The Hen of the Baskervilles by Donna Andrews Page A

cows.”
    â€œCool.” Rob was already pulling out his cell phone and punching numbers. “It’s okay,” he said. “The Crackers are cows. Send him to the cow barn. Right.”
    â€œYou could have called with that question,” I said. “Or—wild and crazy idea—gone to look in his truck.”
    â€œI did call, but your phone kept ringing busy,” he said. “Needed a break, anyway. And I wanted to get the scoop on the great chicken robbery. Did the thief get the whole flock?”
    â€œTwo chickens are missing,” I said.
    â€œIs that all?” he asked. “Then why do you have Horace going crazy doing forensics? Are they that valuable?”
    â€œThey are to the owners,” I said.
    â€œAnd they’re a rare, heritage breed,” Randall put in.
    â€œWhat is with all this heritage and heirloom stuff, anyway?” Rob asked.
    Talk about giving Randall the perfect opening to talk about his latest obsession. I tried not to giggle.
    â€œHeirloom crops are ones that are in danger of falling by the wayside because they’re not the ones that Big Agriculture finds useful,” Randall began. “Same with heritage animal and bird breeds.”
    And speaking of those breeds, I decided it would be useful to print out a copy of a page I’d bookmarked—the American Livestock Breed Conservancy’s list of farm animals and poultry that were a conservation priority. I was tired of being confused when people talked about Sablepoots and Old Spots. And I’d already figured out that the more obscure the animal’s breed, the more annoyed its owner would be if you didn’t recognize it.
    â€œSo what’s so special about these heritage animals?” Rob was asking.
    â€œLet me show you one,” Randall said.
    He strode out the door and disappeared. Rob had to scramble to keep up. I grabbed my printout and followed along for the entertainment value. From the enthusiasm with which he extolled heritage livestock and heirloom seeds, you’d think Randall was a fifth- or sixth-generation farmer. And some of his family were farmers, but a lot more of them were carpenters, plumbers, electricians, mechanics—just about any skilled trade that would get them out from behind a plow. Randall as the champion of the old-fashioned farm was a new role that still amused me.
    He led us to a small pen.
    â€œThis,” he said, “is an American Mammoth Jackstock donkey.”
    Staring back at us was a large donkey. His coat was black on top, shaded to gray or white on his belly and the inside of his legs, and he had a white nose and pale rings around his eyes. His ears were so large they seemed incongruous, as if someone had stuck a pair of fake bunny ears on a horse. But they were definitely real. One of them swiveled ninety degrees to the right, apparently tracking a sound so faint none of us noticed, and then snapped back to attention facing us.
    â€œI thought donkeys were little,” Rob said. “He’s the size of a small horse.”
    â€œThey were bred for size and strength,” Randall explained. “By George Washington and other early colonial farmers. You breed one of these donkeys to a saddle mare and you’ve got yourself a decent-sized riding mule. Breed him to a draft mare and you’ve got a big, strapping work mule.”
    â€œBut why go to all that trouble of breeding mules when you’ve already got horses and donkeys?” Rob asked. “Why not just use them? Plus with horses and donkeys you can always make more little horses and donkeys, but mules are kind of a dead end.”
    â€œMules get the best of both parents,” Randall said. “They’re more patient and surefooted than a horse, and can carry bigger loads. And they’re bigger and stronger than donkeys. And supposedly more intelligent than either horses or donkeys. No offense, Jim-Bob.”
    He patted the donkey’s