Escape from Baxters' Barn

by Rebecca Bond

  “I think so,” said Figgy. She was very tired and very dirty but so close to finishing, her eyes shone with anticipation.

  “Wonderful!” said Nanny. “So tonight’s the night.”

  “And just in time,” said Pull.

  “Oh?” said Nanny. “Why’s that?”

  “Go on, Burdock,” said Pull. “Tell them what you told me. Tell them what you saw Dewey doing.”

  So Burdock explained what he had witnessed earlier that night, all of Dewey’s measuring. “Seems likely Dewey’s preparing to move his car to the woodshed so it won’t burn down in the fire.”

  Figgy lifted her snout to speak. “Well, we knew he would move the car somewhere. He’s just ready to do it now. Which means the fire is close.”

  “Right on the money,” said Tug with a sigh.

  Tick bungeed up and down, near to bursting.

  Beside him, Nanny stood very still, considering.

  “Okay then, does anyone want to put forth a motion?” she asked.

  Figgy grunted. She was too tired for official proceedings.

  “I will,” said Pull. “I move that we, the animals of Baxter farm, relocate to the round barn.”

  “I concur without a shadow of a doubt,” said Tug.

  Nanny raised her eyebrows at the horse.

  “He means he seconds the motion,” translated Pull.

  “Okay,” said Nanny. “Are there any other motions?”

  There weren’t.

  “Okay, then,” continued Nanny, “let’s vote. All in favor of moving to the round barn say ‘aye.’”

  “Aye,” came the resounding cries from both sides of the aisle, and from Burdock in the middle. It seemed as if everyone had spoken, though it was hard to tell with certainty.

  “All against, say ‘nay.’”

  “Nay,” mooed Mrs. Brown quietly.

  “What?” cried Figgy. “Why not?”

  Mrs. Brown looked down. She ran a long tongue over her nose and blinked her eyes. She took a step back. “I mean,” she said, “nay for me. Just me. You go. I’m not going.”

  “Of course you’re going!” cried Figgy. “Don’t be a nutter! We’re all going. The vote was just a silly formality—no offense, Nanny. Mrs. Brown, whatever are you thinking?”

  “I,” started Mrs. Brown reluctantly, “well, there’s the milking. I have to be milked. But it’s more than that. I, I just don’t think I could walk that far. I’ve thought about it. My knees are bad and I’m afraid I’d slow you down, which could be dangerous for all of you.” She lifted her head. “I promised myself I wouldn’t hold you back. I want you all to go.”

  “Oh pish,” said Figgy, “being a martyr is no fun. You need to rethink this.”

  It was quiet, and in the moments that followed Burdock sighed.

  “Mrs. Brown,” intoned Pull. “I am hoping you won’t need to walk.”

  Mrs. Brown’s gaze flickered and she turned toward him. There was a question in her soft brown face but she didn’t speak.

  “If Tug and I get harnessed again, to the wagon I mean, maybe we can manage to stay harnessed, and then we can pull you all there.”

  “Oh!” said Nanny. “That’s a thought.” She paused. “But why would Dewey harness you today?”

  “To move the wood,” chimed in Tug. “He has to move the wood out of the woodshed if he’s to relocate his car there. And it’s unlikely Dewey will transfer all that wood—wherever it is going—without the aid of the wagon.”

  “And then,” said Mrs. Brown, “well, I don’t understand. If Dewey does hitch you up, why wouldn’t he just unhitch you, like always?”

  “Well, he would,” jumped in Pull, “unless we can distract and befuddle him so thoroughly that he forgets.”

  “Distract and befuddle him—how?” asked Figgy.

  “Nanny will have to let a few of you out of your pens, and when Dewey comes back to the barn with us and the wagon, you all make a break for it, go crazy, run wild, like Fluff did that day.”

  Fluff lifted her chin and smiled broadly.

  Pull continued, “We’ll have to really give him a good runaround. Wear him out and joggle up his thinking so much he can’t tell his ear from his elbow. While that’s happening, we’ll slip into the barn all quiet-like and hope Dewey just forgets to unharness us.”

  “Oh! Oh!” volunteered Tick. “I can run! Let me! I can do that!”

  “Now, Tick, love,” said Nanny, “I don’t know. Remember, this is not a game. This could be dangerous. Dewey will be angry and he can be unpredictable.”

  “Oh, let him go, Nanny,” said Figgy. “Tick is quick. He might really help. It even sounds fun.” She winked at Tick. Tick grinned.

  “Are you in, hon?” Nanny asked Mrs. Brown gently. “We need you.”

  “Oh dear, my running days are long past,” the cow demurred.

  “No, I mean, will you come?” said Nanny, realizing the misunderstanding.

  Mrs. Brown still wasn’t sure what to say. She worried about being a burden, a millstone around the other animals’ necks. She had had her life. At least most of it. She didn’t want to keep others from having theirs. But then, she had to admit, the fire did sound absolutely terrifying.

  “If it works out this way,” she said cautiously, “with the wagon, then yes.”

  “Very good!” cried Nanny, triumphant. “And we’ll find you a milker, Mrs. Brown. I have faith in that, don’t you worry.”

  So the plan was set, Figgy would finish the escape tunnel today, and tonight would be the night.

  20

  Scheming

  Breakfast behind him, Dewey stood in his usual coveralls and boots, and now a green woolen coat, surveying the situation again. His breath steamed the air as he stood on the porch rubbing at the scruff on his chin. The weather forecaster this morning promised the arrival of colder weather, below freezing, with a possibility of precipitation. This just might work, he thought.

  He would have to move several rows of wood from the woodshed onto the porch. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do. Grady insisted on neat even rows, but that didn’t matter to Dewey. He would just make a big pile on the porch.

  “Okay,” he said to himself. “Let’s do this.”

  It was just as Pull had figured. Burdock watched as Dewey harnessed the horses, attached the wagon, and started to hurl chunks of split wood into the wagon bed.

  All the while, the barn animals were in a state of anxiety and excitement.

  As soon as Dewey was out of the barn, Figgy of course went back to digging.

  Tick dashed about in his pen, ricocheting off the walls.

  “Dear boy,” said Nanny, “you’re going to wear yourself out. You need to save your energy for when Dewey returns.” But her words had no effect. Tick was as capable of staying still as a buoy on a stormy sea.

  Fluff too was wound up, still circling around her pen, first clockwise, then counterclockwise, then clockwise again. She was grateful whenever Figgy pushed her more dirt. It gave her something to do.

  Noctua was not asleep, but resting up in the rafters. She worried it was too late to retrace her route back to the round barn; she should be around in case she was needed. It wasn’t that she was afraid she couldn’t find the barn. She knew she could get there. But it was entirely different when she had to navigate a route by considering what obstacles would hinder the barn animals on the ground. She’d never had to think about crossing the landscape in this restricted way.

  Mrs. Brown and Nanny were discussing the creaking door.

  “Gosh, you’re right, Mrs. Brown!” cried Nanny. “If Dewey hears the doors open, we’re caught.” It was amazing to Nanny how many things they had to take into consideration. Escape should not be taken lightly. What other things were they forgetting?

  “Any idea what we could do about the creaking?” she asked.

  Mrs. Brown had been thinking about that. She knew that usually a door is oiled with an oilcan, and that a few drops of WD-40 squeezed right onto t
he creaky hinges would do the trick. But none of the animals could manage a can’s nozzle, even if they knew where to find one.

  “Let’s ask Burdock to look in the tool room,” suggested Mrs. Brown. “See if there’s anything at all that looks oily. It doesn’t have to last, we just need something to quiet the creaking this one time. Then, let’s hope, we’re gone.”

  Again Burdock was summoned, only this time not from sleep. Though most of him was unmoving like a crouching statue, his gray tail flicked slowly back and forth. He had stationed himself in the doorway to await the horses’ return and signal the others. He was the self-appointed sentinel.

  But now he left his post and stood between the velvety brown head of Mrs. Brown and the cinnamon head of Nanny.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  The cow and the goat explained, ending with, “Just look for anything oily.”

  “Oily,” said Burdock and trod quickly down the aisle to the toolshed.

  The tool room was a mess. Burdock snaked between the accumulated mounds of metal and glass, looking in each open jar and pail. Most of the cans were capped but a few weren’t and in one of those, not too far from the door, an oily sludge sat on top of opaque dark paint. Or that’s what it looked like.

  Burdock went back and reported his findings.

  “Will that do?” he asked.

  “I should think so,” said Mrs. Brown.

  What Burdock didn’t tell them was that the gasoline jugs that he’d previously seen on the shelf had been moved. They now stood ready right at the edge of the door.

  21

  Dewey’s Final Step

  All morning Dewey pitched wood into the wagon, steered the horses around to the back of the house, and pitched wood off the wagon onto the porch.

  Finally there was plenty of space for his Baby. Satisfied, Dewey tethered the horses to the railing and went inside for lunch.

  He clomped through the mudroom and the radio announced, “below freezing.” He stomped into the kitchen and the radio warned, “icing.” Dewey heated up the leftover morning coffee, fried some onions and bratwurst and bread, and thought, Perfect.

  After lunch, Dewey climbed up into the loft above the woodshed, jockeyed equipment about, and hauled down a large metal tub. He put this into the wagon and used the garden hose to fill it to the top.

  Too full, really, for some of the water sloshed out as he turned the horses and wagon around and walked them down the angled driveway to the dip at the bottom.

  It was here that Dewey bailed out the tub, throwing bucket after bucket of water onto the dirt drive. With the ground already nearly frozen, the water had nowhere to go; it pooled and sat. In no time it would be ice.

  Three water loads later, everything was set. There was only one last thing. Dewey needed to move his car. Again, he tied the horses to the porch railing and headed for the garage.

  “Here comes Dewey!” cried Burdock, standing up.

  “Let’s go!” said Nanny, backing up, readying to jump her pen wall and open stalls.

  “No, wait, I mean, without the horses!” said Burdock.

  “Wait, what?” said Figgy. “What’s he doing now?”

  “I don’t know,” called Burdock. “The horses are still at the house.”

  “Oh my goodness,” said Mrs. Brown. “I just hate the constant unknowing of this all.”

  “Okay, wait, he’s going around the side!” Burdock relayed now.

  “Oh my goodness,” said Mrs. Brown again. She gulped in some air.

  “He must be getting the car,” said Burdock. His last preparation.

  Dewey fired up the engine and let it idle for a minute before he backed the car out of the garage and drove it slowly down the hill. His handling was deliberate, as if the vehicle were made of glass. He nosed his Baby into the narrow space he’d cleared in the woodshed, with all the practiced precision of a tailor threading a needle.

  Half an hour later Baby Blue was parked in place, the woodshed was swept clean, and the radio hung on the wall from two shiny hooks. And now Dewey untied the horses from the porch rail and led them and the wagon back to the barn.

  In the fading light, the barn looked almost beautiful, a dark glowing red against the indigo evening sky, and Dewey had a momentary change of heart. This barn had been here for more than a hundred years.

  “Ah, never mind,” he said. “Out with the old!”

  He lifted the oak bar, creaked open the doors, and an explosion of legs and hooves and a curly pink tail flashed riotously by.

  22

  The Runaround

  “Great Scott!” yelled Dewey, jumping back.

  Tick, Figgy, and Nanny had all escaped the barn, each plunging off in different directions.

  Dewey stood stunned, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

  Finally he gave a thundering shout, spun around, and pounded after Tick. The chase was on.

  Right behind them, Burdock raced into the grass to monitor the situation.

  In no time, Tick reached the end of the driveway, zipped across the road, and scrambled through the wire fence encircling the abandoned pasture.

  Soon Dewey arrived at the fence too, but as he tried to clamber over the old wire, the fence simply sagged toward him. There was no other way but for Dewey to yank up on the bottom edge, flatten down onto his stomach, and slither under.

  Up ahead, Tick twisted through the pasture, avoiding the worst of the spiky plants. But Dewey had to battle the brambles and thistles with only his bare hands.

  “Oh, hornets!” he yelled, emerging from the grasp of two bushes, his clothes covered with burrs.

  He ripped off prickly clumps. Where was Tick now?

  Dewey reached the edge of this pasture, where the land opened up to a hay field.

  There!

  Dewey crouched low and executed an awkward loping crawl on all fours. Hunkering down still lower, he pulled himself along with his elbows. Tick would never see him coming. He moved forward this way, dragging his body through the grasses, popping his head up now and then to get his reference points.

  Dewey didn’t register the slight thrum of a motor that had approached along the road and was idling off to his right.

  It was Mrs. Chestnut, who drove the mail truck. She was craning her head out of the open door to see Dewey lying on his stomach, his clothes muddied, burrs all over. She cautiously called out to him.

  “Hello, Dewey? Are you—quite—well? Do you need a doctor?” The mail mistress raised her eyebrows and quickly surveyed the empty field beyond.

  “Oh, yes,” said Dewey. “I mean, no. I mean, I’m fine!” He hastily jumped up and pulled down his coat.

  Mrs. Chestnut eyed him.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes!” said Dewey, impatient. “Fine!”

  “Okay, well, if you’re sure, I’ll be off then!” said Mrs. Chestnut, cranking the wheel of the old truck, and slowly accelerating down the road.

  This is ridiculous, thought Dewey.

  He turned back to the field, zoned in on Tick, and ran full-throttle through the thigh-high hay. A few moments later, Dewey snatched Tick with decisive force, tucked him under his arm like a football, and delivered him back to the barn.

  “What rubbish!” Dewey yelled.

  Slinking behind, silent chaperone to the whole escapade, Burdock thought, A good start.

  Figgy was next. The pig was in the garden behind the house.

  As soon as she saw Dewey she started capering enthusiastically about as if she were performing some complicated and lively country dance.

  Burdock tiptoed into his hidden spot under the rosebush and watched. After all Figgy’s digging, Burdock expected her energy to be diminished. But once Dewey was on her tail, Figgy cavorted through the cabbage plants, skipped through the corn stalks, and frisked between asparagus fronds without a hitch.

  Just as Dewey came close enough to lunge for the twisted handle of her tail, she bowed under his fingers, feinted deftly t
o the side, and hoofed splendidly away. Dewey caught nothing but a fistful of chilled autumn air.

  “Of all the CRUD!” he yelled as he lost his balance and fell into the cucumber patch.

  And Figgy, after a backwards glance, went snorting and squealing away around the corner of the house. The look on her face said delight.

  Of course Dewey still caught Figgy. Burdock knew he would. But when at last he did, she relaxed her substantial pounds into a full deadweight, giving Dewey no choice but to clasp her around the middle and heft her up the hill like a rock.

  As Dewey lugged her past Burdock peeking out now from the tall grasses, the pig gave the cat a wink.

  23

  Hang On, Nanny!

  At last came Nanny’s turn, and something had shifted. Dewey was angry. Burdock saw it as soon as Dewey reemerged from the barn; his face had taken on an uncomfortable shade of red and his eyes were fixed. Dewey vaulted into the pasture after Nanny, snatched up a large stick from the ground, and swung it over his head.

  “Nanny!” he bellowed. “You better get back here!”

  Burdock caught the frightened flash of Nanny’s eyes. And they both knew: if Dewey reached Nanny he was going to wallop her.

  What could he do? Burdock was nothing against Dewey and a stick, but Nanny needed help and he was all there was. He didn’t hesitate. He shot forward, exerting his natural feline grace and speed to their fullest extent, and came right up behind Dewey. Dewey saw him, turned, and swung, narrowly missing Burdock as he rolled away. But now Dewey chased after Nanny again, and the cat realized they could both be squashed by Dewey’s anger—this wasn’t going to work. But wait!

  “Hang on, Nanny!” Burdock whispered to himself. He spun around, tore back down the hill, raced through the barn doors, and swerved around the horses and wagon, now tucked into the back of the aisle.