The Case of the Falling Sky

by John R. Erickson

  I had them in the palm of my coconut. Every chicken neck bent forward, every ear was turned in my direction . . . although chickens don’t actually have ears. How do they hear? We don’t have the answer to that, but the point is that this was a very dramatic moment.

  I gazed out at the audience and plunged on with my speech. “Ladies and gentlemen, hens and roosters, distinguished guests: a chicken crosses the road . . . TO GET TO THE OTHER SIDE.”

  For a long moment, no one moved or spoke. Then the silence was broken by the sound of twenty-seven hens and one rooster gasping in unison. Then, suddenly, the place erupted in cheers and applause, and I was mobbed by a crowd of grateful chickens. They were cheering and laughing, reaching out their wings to touch me, and calling out my name: “Hank, oh Hank the Cowdog! You’ve answered the Chicken Riddle of Life! Oh, wise dog! Oh, wonderful pooch!”

  Well, I . . . I hardly knew how to respond. I mean, I’d always thought of myself as smarter than your average dog . . . and better looking . . . but still, it was a little embarrassing, to tell you the truth, all those hens gasping around me and fainting, reaching out to touch me and crying out my name.

  It was the kind of scene you might have in your wildest dreams but never expean to expectorate in real life . . . expect to experience in real life, shall we say. It was almost too good to be true, is the point, and very humbling. Very very humbling. I was so humbled, so deeply moved by their gertrude that I stayed among them for half an hour, allowing them to touch me as many times as they wanted.

  And you know what? This experience kind of changed my attitude about chickens. For years, I had thought of them as dumb birds and brainless bundles of feathers, but all at once I began to realize that . . . gee, these chickens had an intelligence that I’d never noticed before. Just look at the way they were responding to . . . well, to ME, you might say.

  Yes, these were uncommonly smart birds, and it was pretty clear that they had refined taste in . . . you won’t believe this, but several of them actually wanted to adopt me into their flock, to make me an Honorary Chicken, and, gosh, even to appoint me as their emperor!

  Pretty amazing, huh? You bet. Of course I couldn’t accept the offer. I already had a job. (Have I mentioned that I’m Head of Ranch Security?)

  I addressed the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, hens and roosters, special guests: I am deeply honored by your offer, but I really have to . . .”

  You know what? They were so tightly packed around me that . . .

  “Excuse me, but I can’t seem to make my way to the door. Could you . . . will you please back away and let me . . . I’m sorry, but I need to be getting back to my . . .”

  They kept crowding around me, clucking and moaning and trying to touch my head with their wings, and all at once . . . I COULDN’T BREATHE!

  “Hey! Back off, you meatheads! You’re smashing me, this place stinks, and I have things to do!”

  They froze. I saw the hurt and pain in their eyes. They began melting away, like ice cream on a hot stove, and trudged back to their nests. Then I heard a chorus of murmuring voices.

  “You don’t like chickens. You’ve never liked chickens. You hate chickens! You’ve always hated chickens! Everybody hates us!”

  All at once they were crying. Weeping, if you can believe that. And then came a rumble of angry voices. “And we hate you too! You’re just a pompous fraud! We don’t believe your answer to the Chicken Riddle of Life! Chickens don’t cross the road to get to the other side. That would be dumb! Go away, get out, leave us alone, you hateful thing!”

  Oh brother.

  I tried to reason with them. “Listen, don’t get your feelings hurt. All at once I couldn’t breathe and I really do have to be . . .”

  Would you believe that the old hags started pelting me with eggs? Honest. It beat anything I’d ever seen in my whole career.

  Well, I had wanted to leave, so I . . . uh . . . walked briskly . . . ran, actually, to the door and ducked outside, one step ahead of a dozen eggs that splatted against the wall. There, I turned back to the angry mob and, in a voice full of righteous anger, I yelled, “I was right all along. You’re dumb birds, you’ll always be dumb birds, and the next time you need some help . . .”

  SPLAT!

  Oh well, at least I got a . . . slurp, slurp . . . free egg out of the deal.

  J.T. Cluck had followed me and stuck his neck out the door. “Well, you sure got ’em stirred up, pooch. It’ll take me three weeks to get ’em settled down. Thanks a bunch.”

  “J.T., from the bottom of my heart, let me say that I don’t care.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, you’d better care about one thing, pooch, ’cause I’m fixing to make a prediction.” J.T. rolled his eyes up toward the sky. “Tomorrow, the sky’s going to fall!”

  I stared at him in disbelief, then burst out laughing. “Ha ha ha! The sky’s going to fall? Hey, J.T., you told me that once before, and you know what? The sky didn’t fall.”

  “I got my dates mixed up, is all. But this time, it’s going to happen, you mark my words.”

  I turned my back on him and marched away. “Thanks for the information, J.T. I’ll keep an eye out for a falling sky. And the next time you birdbrains need help, call a coyote.”

  And with that stinging remark, I left J.T. and all his chicken friends to enjoy their own boring company.

  Chapter Three: The Pork Chop Virus

  It was still black dark when I crept back into the office and tiptoed over to my gunnysack bed. I crept and tiptoed because I didn’t want to wake up Mister Sleep His Life Away. If he woke up, there was some danger that he might want to stay up and talk, and after my experience in the chicken house, the last thing I needed was a long, boring conversation with Drover.

  I was tired, exhausted, worn down to a nub from all the cares and worries of running my ranch, and from dealing with a bunch of deranged chickens.

  Can you believe they’d ordered me out of the chicken house? And threw eggs at me? I had never been so insulted! I mean, I had done them a huge favor. I’d given them my time and had even answered the Chicken Riddle of Life.

  Oh well. Against incredible odds, I had managed to turn the incident into a huge moral victory. They had pelted me with insults and a few eggs, but I was now a stronger dog, a wiser dog. And they were still brainless hens, living in a stinking chicken house.

  Oh, and they had to spend the rest of their days listening to J.T. Cluck’s heartburn stories. And his wild improbably yarn about . . . ha ha ha . . .

  Ha ha.

  Ha.

  I found myself gazing up at the sky. I had never heard a reliable report of the sky . . . well, actually falling or collapsing on top of the earth. Had it ever happened before? Surely not. I mean, there in front of my very eyes was the black drape of the sky, covered with a silver spray of twinkling . . .

  Hmmmm. You know, there sure were a bunch of stars up there. Some of them looked pretty big and . . . heavy. What was holding them up? Was it possible . . .

  I wasn’t the kind of dog who leaped to conclusions or who believed every shred of gossip or anything a chicken might say, but still . . .

  All at once, I got this odd feeling in the back of my neck. Do you know that strange feeling when your hair stands up and you feel little pins and needles? Anyways, I knew there wasn’t a shred of truth to J.T.’s crazy story about the, uh, stars being too heavy to float in the heavens and the sky falling down on top of the . . .

  But just to be on the safe side, I decided to wake up Drover. I mean, it was just a courtesy call, so to speak, to let the little fellow know that I had, uh, returned from a long and dangerous . . .

  “Drover? Wake up.”

  “Murk snork honking spinach motorcycles in the sandbox.”

  “Drover, I hate to bother you at this hour of the night, but there’s an important matter we need to discuss.�
��

  “Matter batter puddin and pie, kissed a toad and made him cry.”

  “Drover, I know you’re in there, so don’t pretend you’re not. If you can make up silly rhymes about toads, you can wake up and smell the cobras.”

  “Cobras toadras tundra sandwich.”

  “See? Now you’re talking about food. I know you can hear me, so listen up. This could be very serious. I don’t want to alarm you, but we just heard a report that . . . the sky is going to fall.”

  That got his attention. He leaped up from his gunnysack bed and began staggering around in circles. I studied him carefully and took note of several important clues: 1) his ears sat crooked on his head; 2) his eyes were open but crossed; 3) his tongue was hanging out the left side of his mouth, a sure sign of confusion; and 4) he was staggering around in circles, but I’ve already mentioned that, so we can skip Clue #4.

  But three clues were enough to establish that Drover was in a confused state. Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly a shocking piece of news, because Drover spent a lot of his time in a confused state. But on this occasion he seemed even confuseder than normal.

  By that, I don’t mean to suggest that Drover ever appeared very normal or that there is anything normal about being confused. What I meant to say was . . . I’m not sure what I was trying to say, so let’s just skip it.

  He seemed confused, that’s the point, and I noticed it right away. And I heard him say, “Pass the biscuits, ribs and brisket, tuna salad solipsistic! Help, murder, mayday! The roof’s about to blow off the toolshed!”

  I must admit that I get some . . . how can I say this? I must admit that I get some kind of wicked pleasure out of watching Drover when he’s half-asleep. You never know what the little mutt is going to do or say, but it always gives us a little glimpse into the foggy swamp of his mind.

  For example, his muttering about food was a fairly common theme in his dreamatory patterns. We’d observed it many times before and it confirmed our theory that Drover often dreams about . . . well, food, such as your biscuits, your ribs, your brisket, your tuna salad, and your pork chops. He didn’t happen to mention pork chops on this occasion, but he usually does.

  Why? I have no idea, but pork chops seemed to be a regular . . .

  Smack, smack.

  . . . a regular symbolic fixture in the . . .

  Smack, drool, slurp.

  . . . a common piece of symbolic furniture in the dining room of his . . .

  Slurp, smack, drip.

  You know, I’m not sure I can go on with this analysis of Drover’s . . . have we ever discussed pork chops? Maybe not, and one of the reasons we seldom discuss pork chops is that . . . slurp, slurp . . . the very mention of them causes gushing springs of water to . . .

  Slurp, slurp, smack, drip.

  Hang on a second, we’ve got a ruptured water pipe in the back of our . . .

  Slurp, slop, drip, drool.

  Anyway, let’s skip over the business of slurp chops . . . pork slops . . . pork chops, shall we say, and continue our discussion of the dreamatory patterns of Drover’s so-called mind. The evidence was very clear that he dreams about food all the time, which, as you might guess, is a slopping discovery. A shocking discovery, let us say, because Drover is a paid employee of the ranch’s elite Security Division.

  When our employees slurp on the job . . . sleep on the job and drool during business hours . . . excuse me, when they sleep on the job and dream during business hours . . .

  You know, I really regret that I ever mentioned the . . . you-know-whats, the BLANK chops, and this is very embarrassing because, well, I’ve always taken pride in my ability to control my thought processes with iron discipline, but something has happened to Data Control’s Master Program and . . .

  I think we’ll just skip the business about food dreams, so just forget that we ever mentioned it.

  The point here is that Drover was muttering in rhyme. Now, that was something new, and once again, it gave us a rare glimpse into the vast junkyard of his garbage heap. In his sleep, the little mutt was dreaming in rhymes. Do you see what this means? It means . . .

  PORK CHOPS!!!

  Excuse me, I’ve got to . . . we’ve just learned that Data Control’s master mainframe computer has been infected by the dreaded Pork Chop Virus. It’s very serious, no kidding, because it spreads the smell of fresh pork chops into all our programs, files, databases, and top secret lunch procedures . . . launch procedures, shall we say, and . . .

  Sorry, we going to have to shut everything down for thirty minutes and run the Anti Pork Chop Diagnostics Program. Hang on, we’ll be right back.

  Chapter Four: Drover’s Shocking Revelation

  Okay, we ran the Anti Pork Chop Virus Program and we’re back in business.

  You might recall that I had returned from a very important mission and was in the process of waking up my assistant, who was sleeping his life away under the gas tanks.

  At the sound of my voice, he leaped to his feet and began staggering around in circles and muttering bits of nonsense in rhymes. I observed his weird behavior and took notes on everything, until at last his eyes came into focus.

  At that point, he stared at me and said, “Oh, hi. Gosh, did I fall asleep?”

  “Yes, you did, Drover, and we need to discuss that. You see, while you slept, I was called out on a very important mission.”

  “Gosh, did I go along?”

  “No, you did not go along. You slept through the whole thing and I was forced to enter the chicken house without backup.”

  He blinked his eyes and sat down. “The chicken house? What were you doing in there?”

  “Responding to a distress call, Drover.”

  “Did you eat any eggs?”

  I gave him an icy glare. “Soldier, I’ll try to forget you said that. For the sake of your career, we’ll strike it from the record.”

  “Boy, I love eggs.”

  “The fact that you love and crave eggs, Drover, doesn’t mean that the rest of us spend our lives thinking about . . . slurp, slop, drip.” I leaped to my feet and paced a few steps away. “Drover, I must ask you a personal question, but you must promise never to discuss this with anyone.”

  “That’ll be easy. I can’t even remember what you said.”

  “I haven’t said anything yet.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  I filled my lungs with air. “Drover, our reports indicate that, until moments ago, you were asleep. Is that correct?”

  “Oh yeah. It was great. I love sleep.”

  “This court didn’t ask if you loved sleep. Just answer the question.”

  Drover glanced around. “Which court?”

  “Drover, please try to concentrate. And let me ask the questions.”

  “Okay, I think I’ve got it now.”

  “Great.” I began pacing. “Drover, we’ve established the fact that you were asleep, and we suspect that you were also dreaming. Is that correct?”

  “Well, let me think here. I can’t remember.”

  “You must try to focus what’s left of your mind on this important question.” I stopped pacing and whirled around to face him. “Drover, were you dreaming about pork chops? I must know the truth, because . . . because something very strange happened to our control systems tonight. I was just minding my own business when all at once . . . I couldn’t think of anything but pork chops!”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “And I was wondering . . . see, if you were dreaming about pork chops, maybe the gamma rays from your dreaming mind entered our systems and, well, that would explain everything. So, my friend, my good and loyal friend, tell me that you were dreaming about pork chops.”

  He blinked his eyes. “Well . . . I was dreaming about something but . . .”

  “Hold it right there, halt, stop! Okay, follow the l
ogic, Drover. A pork chop is something, right? And you were dreaming about something, right? Therefore, we could say that you were dreaming about pork chops.”

  “No, I don’t think . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Drover, but you’ve already fallen into the trap of logic, which I so cleverly set for you.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “And once you’ve given your testimony, you can’t take it back.”

  “How come?”

  “Because . . . because you can’t. Words are the building blocks of language, and once they’re in place, they’re too heavy to move. All blocks weigh a ton, Drover, and there’s no way a runt like you could lift a ton.”

  “I guess not.”

  “So!” I gave him a triumphant smile. “We’ve wrapped up this Pork Chop Crisis and now we know who or whom to blame. It was all your fault.”

  He lowered his head in shame. “Gosh, I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. I was asleep.”

  “That just goes to prove, Drover, that wicked thoughts can strike us at any moment. The only safe course of action is to keep our minds pure and free of all thoughts about pork chops.”

  “Gosh, what’s so bad about pork chops?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with slurp chops, Porky, until they invade our minds and turn us into drooling maniacs.”

  “My name’s Drover and I didn’t dream about pork chops.”

  “I know your name, and you DID dream about pork chops, whether you actually did or not.”

  “Oh. Maybe that was it.”

  “Exactly. So!” I heaved a sigh of relief and marched back to my gunnysack. “We’ve wrapped this thing up and I’m ready for some sleep. Thanks for your help, son. We couldn’t have broken this case without your testimony.”

  I went into the Three Turns Procedure (three quick spins around my bed) and collapsed. Oh yes! Wonderful gunnysack, dearest friend! I rolled over on my snide, took a deep bruff of air, and releaped my weary . . . murk snork snicklefritzzzzzzzzzz . . .