The Farmer’s face froze in shock. Eyes popping out of his head, he gave a strangled yell as understanding dawned. This wasn’t his bedroom. Somehow, he was in an out-of-control camper, tearing along a busy road straight toward a large building, which was getting closer — much closer! With another yelp, he dropped to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest and clutching his head, babbling to himself in shock as he waited for the crash.
Instead, the turning of the camper’s rusty axles finally slowed as the vehicle rolled up a gentle incline. With a squeaky bump, it hit a curb and stopped completely.
The Farmer opened his eyes. He was safe! With a sigh of relief, he clambered to his feet and pushed the door open. It slammed into a light pole marking the crosswalk.
On top of the pole, a beacon’s flashing orange globe wobbled dangerously as the Farmer stepped out into the city, blinking behind his thick glasses. With a thump, the beacon dropped onto the camper’s roof and rolled down with a faint rumble.
Bonk — the heavy orange globe hit the Farmer on the head.
Slowly, he toppled backward with a peaceful smile on his face and birds tweeting around his head — out cold.
A woman screamed and reached for her mobile phone.
Minutes later, Bitzer arrived and stared at the camper, which was now surrounded by a large crowd. He scurried forward, pushing his way through the mass of people, his desperate woofs drowned out by the wailing of an ambulance siren. Before he could get to the Farmer, doors slammed shut and the ambulance sped away.
For a second, Bitzer gazed after it in dismay. Then, gathering his strength once more, he dashed after it.
slowly shuffled through the shattered remains of the farm gate. Last in was Nuts. As he wandered past the “PLEASE SHUT THE GATE” sign, he pulled the gate closed behind him. What was left of it groaned and fell off its hinges.
Ahead, at the farmhouse, Shaun stared forlornly through the window, while the Flock clustered around him. Angry bleats filled the air as they peered in. The farmhouse was shaking to loud music. Half-eaten food had been trodden into the carpet. Spilled drinks dripped onto the floor.
While the Flock had been chasing the camper, the pigs had taken over the farmhouse. One of them boogied past the window; he was dressed in the Farmer’s underpants, wellies, and hat. Noticing the sheep staring at him, he yanked the curtains closed.
With a sad shake of his head, Shaun tore his gaze away from the curtains and bleated, hopefully. The Flock could still enjoy the day off — they’d just have to do it outside. Carrying a deck chair from the shed, he set it up by the sheep dip and stepped back: ta-da, a day at the pool!
The sheep looked at him, then up at the miserable gray sky, then at each other. One by one, they wandered away to nose at an empty feed bag, then looked back at Shaun. With the Farmer gone, there was no one to feed them. What were they supposed to eat and drink?
Stumped, Shaun looked around the farmyard. As his gaze settled on the tractor, an idea flashed into his mind: he could go after the Farmer and bring him back! Quickly, he scrambled up into the driver’s seat and pushed at levers and buttons. The tractor clattered to life. With a grin, Shaun pulled a lever. The tractor gave a whine and lurched back through a hedge, Shaun clinging desperately to the steering wheel. Churning great tracks in the mud, and with Shaun bleating wildly, the tractor smashed through the gate of the bull’s field. Snorting furiously, the bull lowered his horns and gave chase across the farmyard. Sheep scattered. Shaun turned the wheel. The tractor swerved and crashed through Mower Mouth’s pen. The goat stared as the tractor rumbled past and knocked over the henhouse. Chickens blinked in the sudden sunlight, squawking angrily after the speeding tractor.
While chaos descended on Mossy Bottom Farm, two doctors and a nurse looked down at the Farmer, who was lying in bed, a bandage around his head, a hospital bracelet on one wrist and a forkful of hospital food in his hand.
“Hoi!” the Farmer squawked in annoyance as the nurse pulled his half-finished dinner away. Ignoring him, doctors bent over, flashing lights in his ears and eyes. The older doctor tapped the Farmer’s elbow with a small hammer. The whole arm jerked, flinging the Farmer’s fork across the room, where it knocked a picture off the wall.
The doctor murmured to himself. Walking to the end of the bed, he lifted a clipboard. Beside a photo of the Farmer were the words “NAME: MR. X.” Below, it read, “PROBLEM: MEMORY LOSS.”
“Ah-hum,” said the second doctor, pulling a set of flash cards from a packet and holding them in front of the Farmer, one after the other. Did any of them remind him of his own job?
The Farmer peered through his glasses at pictures of a construction worker, fireman, office worker, a judge wearing a long wig . . .
He shook his head.
The doctor held up another card. This time the picture showed a man next to a tractor on a farm. Did it jog his memory?
The Farmer looked carefully, and shook his head: no.
The doctors muttered to each other. It was a difficult case. “Needs more tests,” the younger doctor scribbled on the chart. The older doctor brightened, and swung his arms: golf?
He shot the Farmer an encouraging smile and bustled away, the junior doctor and nurse close behind.
Back on the farm, Shaun climbed down from the tractor and stumbled dizzily across the farmyard. By now, some of the sheep were clutching at the Farmer’s clothes, weeping. They scowled at Shaun and filled his ears with furious bleats. This was all his fault. If it weren’t for Shaun and his stupid plans, everyone would be fed and watered and happily grazing in the meadow. Shirley, the largest of the sheep, grabbed the Farmer’s wellies and hugged them to her chest, sobbing.
Stamping a hoof, Shaun rolled his eyes. All he’d done was try to give everyone a nice day off!
With a growl of engine and a hiss of opening doors, a bus pulled up to the lane beside Mossy Bottom Farm. Shaun glanced at it. Across the side of the bus was another advertisement. This one said: “GET GOING.”
Nodding to himself, Shaun turned and stomped away.
The Flock watched him disappear into the shed. A moment later, they peered in to see Shaun rummaging through piles of junk. Pulling out an old satchel, he started filling it: toy binoculars, a piggy bank rattling with coins, the old cassette tape deck that the Farmer used to take on picnics. Pausing, he picked up the dusty photograph of the young Farmer with Bitzer and the Flock. It was just what he needed. He took it out of its frame and added it to the satchel.
Surrounded by blinking sheep, Shaun strolled out of the shed with the satchel slung over one shoulder, then ran for the bus stop.
The Flock followed, watching in surprise as he crept onto the bus and scrambled up to the top deck while the driver was busy changing the destination board to read “THE BIG CITY.” Taking a seat at the front, Shaun retrieved the photo from his satchel and tore out the picture of the Farmer. He pulled a pencil from his backpack and scribbled a word across the top: “MISSING.” Then he pressed the image against the window to show the sheep gazing up at him from the side of the road.
The doors closed with a hiss. The bus pulled away. Shaun was off to find the Farmer. He pressed “PLAY” on the tape deck, smiling to himself as he listened to the familiar, tinny tune that came from it.
In the lane behind, the Flock broke into a cheer.
against the window, Shaun watched as tall skyscrapers, billboards, bright lights, and graffiti whizzed past. The bus roared into the heart of the city and into a crowded station, where it shuddered to a stop. Hearing the doors below open, Shaun scrambled beneath a seat and waited for the bus to empty before scampering down the stairs.
Putting his nose around the door, Shaun was about to step down into the bus station when he stopped. Beneath a sign that read “CITY DRY CLEANERS,” a small and hungry-looking stray dog poked her head into a trash bin and started to rummage for food. She looked up and, catching Shaun’s eye, smiled a crooked smile.
A man in uniform str
ode across the bus station and strung crime scene tape around the dog’s bin. Shaun narrowed his eyes, taking in the words “Officer Trumper” and “City Animal Containment Unit” on his jacket. The man snapped a photo of the little dog and dragged her away by the scruff of her neck. After throwing the dog into the back of his truck, Officer Trumper pulled a clipboard from the dashboard and began to fill out an official form. Across the top of the photograph he stamped the word “CONTAINED.”
A bus pulled into the station and grumbled to a stop beside Shaun. A flash of white caught the corner of his eye. Taking his eyes off Trumper, he glanced up . . . and gasped.
Timmy waved down from the top deck of the newly arrived bus. He was soon joined by another sheep, then another. Before long, the entire Flock was waving at Shaun. Shirley bleated: We came too!
Shaun stared at the sheep, and then at Trumper, then back at the Flock. They had to get out of the bus station, fast! Shaun waved at the sheep frantically. Grinning and bleating, they scrambled down the stairs and piled out onto the station’s floor.
Several yards away, Trumper stopped writing. His ears twitched. Was that bleating he heard? Sheep bleating?
Trumper looked up just as the last fluffy white tail disappeared behind a bus. His senses twanged, and he hadn’t become the city’s number one Animal Containment Officer by ignoring twanging senses. Something was going on, and he was going to find out what.
Setting down his clipboard, Trumper stalked across the station and looked around.
Nothing.
Suddenly, he dropped into a crouch. Then he stood, holding something up to his eyes: a small wisp of fleece. He looked around again, his gaze passing over a poster advertising countryside vacations. The lovely picture showed sheep gamboling across rolling hills.
As Trumper looked away, Shaun took a deep breath. Gesturing at the Flock to stay quiet, he crept away into a shopping arcade. The Flock followed, leaving the countryside landscape empty of sheep.
Turning again, Trumper’s eyes narrowed. The poster looked different somehow. He took a step forward and spied a fluffy tail disappearing into a charity shop called ANIMAL HELP. He took another step, and another, his pace quickening as he strode toward the shop. Shouting, he broke into a run.
Inside the shop, Shaun pointed desperately at a rack of old clothes. Hooves reached out and grabbed whatever was nearest.
With a small cry of triumph, Trumper wrenched open the door, flashing an official badge with his free hand.
The cry died in his throat. He blinked. There were no animals in the shop, just a strange-looking family of four — a mum and dad with two sons, a young schoolboy and a hulking teenager. All of them were dressed in a jumbled assortment of mismatched clothes. The only animal he could see was a backpack in the shape of a baby lamb that the teenager was wearing.
Trumper stepped aside as the family turned to leave. He blushed and shuffled his feet nervously as he caught the mother’s eye; he couldn’t help noticing that the woman was rather attractive. With a cough, he tapped her on the shoulder as she passed by.
The woman turned slowly, staring Trumper in the face.
Giving her a wink, he handed her a handbag. She had been about to leave it behind.
She nodded — thanks — and hurried through the door after her family, leaving Trumper in an empty shop.
With Shaun — dressed as the schoolboy — in the lead, the Flock walked away as fast as they dared, following the “lady”— the sheep Twins, one atop the other. Beneath smelly old clothes, Nuts sat on Shirley’s shoulders. They were the “dad,” while a sheep named Hazel and Timmy’s Mum were dressed as the teenager, with Timmy clinging to them as a novelty backpack.
At the bus station’s wide entrance, the Flock family lurched to a halt. Spread out before them was the city, all noise and lights and giant advertisements and horn-hooting traffic and rumbling buses. A vast swarm of humans jostled and pushed their way through the streets. The air was full of shouts, exhaust fumes, and the smell of hot dogs cooking.
The Flock took it all in. They weren’t on Mossy Bottom Farm anymore.
to a halt by the ambulance, now parked, and mopped sweat from his brow. Ahead, a glass door slid open: the hospital. With a determined puff, he ran up the steps and through the sliding door.
A second later, he came back through it, backward. As his backside hit the pavement, the security guard who had thrown him out stabbed a finger at a sign: “NO DOGS.”
Bitzer watched the door slide closed, then slunk away to sit on a nearby bench. What could he do now? The Farmer must be somewhere inside the hospital, and Bitzer had to find him. He glanced toward the hospital door. The guard was still frowning at him through the glass.
Bitzer’s head turned at the sound of squeaking wheels. A laundry cart was approaching, a hospital guard’s red face just visible over the top. It stopped by Bitzer’s bench while the guard took a puffing breather, then creaked onward toward the hospital entrance.
Squeak, squeak, squeak . . . the laundry cart approached the door. It hissed open. With a nod, the security guard stepped aside to let it pass and the cart trundled off down a corridor. He looked toward the bench and noted that the dog was finally gone.
Inside, the guard took another quick break, then the cart squeaked away again. It left behind Bitzer, now dressed in green surgical scrubs, a hat, and a face mask. With a snap, he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. He looked around nervously, then pulled the face mask down, his nose twitching. He caught the Farmer’s scent and dashed down the corridor.
A few minutes later, Bitzer peered around a door. His eyes lit up. On a bed, happily scoffing from a tray of food, was the Farmer.
Voices echoed down the hallway. Bitzer turned to see two doctors and a nurse heading toward him. The sheepdog woofed in frustration. He was so close; he couldn’t get caught now. Quickly, he pulled up his mask and strode down the corridor. He peered up at a bulletin board, trying to look like any other doctor and hoping they would turn off into a room.
They didn’t. From the corner of his eye, Bitzer saw they were still walking straight toward him. He gulped, turned away, then gulped again as two security guards appeared at the other end of the corridor. He was trapped between the two groups. Quickly, Bitzer took the only escape route left. Stepping backward through a door, he pushed it open with his bottom. A sigh of relief escaped his mouth as the door swung closed. That had been close.
A voice behind him called out.
Bitzer spun around. Dressed like him, in surgical scrubs and masks, several members of hospital staff looked up from washing their hands and nodded. On the other side of the room, a patient lay on an operating table, surrounded by complicated-looking machines and trays of sharp instruments. A nurse entered, forcing Bitzer further into the operating room. Another held a set of medical notes before Bitzer’s eyes.
Bitzer took one look and almost threw up over the gruesome pictures. He looked up at the nurse with fear in his eyes. The hospital staff thought he was the surgeon! And they were preparing the patient for him. After glancing at the notes, he scuttled backward to the sink and removed his gloves. He held his paws under the tap, thinking furiously. What could he do now?
His thoughts were interrupted by a scream.
Bitzer whipped around. On the operating table, the patient had seen Bitzer’s tail hanging beneath the hem of his medical gown. The man started to yell, but the sound was muffled by a mask one of the doctors had quickly clamped over his mouth. The team of medical staff held the struggling man down until he slumped into unconsciousness.
Impatiently, the medics turned to Bitzer. The patient was ready.
Bitzer looked around nervously. There was no escape. He would just have to do the operation. After all, how difficult could it be? He snapped his gloves back on.
Heart in his mouth, Bitzer shuffled toward the patient. He glanced up at a diagram of the human body on the wall, hoping it would give him some clues. Reaching out a trembling paw — hidde
n inside the rubber glove — he grabbed a large saw. Across the table, a nurse’s eyes opened wide in shock. She glanced anxiously at the rest of the team, and offered a small scalpel instead.
With a weak laugh, Bitzer dropped the saw back into its tray . . . and froze.
All thoughts of the operation vanished.
In the corner of the room was a life-size model of a skeleton, hanging from a hook.
Bitzer’s mouth began to water. Bones, he thought to himself, so many bones.
Beneath his surgical mask, he licked his lips.
The promise of bones drove all other thoughts from Bitzer’s mind. Woofing with delight, he leapt across the operating table and fastened his teeth around the biggest leg bone, giving the skeleton a ferocious shake.
The medical team stared in stunned silence for a second before the door banged open again. At an angry shout they turned to see the real surgeon, glaring. What on earth was going on in his operating room? Why was a dog dressed in surgical scrubs dragging a skeleton across the room?
Moments later, the Farmer peered out of his room. Security guards charged past. An alarm was blaring. He shrugged. Returning to his room, he peered at the clipboard hanging on the end of the bed. “MR. X,” it said. Who am I? he wondered as he scanned the page.
Just then, a man in a white coat walked through the door with a bundle beneath his arm. Setting it on the Farmer’s bed, he unrolled it to reveal a set of large and gruesome-looking tools. Humming, he reached for the largest hammer.
The Junior Novelization Page 2