The Thing About Luck by Kadohata Cynthia

Author:Kadohata, Cynthia [Kadohata, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Published: 2013-06-04T04:00:00+00:00

Anyway. We stepped back out into the sunshine, a warm breeze blowing into my face. Robbie was closing the barn door when I realized that Thunder wasn’t with us. “Wait, where’s my dog? We must have left him inside.” Robbie pulled open the door. I didn’t see Thunder, and there was nowhere to hide, just the long row of stalls, with the standing stock in the center. Still, I called out, “Thunder! Thunder, come!” I went back outside. “Thunder! C’mere, boy!”

Robbie was scanning the yard. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

“Weird. He’s very good about coming when I call. I trained him really well.” But as I said that, a feeling of dread hit me out of the blue. It was immediately followed by a ruckus that sounded like a bunch of chickens going crazy. I ran like mad toward the sound, but I already knew what I’d find.

On the other side of the barn, chickens were squawking all over the place. And there was Thunder, holding a speckled hen in his mouth, shaking it wildly. He looked ecstatic.

“No!” I shouted. “Down!” He pranced away. “No. Bad boy! Stay!” I stomped toward him and grabbed both sides of the chicken hanging out of his mouth. “No!” I yanked the chicken out and threw it down. Then I turned to assess the damage. It looked like there were three dead birds. “Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!” Thunder cowered and whined.

“Let’s get out of here,” Robbie said urgently.

He ran off, and I followed, holding Thunder firmly by the collar. This wasn’t the first time that he’d killed chickens—it had happened once at a neighbor’s farm back home. The farmer had said that the best way to cure a dog of killing chickens was to tie a dead chicken around its neck for a week and let the chicken rot. My parents had refused to do that, and fortunately, Thunder had not ventured into the neighbor’s farm again.

But this was worse—much, much worse—because for a cook or a combine driver, the farmer was like the king. When we reached the campers, we came to a halt, looking around furtively.

Robbie laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault,” he said. “It was all my idea.”

“No, Thunder’s my responsibility. I should have kept my eye on him. I can’t believe I didn’t.” I thought of all the times my mother had said to me, “Summer, what were you thinking?” This time I knew exactly what I had been thinking—how cute Robbie was.

“Okay, listen,” Robbie said, dropping his voice. “I didn’t see anyone else around. Unless someone saw us, it should be okay. Just don’t tell anyone.”

“We have to tell someone! Someone has to pay for the dead chickens.”

“Don’t—tell—anyone,” he warned. “I don’t want my parents getting in trouble.” He glared at me, then turned and walked away.

“See ya,” I called out, but he didn’t answer.

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