The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox by John R. Erickson Page A

night.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said,” his eyes began to focus, “I am awake, I never did go to sleep last . . . or did I?”
    â€œYou did, take my word for it, and you might have even put down some roots in that gunnysack. Now GET UP!”
    He sprang to his feet. “I’m up, I’m up! And don’t yell at me in the morning, you know what it does to me.”
    â€œI know that your shameful behavior has just won you a big fat goose egg.”
    â€œOh boy, I love eggs.”
    â€œGoose egg means zero. It means you’ve flunked your examination and have failed to come up with a good excuse for sleeping late.”
    â€œOh drat.”
    â€œThis will have to go into your record, of course. Did you realize, Drover, that studies show that more dogs died in bed last year than on all the streets and highways in Ochiltree County?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t know that.”
    â€œA bed is one of the most dangerous devices ever invented. It’s been linked to thousands upon thousands of deaths.”
    â€œI’ll be derned. What did they do with all the dead dogs?”
    â€œWe 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 .”
    â€œYeah, they rhyme.”
    â€œExactly, 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.”
    â€œWhat time did you get up?”
    â€œEh, 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.
    â€œ 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.”
    â€œHush, 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.”
    â€œI . . . I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
    â€œCourse 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.”
    â€œYou must have been mistaken.”
    â€œAnd 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?”
    â€œNaw. I ain’t ever been that hard