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it back.
    I was walking away to find decent cover when the scent hit me square in the face.
    I may have actually tripped over it.

    It was the same scent that was all over the note.
    The rain hadn’t washed away the chicken scent after all.
    But it didn’t lead to the chicken coop.
    It led to the house.
    Moosh shot her head out of the coop. “It’s six thirty-three—where are they? Where are they? Where are they?”
    I had to put my paw over her face to can the clucking.
    Once again, I noted her sharp beak.
    â€œMoosh, we got a new development here.”
    I held her beak closed with my paw and explained the scent trail leading right up to the house.
    â€œMmmrrrnneee,” she mumbled.

    I let go of her beak.
    â€œIt can’t be,” she said again.
    â€œNoses don’t lie,” I answered.
    â€œBut what about the note?” she asked.
    â€œDecoy,” I grumbled.
    â€œBut it doesn’t make any sense . . .”
    Before she could finish her sentence, a dark shadow appeared in the window. The shades were drawn, but you could clearly make out the silhouette.
    There was no mistaking that silhouette.
    Vince the Funnel.

Chapter 9
Vince the Funnel
    V ince was thirty-seven pounds of shiny brown mutt.
    He had a long, skinny build, beady eyes, and a giant white funnel around his neck.
    He looked like a cross between a dachshund and a lamp.
    We had met the very first day I’d arrived here at Barb’s country house.
    I had nodded at him that morning almost two weeks earlier.
    It was a gesture of goodwill.
    He didn’t nod back.
    Fine by me.
    I didn’t need any new friends.
    I could, however, have used a lamp.
    Up to now, I had never exchanged a word with Vince the Funnel.
    He spent his time inside.
    I spent my time outside.
    I preferred to keep things that way.
    But a deal is a deal, even if you make it with a crazy chicken.
    What little I did know about Vince, I knew from a distance and from the grapevine.
    I knew that a dog walker came by every day to take him outside.
    And I’d heard he was a little off his rocker.

    While I was taking an inventory of what I knew about Vince, Moosh kept herself busy by losing her mind.
    â€œVince the Funnel has my chicks!” screamed Moosh.
    She was running around like a chicken without a head.

    Dirt and Sugar were frozen in place, their fuzzy little chicken brains on overdrive.
    Inside dog.
    Inside words.
    It was all beginning to make sense.
    Before I could think any further, my stomach rumbled.
    I was starving.
    I should have asked for that cheeseburger up front.

Chapter 10
Funnel Vision
    O h, how Barb loves losers, I thought, watching J.J. the Hero Dog march around the yard with Chicken Mom on his tail and his face to the ground. Only an arrogant search-and-rescue dog could undergo years of training but not recognize a simple trap when it’s right under his nose. Makes me laugh out loud. But Hero Dog isn’t like Barb’s usual rejects—the orphan baby birds, the mangy stray cats. I’ll have to figure out his weak spot when I have him up close and personal.

    â€œWelcome to my school, Hero Dog,” I muttered. “No medals and no parades here, pretty boy. Just my house, my yard, and my rules. Soon you’ll meet one brilliant alpha dog who doesn’t like company.”
    I chuckled to myself and then leaped off the table in front of the window. On the way down, the funnel caught the edge of the lamp, and it crashed to the floor.
    The lamp shattered.
    A bulb burst.
    Two tiny chickens squawked.
    I couldn’t have planned it better myself.

Chapter 11
Why Me?
    V ince’s shadow had disappeared, and the commotion made it clear that it no longer behooved us to rendezvous .
    I didn’t have to turn around to tell what was going on behind me.
    Sugar was coming at me as fast as those freaky little chickadee legs would take her.
    She hadn’t just inherited her mother’s eyes,