CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PHOTOS
In the barn, Shaun the Sheep opened one eye. Another day on Mossy Bottom Farm and, as usual, a bungling spider was caught in its own sticky strands in the beams above his head. Shaun stretched and peered at his reflection in the mirror. The sheep were all overdue for a shearing, and his wool was long and bedraggled. Working quickly, he ruffled it into a funky style, then gave himself a wink and a thumbs-up. He was looking good.
In the farmhouse, the Farmer’s alarm clock went off in his bedroom: ding-a-ling-a-ling! A pajama-clad arm shot out and thumped it. With a yawn, a bleary-eyed Farmer sat up in bed. Peering at his bedside table, he tore a page from his calendar. “MONDAY” became “TUESDAY.” In the bathroom, the groggy Farmer stared at his reflection and groaned. Reaching for his razor, he began to shave.
Outside, the Farmer’s trusty sheepdog, Bitzer, peered out of his kennel and tucked a newspaper under one arm. Grabbing a roll of toilet paper, he set off for his favorite tree. When he had finished, he hurried over to the farmhouse, where he polished the Farmer’s Wellington boots and arranged them neatly by the door. Bitzer saluted as the door crashed open . . . and smashed into his nose. The Farmer, oblivious, strode toward the barn.
Bitzer shuffled out from behind the door and followed.
The Farmer threw open the barn door and plucked the day’s schedule from its nail, peering at it through thick glasses while Bitzer blew his whistle for the sheep to line up. A particularly loud peeeeeep shrieked in Shaun’s ear. He glared and stuck a hoof into the whistle, silencing it. Bitzer gave him a dark look before running ahead of the Flock as they traipsed out of the barn and across the farmyard toward the main gate. Bitzer was already there, a sign in his paw with a flattened glove stuck to it: STOP. The Farmer pushed the gate open. After checking that the road was clear, Bitzer turned his sign. Another glove pointed toward the meadow on the other side of the road: GO. The Flock began to cross.
Shaun looked around as they trotted across the road. Mossy Bottom Farm was waking up. On the pond, ducks were quacking — complaining that their bread delivery was late — while yawning pigs leaned against a wall.
Peeping on his whistle again, Bitzer herded the Flock toward the feeding troughs. When the sheep had finished their breakfast, he led them toward a small pen. Shaun squeezed into the tiny space with the rest of the sheep, holding his breath as the Farmer swung the gate shut and latched it with a grunt of effort.
Shaun bleated. The Flock was packed so tightly he couldn’t touch the ground with his hooves.
The Farmer didn’t notice, already striding back across the meadow. In the shed, he pushed aside a forgotten photograph that had been taken years before, after a picnic in the meadow on a sunny spring day. In the center was the Farmer — younger and with much more hair. On one side of him stood Bitzer; on the other, Shaun. The rest of the Flock was lined up behind, eyes twinkling with fun and a grin on every face.
The Farmer ignored it. “Ah-ha,” he mumbled to himself when he found what he was looking for. Whistling, he strode back across the grass, opened the pen, and waded into the crowd of sheep, a set of clippers in his hand. With a flick of his thumb, he turned them on. Startled sheep reared back at the buzzing sound.
Shaun groaned to himself. He hated shearing time. Seeing a chance for escape, he ducked between the Farmer’s legs and made a break for it.
“Gaargh!” shouted the Farmer, grabbing at him. Shaun bleated, his legs whirling. He was free . . . free . . .
The Farmer’s hand shot out and grabbed Shaun by his straggly wool. The escape was over.
Locked between the Farmer’s legs, Shaun winced and made faces while his wool was clipped away. When the Farmer had finished, the pigs pointed and jeered, squealing with laughter at Shaun’s new haircut. Turning, he gave the Farmer a grim look.
Lost in a cloud of flying wool, with the next sheep already between his legs, the Farmer didn’t even notice.
By the time Bitzer herded the cropped Flock back to the barn, the gray sky was darkening. Shaun looked on as the Farmer wrote out the next day’s schedule and then reached to pull the barn door closed behind him. For an instant, the Farmer was silhouetted against the sunset, the red glow making him look dark and sinister. Shaun blinked, then turned to peer at the timetable. Tomorrow would be another day packed with not-much-fun.
Clunk. The barn door bolted shut.
Shaun lay down in his straw bed, the sounds of the Flock settling around him. Another day over. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes.
at another gray sky, shrugged, lifted a megaphone to his beak, and crowed.
As the Flock groaned awake, Shaun opened his eyes to see the same spider in the same web on the same beam. In the farmhouse, the Farmer knocked his alarm clock onto the floor, sat up and tore another day off his calendar. “TUESDAY” became “WEDNESDAY.” In his kennel, Bitzer reached for the newspaper.
Hearing the rumble of a passing bus, Shaun glanced out the window and stared. A large advertisement had been pasted along the side of the bus. It read: “HAVE A DAY OFF!”
The words gave him an idea: a good idea. A day off, he thought to himself. A day off. A day off from the dull routine of Mossy Bottom Farm. A day lying back in a sun lounger, eating ice cream, and sipping an exotic drink from a glass loaded with fruit and a tiny umbrella.
A smile spread across his face.
With an urgent bleat, Shaun called the rest of the Flock into a huddle. The sheep began to giggle.
Moments later, the barn door creaked open. Shaun peered toward the farmhouse. Through the bathroom window he could see the Farmer. Meanwhile, Bitzer squatted under his favorite tree, hidden behind the pages of his newspaper.
The coast was clear.
On tiptoe, Shaun pushed a wheelbarrow to the gate, then made his way to a dark alley between two outbuildings. A shifty-looking duck was waiting. In quiet bleats, Shaun explained what he wanted, holding out slices of bread.
The duck looked from side to side, making sure they weren’t being watched, then counted the slices. He shook his head — the payment was unacceptable.
With a sigh, Shaun counted out a few more slices and handed them over. Help from ducks did not come cheap.
Taking the bread from Shaun’s hoof, the duck counted his stack again and folded the slices with a nod. Shaun had bought himself a favor.
Shaun rubbed his hooves together: now all he had to do was move the scarecrow.
A little while later, he pulled the barn door closed behind him. Everything was ready.
Bitzer leaned on his kennel, sipping a mug of tea and enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet. With the mug halfway to his mouth, he started suddenly, slopping his drink. His eyes grew wide.
In the grass, just ahead of him, was a large, juicy bone.
A bone that was begging to be chewed.
Bitzer’s heart began to pound. It was a beautiful bone. And it was calling to him. Nothing else existed. It was just him and the sweet, sweet bone.
Dropping his mug, he leapt at it.
The bone twitched and jerked away.
With a woof of surprise, Bitzer jumped again. This time, the bone skipped into the air before shooting away again. Growling in frustration, Bitzer gave chase.
In the bushes, the duck quacked quietly to itself. The plan was working! The duck
flapped away and the long piece of string tied to its tail feathers pulled tight. At the other end, the bone jumped out of Bitzer’s grasp once more. Drooling, and completely mesmerized, the sheepdog followed the bone as it jumped and jerked across the farmyard.
Meanwhile, at the farmhouse door, the Farmer whistled and looked around grumpily for his sheepdog. Bitzer failed to appear. Grumbling and tutting to himself, the Farmer walked to the barn. He pulled the door open with a yank, then stepped back in surprise. The Flock were perfectly lined up before him, with Shaun front and center. The sheep stared up at him with innocent eyes.
Puzzled, and still muttering about Bitzer’s mysterious absence, the Farmer led the sheep over to the gate, where he bent over to release the latch. At the same time, Shaun hooked a rubber band between his hooves and pulled it tight with a piece of folded paper. With one eye closed, he took careful aim . . . TWANG!
The paper missile zipped across the farmyard and hit the back of the Farmer’s head. Yelping, he stood up straight and rubbed it, looking around. Behind him, the sheep stood in a perfect line, faces radiating innocence. As one, they pointed toward the gate as if to say, “It was him.”
The Farmer’s gaze followed the pointing hooves, and he stared in disbelief.
The scarecrow stared back.
The Farmer blinked and stared some more. It just wasn’t possible. . . .
Behind him, Shaun gestured to the rest of the Flock: move it!
As escaping sheep streamed past him, the Farmer shouted, sprinted ahead of them, and skidded to a halt in front of the charging Flock, holding up a hand.
The plan was working perfectly! Shaun tried his best to put an apologetic look on his face as he and the rest of the Flock trudged back to the gate. With a glance over his shoulder to make sure the Farmer was watching closely, Shaun tensed his muscles and jumped. Landing on all fours on the other side of the gate, he trotted away.
The rest of the Flock followed suit. One by one, sheep jumped the gate while the Farmer counted to make sure that none had escaped.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
Twenty-six . . . twenty-seven . . .
Forty-three . . . forty-four . . .
The Farmer yawned. There seemed to be more sheep than usual, and he was feeling strangely sleepy. He must have made a mistake, he told himself . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . but he couldn’t stop counting. . . .
The Farmer’s drooping eyelids jerked open. Had he seen the same sheep twice?
Seventy-eight . . . seventy-nine . . .
His eyes began to close again.
Shaun scrambled through a hole in the hedge and joined the end of the line waiting to jump again. Hearing a loud yawn, he looked around to see the Farmer topple backward into the wheelbarrow. For a second, it looked like he might wake up. Shaun watched nervously, and let out a whistle of relief when the Farmer snuggled into the wheelbarrow and began to snore.
The old counting-sheep trick had worked! With the Farmer sleeping like a baby, the Flock could enjoy a day off!
A cheer broke out. Turning, Shaun shushed the Flock. Don’t wake him!
The sheep nodded in agreement and shushed each other. Young Timmy blinked up at Shaun in awe. It was a great plan. Shaun was a genius!
Patting the little lamb on the head, Shaun bleated softly. Before the Flock could relax, there were a few loose ends to tie up. They knew what they had to do. Sheep nodded and scurried away. A few seconds later, a pair of noise-canceling headphones was whipped out of the tractor cab while hooves plucked a clean pair of pajamas from the clothesline.
Bitzer, meanwhile, jumped up at the bone hanging from a branch above him. On the other side of the tree, the bored duck yanked on his string. For the umpteenth time, the bone bounced out of the sheepdog’s reach.
Back at the gate, the Flock dressed the snoring Farmer in the pajamas and slipped the headphones over his ears. Bleating in whispers, they pushed the wheelbarrow across the farmyard and over the fields. There, in a forgotten corner of Mossy Bottom Farm, was a half-rusted camper that hadn’t been used for years, rotten logs jammed beneath its wheels to keep it in place.
Shaun pulled the door open and gestured to the Flock. Hooves lifted the Farmer gently and carried him inside. Carefully, the sheep lowered him onto a bed and draped him with a blanket. Shaun removed the Farmer’s glasses and balanced them on a shelf by the door.
The Farmer smiled through his snores, nestling into the blanket.
A hoof to his lips, Shaun pulled down the dark-blue blind at the window. There was just one thing left to do. With a piece of chalk, Shaun drew a moon and stars on the blind and stuck the chalk back in his fleece. Now, if the Farmer woke up, he’d look at the window and think it was the middle of the night.
Giggling, the Flock filed out, leaving the Farmer to his dreams. Beneath their hooves, the old camper shifted slightly on the rotten logs. Gleefully looking forward to their day off, none of the sheep noticed.
Outside, hooves slapped together in excited high-fives. With the Farmer tucked up safe and cozy, Shaun led the frolicking sheep back across the fields. He scrunched up the day’s schedule and kicked it into the sky. It landed at the feet of Mower Mouth the goat, who ate it.
The day off could begin. Inside the farmhouse, Timmy jumped on the sofa while sheep scrambled into the kitchen. Shaun stuffed flowers into the blender to make a smoothie. Someone opened the microwave door and pushed the “ON” button, holding a bag of popcorn on a fork inside to heat it up. The microwave crackled, then exploded, sending the fork shooting across the kitchen to stick into the wall. Another sheep bent a frozen pizza in half and stuffed it into the toaster. Yet another settled into a chair and began flicking through the Farmer’s magazines. They were all about farming — boring. As one of the sheep, Nuts, scrabbled to reach the ice cream on the top shelf of the freezer, the door swung closed behind him. A few moments later, hooves pulled it open again. A Nuts-shaped ice block fell out.
Eventually, however, the entire Flock gathered in front of the TV in the living room. With a grin, Shaun picked up the remote control and bleated: What should they watch first? A Western!
From the doorway behind him, Shaun heard a growl. With a gulp, he dropped the remote and turned.
Holding a duck under one arm, Bitzer glared at him.
Where was the Farmer?
Shaun sighed. His plan had been well and truly busted.
Bitzer growled again. He was waiting . . .
Shaking his head in disappointment, Shaun led him out the front door, across the fields, and back to the camper. The sheepdog stood on tiptoe to peer in through a tiny crack at the bottom of the blind, and woofed in shock as he spotted the sleeping Farmer. What had the sheep done? Dashing to the door, he yanked the handle.
It was stuck.
He woofed furiously at Shaun and pulled harder.
The camper shifted. With a damp crunch of rotten wood, the logs beneath its wheels collapsed.
The door handle ripped away in Bitzer’s paw. A shocked silence fell, interrupted only by the creaking of a rusty old camper on the move.
The Flock stared, wide-eyed, their heads turning slowly as the camper rolled toward the gate.
With a yelp, Bitzer dashed after the runaway vehicle. He dived, paws reaching for the bumper, while the sheep gave chase, grabbing at Bitzer’s ankles.
Dragging Bitzer and the Flock through the mud, the camper squeaked and rumbled across fields until the bumper came away in Bitzer’s paws. The sheep and sheepdog lay sprawled in the muck.
Freed of the extra weight, the camper shot forward. Bitzer struggled out from beneath a heap of sheep, and he watched the camper smash through the farm gate, hit a rock, and turn, bouncing away down the road. It disappeared over the horizon.
The bent bumper dropped from Bitzer’s paws. With his tongue lolling out, he set out along the road, past a signpost that pointed to the Big City. The camper careered through traffic lights and streaked along the road, knockin
g aside a cow and sending it jumping over a sign for The Moon pub. Ears streaming behind him, Bitzer groaned as the lights turned from green to red. For a few moments, he waited, whistling a nervous tune, then sprinted forward as they flashed back to green.
Ahead was a steep hill. Bitzer felt a surge of hope — the camper was slowing as it climbed the slope. He could catch it! Gritting his teeth, he put on a fresh spurt of speed.
By the time the camper reached the top of the hill, it had almost, but not quite, squeaked to a stop. Bitzer’s paws reached for it, but were a second too late. The camper rolled onto the downward slope and began to pick up speed again. Bitzer could only stare after it in dismay. In the distance were the skyscrapers of the Big City, and the camper was speeding straight toward them!
Sheep panted to a stop around him, gazing down the hill as the camper became a small, fast-moving dot. With an angry growl, Bitzer pointed a paw back toward the farm. The Flock had done enough damage for one day. He would follow the camper alone.
Puffing as he ran, Bitzer watched aghast as a red barrier came down across the road in front of the zooming camper. A loud warning bell rang: DING-A-LING-A-LING.
It sounded almost like an alarm clock.
The camper crashed through the barrier and trundled across the railway crossing. Wheels jolted and the catch on the window blind snapped. Shaun’s drawing of a moon and stars flapped briefly as the blind rolled back. Sunlight streamed into the camper.
Half a second later, a massive train shrieked past, missing the camper by inches.
DING-A-LING-A-LING.
Inside the camper, a hand shot out from beneath a blanket and thumped an old alarm clock from the bedside table. Yawning, the Farmer sat up. The ear protectors slipped off his head and dropped behind a pillow. Grumpily, he clambered out of bed and scratched his bottom. Reaching out, he tore a leaf from a farming calendar, too sleepy to notice that it was fifteen years out of date. He also failed to notice that instead of a view of Mossy Bottom Farm from his bedroom window, there was a view of a busy road.
The Farmer looked into the window, thinking it was his bedroom mirror. Alongside, he saw only the side of a truck, which was carrying an ad for men’s hair gel. Picking up a can of insect repellent, the Farmer sprayed his armpits and peered into the face of a square-jawed male model, surprised by how good he was looking this morning. It was all the healthy, outdoor living that kept him so youthful. Grinning, he gave himself a thumbs-up. Still got it, he thought. Clutching a dusty curtain, he mopped his face and turned away just as the truck pulled past. The “mirror” became a view of buildings on the outskirts of the city. Cars swerved past, drivers honking their horns.
The Junior Novelization Page 1