don't know from chickens—so don't get your hopes up.”

Moosh took a deep breath. She knew the score. In the harsh sunlight her comb had lost its bright red luster.

It was Fourth of July weekend, and the air was heavy. I got down as low as I could. The earth will hold on to your smelly secrets for a long, long time. And it will give them up to any dog who comes sniffing. Problem is, it gives up all its secrets at once. You have to be able to sniff through them to find the one you need. Bare feet. Barbecue sauce. Blueberries. It didn't take long to pick up what I thought was a chicken trail.

I followed it around the edge of the yard, under a pile of rotting wood, past the barn, and then across the open field.

For all I knew, it could have been a chicken sandwich.

Then something hit me in the eye. Hard.

I stopped in my tracks.

Moosh, Dirt, and Sugar were right behind me.

When I looked up, I got hit again.

It was rain. Hard rain.

The kind of rain that makes grown men wear funny boots.

I called off the search.

Sugar was in my face.

“Listen, mutt, my brother and sister are missing, and you're worried about getting wet?”

She was so close to me, I could have bitten her in half.

“Get lost,” I mumbled.

“Make like a sponge, mister.”

I had to hand it to Sugar—she was as tough as her mother.

Chapter 5
Chicken Scratch

T
he sky turned from gray to green to black.

If the rain hadn't already washed off the scents of Poppy and Sweetie, it seemed the wind would have blown it away.

After a short stroll in the hard rain, I decided to get back to my warm bed.

I had had enough of this little chicken adventure.

It was time for a nap, after all.

The trouble with doghouses is they don't have doors.

Moosh, Dirt, and Sugar were just a few minutes behind me.

“You smell like wet dog,” said Sugar.

“I am a wet dog,” I grumbled.

“Is this the ‘search' part or the ‘rescue' part?” asked Sugar.

She reminded me of a splinter I'd had once—it bothered me, and I was in a much better mood when it was gone.

Before I could answer her, Moosh waved a note in front of me.

“I found it in the chicken coop,” cried Moosh.

I tried to grab the note out of Moosh's beak.

That thing was sharper than it looked.

I gave up my hold on the note.

Two things were clear: Whoever had left that note had fast feet and a head full of big words.

Chapter 6
Chicken Tears

M
oosh paced back and forth.

Sugar and Dirt followed behind her in the same oddly spaced line as before.

I stood in front of Moosh and brought her little 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

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.

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.

“What does it mean?” asked Moosh.

I wasn't sure who she was asking.

Sugar spoke before I could.

“It 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.

“Wake me up at six twenty-five.”