The Case of the Tender Cheeping Chickies

by John R. Erickson

  “Thanks for calling me Drover.”

  “Shut up. Did you fulfill your quota of suffering or not? I must know.”

  “What was the quota?”

  “One hour of sticker pain.”

  He smiled through his tears. “Yep, I sure did. Are you proud of me?”

  “I’ll be prouder, Drouder, if you’ve learned a lesson about the dangers of temptation. Temp-tation stalks all dogs, and we must be strong.”

  He burst into tears.

  “Ah! I’ve exposed something here. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Yes!” he cried through his tears. “You called me . . . Drouder!”

  “You said I called you Dricker. Get your stories straight. Dricker or Drouder, Drover, you can’t have it both ways.”

  “Help!” Before my very eyes, the runt crawled beneath his gunnysack, leaving nothing but his hiney exposed and sticking straight up in the air. “I’m so confused!”

  “Come out of there!”

  “No, I can’t stand this anymore! I don’t even know my own name!”

  “Ah, there it is! You don’t know your own name, but you’re trying to transfer the blame onto me. You’re a sick dog, Drogger, and I’m not sure we can save you.”

  “Help!”

  “This is much worse than I thought.” My mind was racing. “Okay, try this. Take two aspens and go back to bed.”

  One corner of the gunnysack lifted, and I saw an eye peering out at me. “We don’t have any aspens. What about cottonwoods?”

  “They’re trees.”

  “Oh, good. Thanks, Hank. I’m feeling better already.”

  I stood over him for a moment, looking down at this weird little guy we knew as Drover. Clearly, he had some pretty serious problems, but maybe our session had pulled him through the worst of it. I hoped so. In many ways, he was a nice little lunatic, yet beneath the many layers of garbage in his mind, there lurked a wasteland.

  I heaved a sigh, beamed him one last look of fatherly concern, and made my way up the hill. The evening sun was drifting down on the horizon, like a mother hen settling down on her nest.

  Slurp.

  Which, uh, reminded me that darkness was coming, and that I had a very important job waiting for me. Yes, it would be a tough assignment, perhaps the toughest of my whole career. Tender chickies cheeping in the darkness of night would bring all manner of villains into headquarters, all of them lusting for a chicken dinner.

  Would I be able to fight them off and save the little chickies?

  In this moment of quiet before the battle began, I turned to the vast computer screen of my mind and called up the Villains Program. I browsed my way through the names and faces of all the villains in our files: Rip, Snort, Scraunch the Terrible, Sinister the Bobcat, Buster and Muggs, Wallace and Junior, Eddy the Rac.

  And then I studied the mug shots of other villains whose names we didn’t know: various skunks, badgers, raccoons, bobcats, chicken hawks, and owls, any one of whom might be the one to attack my, uh, chickies.

  Which would it be? Who would be the villain I would have to face in the grim darkness of night?

  I saw his face in my mind.

  I even knew his name.

  Yes, I knew who the villain would be. I knew him very well. We had, uh, spent a lot of time together, shall we say, but I’m afraid I can’t reveal his identity.

  Security reasons, don’t you see.

  Chapter Twelve: The Killer Strikes!

  Darkness fell like a curtain of darkness around the edges of the . . . something. Darkness fell, shall we say, as it always does at a certain time of day, usually in the late afternoon or evening. It happens every day.

  In other words, the coming of darkness was no big surprise because it happens all the time, but on this particular occasion, there was a certain . . . a certain tension in the air. I could feel it in my bones. Not in the various steak and beef bones I had buried around the ranch, but in the bones of my own . . .

  There was tension in the air, and I could feel it in my bones. It was a strange sensation. I had a feeling, an odd, eerie, unsplickable feeling that . . . something was about to happen. It was a feeling of dread, a sense of four boating.

  Foreboding, let us say. Somewhere out there in the darkness, some slouching, brooding creature was watching . . . listening . . . plotting . . .

  Pretty spooky, huh? You bet it was. But the good part in all this scary stuff was that . . . well, I would be right there at the yard gate to, uh, guard and protect the little slurp-slurps . . . the little chickies, shall we say. And hey, when Hank is there to guard the chickens, what could possibly . . . uh . . . happen?

  At ten o’clock, Little Alfred came out of the house for the last time. He’d been cheeking the chuckies every fifteen minutes, don’t you see, but now it was his bedtime. Checking the chickies, let us say, making sure they were safe and sound, healthy and yummy . . . healthy and warm, that is.

  And at ten o’clock, everything seemed fine. Dressed in his polka-dot pajamas, Alfred came over to my sentry post near the yard gate. He seemed worried, concerned. He squinted out into the spooky deepness of the dark, then let out a sigh.

  “Welp, I’ve got to go to bed, Hankie. Weckon my chickies will be okay?”

  Oh sure. No problem. Let the rascals come! By George, if the ruffians wanted to test the elite troops of the Security Division, let ’em try it!

  He opened the gate and stepped over to me. He put his arms around my . . . gulk . . . neck and gave me a big hug. “Hankie, pwomise you’ll take care of my chickies?”

  I looked him straight in the eyes, raised my right paw in the air, and swore a sodden oath: “Alfred, of all the dogs in this world, I’m one of them. If anything should happen to your chickies, I’ll be the first to know about it. You have my word on that.”

  This seemed to put his mind at ease. He smiled, closed the gate, and said, “Well, nightie night. See you in the morning.”

  I licked my . . . that is, I raised my paw in a gesture of farewell.

  I watched him go into the house. The door closed behind him. Moments later, the lights began going off, one by one. The house grew dark and silent. At lone, I was alast with my . . . at last I was alone with my thoughts, let us say, and several of those thoughts were . . . uh . . . pretty interesting.

  A quiver of anticipation made its way down my backbone and out to the end of my tail. I cast a slow glance to my left and then to my right, just to be sure . . . I was indeed alone. Nobody would ever see . . . nobody would ever know . . .

  It was then that my eyes fell upon the, uh, cage. Lick, slurp. It sat upon the ground and against the side of the house, just to south of the porch. Inside the cage were five tender, sleeping . . . oh, by the way, have we ever done our “Guarding the Chickies” song? Heck of a song. Here’s how it goes.

  Guarding the Chickies

  Part One: Chickies

  Tender chickies safe and warm

  There is naught can do us harm.

  Windows bolted, doors are locked,

  We’re secure inside our box.

  Sleeping chickies, safe within,

  Guarded by a watchful friend.

  Part Two: Hank

  Tender little chicken strips, helpless in a box.

  Villains lurking in the darkness, testing all the locks.

  Yummy, juicy pullybones, drumsticks, and thighs.

  Predators are watching them with hunger in their eyes.

  Bad things happen all the time, many things go wrong.

  Someone leaves the door unlocked, and poof! The chicks are gone

  Pretty inspiring song, huh? You bet.

  My ears shot up, and before I realized it, my tail was tapping out an urgent message on the ground, telling me that it was time to . . . well, check things out, as you might say.
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br />   Heh-heh.

  I cut my eyes from side to side and raised my enormous body to its full height. I felt myself moving toward the fence: step, step, step. Upon reaching the fence, I went into the Deep Crouch Formation, took careful note of the height of the fence, and sent all the targeting information straight to Data Control’s massive mainframe computer.

  Tense and quivering with excitement, I waited for Clearance. At last it came: “Launch the weapon!” Without a hessant’s momentation . . . a moment’s hesitation, that is, I launched myself into the air, cleared the fence as gracefully as a deer, and made a soft landing on the other side.

  I had just entered Her Yard, an action that . . . well, caused me to feel a certain amount of anxiety and . . . okay, might as well admit it . . . guilt. Even though I had entered Sally May’s precious yard to provide security for the tender, juicy little chickies . . . for Little Alfred’s county fair chickens, let us say, I couldn’t help feeling a few prickles of . . . guilt.

  You know how it is between me and Sally May. Just the thought of her makes me feel . . . but on the other hand, I was there on an errand of mercy, right? If Sally May had been consulted about this, I’m sure she would have wanted me to stay close to the chicken dinners . . . to the chickies . . . the county fair chickens. Right? Sure she would have.

  With narrowed eyes, I conducted one last Visual Sweep of the yard and surrounding territory. All clear. I took a gulp of fresh air and hurried across lawny grass, until I found myself standing right beside the serving line . . . the cage, that is, the cage that held the very chickens I had been, uh, hired to guard.

  Sniff, sniff.

  Slurp, lick, slorp.

  Yes, they were inside the cage, peeping sleefully . . . sleeping peacefully. That was good. Growing drumsticks . . . that is, growing chickens needed their, uh, sleep.

  I eased my nose toward the top of the cage and began studying the little door. There was this little door on top, don’t you see, and it was equipped with a kind of latching device that . . . heh-heh . . . would be no problem at all. I mean, any dog with a strong nose would have no problem easing the latch . . .

  I heard a sound off to my left, near the yard gate. I whirled around and listened. A voice came floating through the still night air: “Hank? What are you doing in the yard?”

  The air hissed out of my body. It was Drover. I crept over to the fence. “You’re supposed to be in your room, suffering.”

  “Yeah, but I got bored and I just wondered . . . you’re not thinking of doing what I think you’re thinking of doing . . . are you?”

  I cut my eyes from side to side. “I guess that depends on what you’re thinking, Drover, but the short answer is no. I’m on duty, guarding the dinners . . . the chickens . . . Alfred’s chickens.”

  “Oh, good. There for a minute, I was afraid . . . you wouldn’t eat his chickens, would you?”

  “Drover, I’m shocked and aslurpished . . . astonished that you’d even ask such a question.”

  “Yeah, but what’s the answer?”

  “The answer is, go back to bed and stop worrying. I gave you my lecture on temptation, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Well, nothing more needs to be said. We must be aware of temptation at all times and guard ourselves against . . . I’ve got everything under control, Drover.”

  “Well,” he yawned, “okay. I guess I’ll shuffle on to bed.”

  “Great. Sweet dreams.”

  By the time his footsteps had vanished in the darkness, my whole body was quivering with anticipation. I rushed back to the cage and . . .

  HUH?

  . . . found myself staring in the face of . . . A CAT! It was Pete! He was sitting on top of the cage and had just opened the door . . . and was about to reach his paw inside!

  He grinned and fluttered his eyes. “Mmmm. Hello, Hankie. I was watching you. I saw everything.”

  For a moment I was too shocked to squeak. Speak. “You saw nothing, Kitty, because there was nothing to see. I’m guarding these dinners . . . chickens . . . I’m guarding Little Alfred’s chickies, you little sneak, and maybe you’d like to explain why your paw is inside the cage.”

  He stared at me with hooded eyes. “You know what I’m doing, Hankie. I just beat you to it.”

  “Lies, Pete, lies. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. What would you say about a fifty-fifty split? Half for you and half for me? I mean, I’m almost inside the cage and you’re not even close.”

  “Pete, I’m shocked that you’d even . . . fifty-fifty, huh?” My mind was racing. “Well, I guess we might . . . wait a second, hold everything! How can you split five chickens into two equal parts?”

  Pete let out a gasp. “Why, I hadn’t thought of that, Hankie. You’re better at math than I thought.”

  “Right, and don’t you ever forget it either.”

  “Well” —a cunning look passed over his face—“I guess one of us will get two and the other will get . . . three.”

  “Now you’re talking, pal. I’ll get the three I deserve, and you’ll take two.”

  His smile faded, and I noticed that the tip of his tail was twitching back and forth. “No, no, Hankie. That won’t work.”

  “Hey, Pete, I was here first.”

  “Yes, but I’m the one who’s small enough to slip inside the cage. You’re too”—he fluttered his eyes—“fat. Too fat, too bad. I tried to make a deal, Hankie.”

  And with that, he . . . you won’t believe this . . . before my very eyes, the little sneak of a chicken-stealing thief eased himself through the opening and slithered inside the cage!

  “Pete, you’re disgusting! This is an outrage! I can’t believe you’d . . .”

  It was then that I realized . . . suddenly a bold and clever plan began to glow in the dark corners of my mind. Suddenly I realized that . . . well, eating Little Alfred’s chickies would be a terrible thing to do, right? And I’d been given the job of protecting them from coyotes and skunks and . . .

  Okay, remember that moment earlier in the day when I’d had this . . . this vision, this powerful feeling that some heartless villain would try to eat our Precious Chickies? At the time, I’d thought it might be Rip and Snort or Scraunch, Sinister the Bobcat, or one of the usual suspects on the ranch, but it had never occurred to me . . .

  Somehow I had omitted the name of the most likely suspect of all, the most cunning, the most greedy and selfish, the most heartless villain of all.

  Pete the Barncat.

  Do you get it now? Pete had been planning this deal all along, and somehow I had . . . well, picked up the mental thought patterns of his so forth. Yes, I had known, in my deepest heart of hearts, that our chickies, our dear Precious Chickies, would be attacked by this greedy little fiend!

  And suddenly I realized that . . . hey, Pete was inside the chicken coop! I sprang forward, shot out my right front paw, and slammed the door shut.

  I looked into Pete’s astonished eyes. He wasn’t grinning anymore. “Now, Hankie, let’s don’t do anything we might regret. Maybe we could—”

  “Forget it, Pete. You ought to know that I never do business with creeps like you. I’m afraid your chickens have come home to roost.”

  And with that, I went straight into an emergency barking program we call “Alert and Alarm.” Suddenly the thieving, sneaking cat was flying around inside the cage, bouncing off the walls and scattering baby chicks in all directions.

  I barked with all my heart and soul. “Alert, alert! Alarm, alarm! May I have your attention, please! We have just trapped a killer cat in the chicken coop! Send all troops and angry ranch wives to the backyard at once!”

  The lights came on inside the house. I heard the murmur of voices and the sounds of feet upon the floor. The yard light came on, the back door flew open, and ou
t came . . . everybody. Alfred, Loper, and Sally May.

  Fellers, it was one of the finest moments of my career. There, in the glare of the yard light, they saw the Head of Ranch Security, pointing like a bird dog at the chicken coop, inside of which lurked the villainous, bloodthirsty cat who had attempted this awful crime.

  Tee-hee.

  You should have seen Kitty Kitty. By this time, he was huddled in a corner of the cage, glaring daggers at me with his weird cattish eyes. His ears were pinned down on his head and . . . you’ll love this part . . . he had a chickie roosting on his head!

  Sally May almost fainted in shock when she saw her spoiled, pampered kitty curled up in the cage. “Pete! How could you . . .”

  There was a throbbing moment of silence. Then, Little Alfred said, “Hankie saved my chickens! Pete was twying to eat ’em!”

  Hard lines formed on Sally May’s brow. She beamed me a suspicious look (what had I done?), then marched over to the cage, snapped open the door, and dragged Mister Chicken Stealer out by the scruff of his neck.

  She held him up for all the world to see (I loved it) and said, “Pete, you naughty, naughty cat! The very idea! Shame on you, shame, shame, shame!”

  Hee-hee, ho-ho, ha-ha.

  It was wonderful, delicious! I loved every second of it! Pete got the tongue-lashing of his life, got pitched out of the yard, and received the humbling he so richly deserved. And me?

  Well, what can I say? I had caught the villain, saved the little chickies, and solved the case, all in the space of fifteen minutes. There in the backyard, in the spotlight, in front of everyone, I received the Bronze Star and the Ranchonal Medal of Honor, and was even named Dog of the Year.

  No kidding. And you know what else? Sally May heaped praise upon me! Here’s what she said, word for word. She said, “I don’t know what went on out here but . . . all right, Hank, somehow you’ve blundered into doing the right thing. Good dog.”

  Did you hear that? GOOD DOG! From Sally May!