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Chapter 4
Poppy and Sweetie
    P oppy and Sweetie.
    Their names annoyed me too.
    But it wasn’t time for more nicknames.
    Nicknames are only cute when your mother knows where you are.
    I had Dirt and Sugar take me to the last place they saw Poppy and Sweetie. It was just outside the chicken coop.
    I told the fluffy family to stand still. I didn’t have any of Poppy’s or Sweetie’s belongings to sniff, but I had their siblings.
    Close enough.
    I had no idea how hard it might be to track the scent if I found it. On the job we call it “probability of detection,” POD for short. With no personal effects to sniff and no experience tracking poultry, the probability of detection in this case was low—very low. But now was not the time to burden a chicken mother’s heart with a low POD.
    There’s an easy way to do a search and a hard way.
    The easy way is early in the evening with a cool breeze and a steady partner.
    The hard way is high noon with a crazy chicken clucking in your ear and two feather balls riding your tail.
    This search was gonna go the hard way.
    I had to give it to Moosh straight.
    â€œHumans have a knack for finding themselves in places where they don’t belong—dark woods, cold snow, and deep canyons. Lucky for them, they stink. But I don’t know from chickens—so don’t get your hopes up.”
    Moosh took a deep breath. She knew the score. In the harsh sunlight her comb had lost its bright red luster.
    It was Fourth of July weekend, and the air was heavy. I got down as low as I could. The earth will hold on to your smelly secrets for a long, long time. And it will give them up to any dog who comes sniffing. Problem is, it gives up all its secrets at once. You have to be able to sniff through them to find the one you need. Bare feet. Barbecue sauce. Blueberries. It didn’t take long to pick up what I thought was a chicken trail.
    I followed it around the edge of the yard, under a pile of rotting wood, past the barn, and then across the open field.
    For all I knew, it could have been a chicken sandwich.
    Then something hit me in the eye. Hard.
    I stopped in my tracks.
    Moosh, Dirt, and Sugar were right behind me.
    When I looked up, I got hit again.
    It was rain. Hard rain.
    The kind of rain that makes grown men wear funny boots.

    I called off the search.
    Sugar was in my face.
    â€œListen, mutt, my brother and sister are missing, and you’re worried about getting wet?”
    She was so close to me, I could have bitten her in half.
    â€œGet lost,” I mumbled.
    â€œMake like a sponge, mister.”
    I had to hand it to Sugar—she was as tough as her mother.

Chapter 5
Chicken Scratch
    T he sky turned from gray to green to black.
    If the rain hadn’t already washed off the scents of Poppy and Sweetie, it seemed the wind would have blown it away.
    After a short stroll in the hard rain, I decided to get back to my warm bed.
    I had had enough of this little chicken adventure.
    It was time for a nap, after all.
    The trouble with doghouses is they don’t have doors.

    Moosh, Dirt, and Sugar were just a few minutes behind me.
    â€œYou smell like wet dog,” said Sugar.
    â€œI am a wet dog,” I grumbled.
    â€œIs this the ‘search’ part or the ‘rescue’ part?” asked Sugar.
    She reminded me of a splinter I’d had once—it bothered me, and I was in a much better mood when it was gone.
    Before I could answer her, Moosh waved a note in front of me.
    â€œI found it in the chicken coop,” cried Moosh.

    I tried to grab the note out of Moosh’s beak.
    That thing was sharper than it looked.
    I gave up my hold on the note.
    Two things were clear: Whoever had left that note had fast feet and a head full of big words.

Chapter 6
Chicken Tears
    M oosh paced back and forth.
    Sugar and Dirt followed behind her in the same oddly spaced line as before.
    I stood in front of Moosh and brought her little