It was a terribly cold night in northern central Massachusetts. The wind swirled around the base of the Sargent-Colburn house at a high velocity whirling only bits of grit and last summer's dried leaves, but no snow. There had been no real snow since the freak "Happy Halloween Storm" months before. The sky was clouded over, no stars shone in the sky but there was still just a little light out in the back yard. The pellet stove in the living room gave out a continuous orange flame behind a sheet of tempered glass, and if you were in the back yard and allowed time for your eyes to adjust it was just enough amber light to navigate by. If you were, say, in front of the Chicken Coop it wasn't really enough light to let you see the little Coop door slide open, seemingly all by itself. But it was just barely enough light to let you see that three chickens, their heads bent low against the frigid wind ran from the Coop and made a bee-line for the Hoomin's kitchen door. The Hoomins were not at home that night. That was a necessary part of the plan. It was certainly enough light to allow all assembled in the kitchen to see the birds, puffed up enormously against the cold scurry in to the kitchen, sliding a bit on the linoleum. Chicken feet are not designed for traction on linoleum floors. Not at all. It was certainly enough light for all assembled in the kitchen to see the young Loki Dog, a black and white Australian Shepherd jump up against the kitchen door and slam it firmly closed with her forty pounds. All were greatly relieved when that door shut and the wind could no longer blow into the house. There was barking, meowing, clucking, dooking, and splashing from the Turtle in her tank up on the kitchen island. The three chickens, Three Bucks the Rooster and his two wives were invited over to the pellet stove to warm up which they promptly did, sitting down with their cold yellow feet completely hidden beneath them. They cooed in pleasure like doves as the warm air blew across their backs. For a good five minutes the chickens were allowed to warm up while everyone conversed. The Dog irritated the Cat, Sterling, by licking the top of his head. Sterling scrubbed at his gray head-fur furiously with a paw and rumbled an un-earthly tone that a smarter Dog would have been quite frightened by. Loki Dog was endlessly good natured and clever as Aussies are, but that is not quite the same thing as being *smart.* Caff-Pow the pale Ferret jumped up onto the kitchen island and stood up on his back feet against the glass of Tina the Turtle's 55 gallon tank. Tina was still mourning the fact that her Hoomin had abandoned her, tank and all to the Sargent-Colburns after six years of life together. Tina was no longer small and cute. She was big, and required a lot of tank cleaning. And Tina was proud. She did not like to talk about what had happened to her. Oh, it was true that she was eating better than she ever had, fresh food instead of the floating dry sticks that came in a jar from PetCo. But her feelings were terribly hurt, terribly hurt. Turtles experience things at their own pace, especially betrayal. Tina was uniformly unfriendly to all, and it was only Caff-Pow who still made any effort to speak with her. Caff-Pow jumped up until he was hanging from his front paws from the edge of Tina's tank. The Turtle was heaving herself up and onto the big synthetic rock beneath the heat lamp that she used for basking and sleeping. She turned until she faced Caff-Pow and gave him one of her typically inscrutable expressions. She blinked. She blinked again. "What?" She asked. Only that. "Do you think this will work?" asked Caff-Pow, excitedly. "No" said Tina, and she closed her eyes. Her head dipped until it rested on the rock's surface. Caff-Pow knew that he wouldn't get any more out of her, so he scrambled down until he was back on the living room floor where the others were now gathered in front of the pellet stove. He muscled in between the Cat and the Dog, and across from the chickens, who were still warming up with their backs to the pellet stove. Just then, Todd the Ferret came into the living room and joined them. He came from the Hoomins bedroom, and had what looked like one of the she-Hoomin's red sports-length socks wrapped around his head like a turban and held in place by what was CERTAINLY the she-Hoomin's grandmother's diamond brooch. Todd's makeshift turban glittered as if he were some fabulously exotic Maharaja. It really brought out the rich darkness of the raccoon mask around his eyes. Ooooh's and ahhh's greeted his appearance, and you could see that he was not unaffected by the other animal's appraisal. He stood up on his back feet in front of Three Bucks the Rooster and bowed, deeply. Three Bucks regarded him intently with his red eyes. It was no secret how Three Bucks felt about weasels. Todd stood slowly before Three Bucks, silently contemplating the Rooster's razor sharp beak and asked very simply "Did you bring it?" Three Bucks turned his head to regard his two wives, both beautiful Buff Brahma hens. One simply dropped her gaze and looked away. The other met his red eyes and nodded once, then closed her own eyes as if trying to gather some inner strength. Three Bucks, still in that sitting position that warmed his feet tipped forward, forward toward the floor in front of him and opened his left wing, slightly, holding it away from his body. Out slipped a single brown egg that met the carpet with a muted thump and rolled to a stop several inches away. All eyes, even the Turtle's were on that egg. Part Two, Tomorrow. Alexandra in MA [Posted in FML 7294]