“A bed is one of the most dangerous devices ever invented. It’s been linked to thousands upon thousands of deaths.”
“I’ll be derned. What did they do with all the dead dogs?”
“We don’t have an answer to that question yet, Drover, but the important point here is that there is an irreguffable relationship between bed and dead.”
“Yeah, they rhyme.”
“Exactly, so let that be a lesson to you. The next time you want to sleep until noon, you’d be better off and safer to sleep on a rattlesnake than on a bed.”
“What time did you get up?”
“Eh, me? Well, uh, 5:30, as always. Or was it 4:30? Yes, it was 4:30. Very early. Before the chickens. As always.”
At that very moment, whom do you suppose came pecking along our dog trail between the gas tanks and the corrals? Pecking is the clue here, and it rules out Pete the Barncat and other suspects who don’t peck.
It was J. T. Cluck, the Head Rooster. He appeared to be pecking for seeds and gravel and the other garbage that chickens eat. He walked up to me and Drover, stared at the end of my tail, and then pecked it.
I don’t appreciate anyone pecking my tail. It’s not that I can’t stand pain or that chickens are capable of inflicting much pain with their teakless booths—their toothless beaks, I should say. It’s more a matter of principle. I just don’t allow anyone to mess with my tail, that’s all.
And so it should come as no surprise that after changing the location of my tail so the chicken couldn’t peck it again, I snarled at him. That got his attention!
His head shot up so fast that it caused his comb, or whatever you call that red thing on his head, to jiggle. He squawked, flapped his wings, and jumped into the air.
“Bawk-ka-bawk-bawk! Elsa, Elsa, come quick!” He stared at me and blinked his eyes. “Well I’ll be a son of a gun, was that your tail? I’m proud to see you dogs finally got out of bed.”
Drover piped up. “Hank was up at 4:30 this morning. He told me so himself.”
“Hush, Drover.”
J.T. leaned forward and brought his beak about an inch from the end of mister Big Mouth’s nose. “Well, he told you a big fat lie! When I made first call this morning, your friend Hank was growing roots in that gunnysack right there.”
“I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“Course you know what I’m talking about. I made first call before daylight and I seen you down here, sleeping your life away, beats anything I ever saw.”
“You must have been mistaken.”
“And when I made second call, you was still homesteading that gunnysack bed. Did you know that more dogs died in bed last year than on all the streets and highways in Ochiltree County?”
I gave him a withering glare. “Where did you hear that? Have you been listening to our conversations?”
“Naw. I ain’t ever been that hard up for something to do.”
“In that case, I think you’d better scram. If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s a smart-aleck rooster first thing in the morning.”
“If you ask me, sleeping late is more dangerous than . . .”
“BEAT IT!” I barked in his face. He squawked, flapped his wings, and went scurrying up the hill.
“Okay for you, mister,” J.T. yelled over his wing, “and just for that, I ain’t going to tell you about the Mysterious Fiddle Music in the Night!”
“That’s fine with me, Featherbed, because . . .”
HUH? Fiddle . . . in the . . . ?
And so the mystery began, with a careless statement by J. T. Cluck, the Head Rooster. At the time, I had no idea that it would lead me into new adventures and dangerous encounters with one of the slickest, smoothest, fiendishest crinimal characters I had ever encountered.
If I had known it, I don’t know what I would have done, but chances are that I would have done something, because even doing nothing is something.
Not much, but still something.
Chapter Two: Little Alfred’s School of Cat Roping
I looked at Drover. “What did he just say?”
The question caught him in the middle of a yawn. “What? Who?”
“That rooster. He just said something over his shoulder.”
“I didn’t know chickens had shoulders.”
“Over his wing!”
“Oh. Yeah, I think he did say something—about a gigantic fiddleback spider in the night.”
“Hmmm. That’s funny.” Suddenly Drover began laughing. I stared at him. “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know, but you said it was funny and all at once I thought it was funny, too, and I guess . . . well, I couldn’t help laughing.”
I narrowed my eyes and studied the wasteland of his face. “Are you trying to make a mockery of my investigation?”
“No, I just . . . couldn’t help . . . laughing . . . is all.”
“Well, this is no laughing matter, so wipe that stupid grin off your face.” He wiped it off.
“That’s better. Now, let’s start all over again. What did J. T. Cluck say? It was something about a fiddle.”
Drover rolled his eyes and chewed his lip. “Fiddle. Fiddle? Fiddle. I’ll be derned, I just drew a blank.”
“You drew a blank the day you were born, Drover, and it settled between your ears. Concentrate and try to remember. Fiddle.”
“Fiddle. Oh yeah. He said he woke up in the night and saw a gigantic fiddleback spider crawling into the chicken house. I think that’s what he said.”
“That’s NOT what he said.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“He said he heard Mysterious Fiddle Music in the Night.”
“Oh yeah, and the spider was playing the fiddle behind his back.”
“He said nothing about a spider.”
“I didn’t think he did.”
“So we can forget about the spiders.”
“Oh good.”
“But we can’t forget about the Mysterious Music.”
“No, it kind of gets in your head.”
“Which means that we have an unconfounded report from an unreliable source about Mysterious Fiddle Music in the Night. Hence, the next question is, do we dismiss it as hearsay and gossip, or do we follow it up with a thorough investigation?”
“That’s a tough one.”
“And the answer to that question, Drover, is very simple.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“We follow it up with a complete and thorough investigation, because to do otherwise would be a dare election of duty.”
“I’ll vote for that.”
I began pacing. As I might have noted before