Foxy Loxy looked forlornly at his standard-issue police notebook and the open page, devoid of marks of any kind. They had definitely drawn a blank.
The goat tracks had led into some nearby woods but then got lost in a stream. Weasel had been predictably pessimistically disinclined to cross.
“We probably won’t be able to find the track again on the other side,” he had complained. “The ground’s too stony.”
The ground was stony it was true, particularly along the bottom of the stream. Foxy was not prepared to admit defeat that easily, however.
“There’s only one way to find out,” he told his companion.
“I’ll probably get hypothermia and drown,” said Weasel.
“The water’s only two inches deep!”
“Hmph. I’m not convinced, but I guess that if I stay here I’ll probably get eaten by a bear or something anyway…”
Reluctantly, Weasel splashed after Foxy to the far bank.
“There are no bears in these woods.” Foxy told him when they had safely crossed.
“A dragon, then.”
“Dragons don’t exist.”
“Knowing my luck, I’d fall foul of the first ever carnivorous pheasant, then.”
The fox shook his head despairingly and looked around. This side of the stream, Weasel’s initial pessimism became reality. There was no sign of the goat track anywhere and Foxy was unable to pick up the animal’s scent.
Foxy kicked a stone into the stream in frustration. “We should have brought Cassidy along. He may have picked up the scent.”
“Hmph,” said Weasel. “More chance of finding a non-existent dragon that would want to help us.”
Grudgingly, Foxy was forced to accept defeat. The pair had trudged silently back to Police Headquarters, where Foxy had instructed Turkey Lurkey to make an official statement and wait for him.
“So you’ve got an eyewitness but can’t bally-well find him or her?” asked Turkey Lurkey after hearing the news.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“What rotten luck.”
“I figure they wouldn’t be able to tell us anything even if we did find them,” said Weasel.
“Not now, Weasel.” Foxy snapped. Sometimes his colleague could be a bit annoying.
“This certainly is a stinker,” said Turkey.
The three of them sat in silence for a moment before Foxy Loxy suddenly perked up.
“Of course!" he cried, face-palming himself with his front right paw. "A stinker!”
“What? What? What?” asked Turkey.
“Old Joe goat’s bunions! Toby Ron Ken O’Bee keeps goats and his place is west of the bomb site. That goat could have been one of his.” Foxy glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s too late now but tomorrow, I suggest we pay Mr O’Bee a visit.”