The Case of the Tender Cheeping Chickies. John R. Erickson

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The Long-Snouted Road Monster attacked our ranch early one morning in the spring. We had no warning whatsoever. One minute, everything was quiet and peaceful. The next minute, the peace and quiet were ripped apart by the roar of the monster.

      Maybe you don’t believe in Long-Snouted Road Monsters. Well, I didn’t believe in ’em either, until this one attacked our headquarters compound and threatened to tear the place to smithereens and eat every person and dog on the ranch.

      As you can see, this will be no ordinary mystery. On a scale of one to ten, it scores a 9.5 in Chills and Nightmares. It’s so bad, we’ll have to check IDs. No kidding. It’s that scary.

      Or, tell you what, if you’re underage, sickly, or nervous, skip the first three chapters and pick up the story in Chapter Four. That’ll get you through the roughest parts.

      Okay, where were we? Oh yes, the baby chicks. They came to the ranch in a cardboard box with holes in the sides. Little Alfred and his mom bought them at a farm where hens sit on nests, lay eggs, and hatch out baby chickens.

      Baby chickens come from eggs. Did you know that? Maybe you thought that bacon comes from eggs, but that’s incorrect. Bacon comes from pigs, and baby chicks come from eggs, but bacon and eggs are sometimes found together in breakfast situations because . . .

      Wait a minute, hold everything. We weren’t talking about the baby chicks. They come in later in the story, and to be honest, you’re not supposed to know anything about them yet.

      So forget we said anything about baby chicks or bacon and eggs, even though baby chicks really do come from eggs, and bacon really does . . . uh . . . make my mouth water.

      Just skip it. We never said anything about the so forth.

      We were talking about the Long-Snouted Road Monster, is what we were talking about, so sit down and prepare yourself for some Heavy-Duty Scary Stuff.

      It all began on a quiet morning in the springtime. I’ve already said that, but I don’t care. It never hurts to repeat important important facts facts, because by their very nature, they are very important.

      It was a quiet morning on the ranch, just another average springtime day. The wild turkeys had come off their roost at daylight and had gobbled their usual nonsense to who—or whomever—listens to such rubbish, not me, because a turkey has nothing to say that I want to hear.

      Oh, and I had done my usual job of barking the sun over the horizon, which is a very important part of my daily routine. If I ever skipped a day, there wouldn’t be a day. Every day would be a night, because any day without sunlight is no day at all. Also, if I ever skipped a day of Barking Up the Sun, the turkeys would have nothing to gobble about, because they always gobble first thing in the morning.

      Why? I have no idea. Do I care? No. If you ask me, the world would be a better place if those guys didn’t make all that noise in the early-morning hours. It’s not that they disturb my sleep, because I’m very seldom asleep at that hour. Okay, sometimes I am asleep at that hour and I don’t appreciate . . .

      Forget the turkeys.

      The Road Monster Report came in around nine on a Wednesday morning. Or was it ten on a Thursday morning? It doesn’t matter. The report came in, loud and clear.

      Drover and I were busy, very busy, doing some important work near the corrals, although I can’t remember exactly . . . wait! Here we go. Drover had just made an interesting discovery. Most of his “discoveries” aren’t so interesting, but this one was.

      He had discovered a big green bullfrog sitting on the south bank of Emerald Pond. Do you see the significance of this? Maybe not, so here’s the scoop on that. Emerald Pond belongs to us dogs. It’s our own private bath and spa, a place where the employees of the Security Division can go to relax, soak up the mineral waters, and recover from the grinding routine of running our ranch.

      In other words, it’s our private retreat and vacation spot, yet, according to Drover’s report, a big fat ugly green frog was sitting on the southern shore—and looking very satisfied about it, as though he owned the place. Well, he didn’t own the place, and to be very blunt about it, he hadn’t even been invited to use our facilities.

      When Drover brought me the news about the trespassing frog, I was shocked and dismayed. “A frog using our facilities? That’s no good, son. I hope you ordered him to leave.”

      Drover gave me a silly grin. “Yep, it never hurts to hope.”

      “Does that mean you ordered him to leave?”

      “Well . . . not exactly. It means that hope makes eternal bedsprings.”

      There was a moment of silence. “What?”

      “I said . . . let me think here. There’s