The Case of the Falling Sky. John R. Erickson
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.
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