“That's right。”
“But Mo…om；” they moaned。
“It's not open to discussion；” she said。 “He gets a bath； he gets a meal； he gets an ad in the
paper。”
My father put one arm around Matt's shoulder and the other around Mike's。 “Someday； boys；
we'll get a puppy。”
My mother was already heading back inside； but over her shoulder came； “Not until you learn
to keep your room neat； boys！”
By the end of the week； the dog was named Champ。 By the end of the next week； he'd made
it from the backyard into the kitchen area。 And not
too long after that； he was all moved in。 It seemed nobody wanted a full…grown dog with a
happy bark。 Nobody but four…fifths of the Baker family；
anyway。
Then my mother started noticing an odor。 A mysterious odor of indeterminate origin。 We all
admitted we smelled it； too； but where my mother
was convinced it was Eau de Champ； we disagreed。 She had us bathing him so often that it
couldn't possibly be him。 We each sniffed him out
pretty good and he smelled perfectly rosy。
My personal suspicion was that Matt and Mike were the ones not bathing enough； but I didn't
want to get close enough to sniff them。 And since
our camp was divided on just who the culprit or culprits were； the odor was dubbed the
Mystery Smell。 Whole dinnertime discussions revolved
around the Mystery Smell； which my brothers found amusing and my mother did not。
Then one day my mother cracked the case。 And she might have cracked Champ's skull as
well if my dad hadn't e to the rescue and shooed
him outside。
Mom was fuming。 “I told you it was him。 The Mystery Smell es from the Mystery Pisser！
Did you see that？ Did you see that？ He just squirted
on the end table！”
My father raced with a roll of paper towels to where Champ had been； and said； “Where？
Where is it？”
All of three drops were dripping down the table leg。 “There；” my mother said； pointing a
shaky finger at the wetness。 “There！”
Dad wiped it up； then checked the carpet and said； “It was barely a drop。”
“Exactly！” my mother said with her hands on her hips。 “Which is why I've never been able to
find anything。 That dog stays outside from now on。 Do
you hear me？ He is no longer allowed in this house！”
“How about the garage？” I asked。 “Can he sleep in there？”
“And have him tag everything that's out there？ No！”
Mike and Matt were grinning at each other。 “Mystery Pisser！ That could be the name for our
band！”
“Yeah！ Cool！”
“Band？” my mother asked。 “Wait a minute； what band？” But they were already flying down to
their room； laughing about the possibilities for a
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logo。
My father and I spent the rest of the day sniffing out and destroying criminal evidence。 My
dad used a spray bottle of ammonia； I followed up with
Lysol。 We did try to recruit my brothers； but they wound up getting into a spray…bottle fight；
which got them locked in their room； which； of course；
was fine with them。
So Champ became an outside dog； and he might have been our only pet ever if it hadn't
been for my fifth…grade science fair。
Everyone around me had great project ideas； but I couldn't seem to e up with one。 Then
our teacher； Mrs。 Brubeck； took me aside and told
me about a friend of hers who had chickens； and how she could get me a fertilized egg for
my project。
“But I don't know anything about hatching an egg；” I told her。
She smiled and put her arm around my shoulders。 “You don't have to be an immediate
expert at everything； Juli。 The idea here is to learn
something new。”
“But what if it dies？”
“Then it dies。 Document your work scientifically and you'll still get an A； if that's what you're
worried about。”
An A？ Being responsible for the death of a baby chick—that's what I was worried about。
Suddenly there was real appeal in building a volcano or
making my own neoprene or demonstrating the various scientific applications of gear ratios。
But the ball was in motion； and Mrs。 Brubeck would have no more discussion about it。 She
pulled The Beginner's Guide to Raising Chickens
from her bookshelf and said； “Read the section on artificial incubation and set yourself up
tonight。 I'll get you an egg tomorrow。”
“But …”
“Don't worry so much； Juli；” she said。 “We do this every year； and it's always one of the best
projects at the fair。”
I said； “But…；” but she was gone。 Off to put an end to some other student's battle with
indecision。
That night I was more worried than ever。 I'd read the chapter on incubation at least four times
and was still confused about where to start。 I didn't
happen to have an old aquarium lying around！ We didn't happen to have an incubation
thermometer！ Would a deep…fry model work？
I was supposed to control humidity； too； or horrible things would happen to the chick。 Too dry
and the chick couldn't peck out； too wet and it would
die of mushy chick disease。 Mushy chick disease？！
My mother； being the sensible person that she is； told me to tell Mrs。 Brubeck that I simply
wouldn't be hatching a chick。 “Have you considered
growing beans？” she asked me。
My father； however； understood that you can't refuse to do your teacher's assignment； and
he promised to help。 “An incubator's not difficult to
build。 We'll make one after dinner。”
How my father knows exactly where things are in our garage is one of the wonders of the
universe。 How he knew about incubators； however； was
revealed to me while he was drilling a one…inch hole in an old scrap of Plexiglas。 “I raised a
duck from an egg when I was in high school。” He
grinned at me。 “Science fair project。”
“A duck？”
“Yes； but the principle is the same for all poultry。 Keep the temperature constant and the
humidity right； turn the egg several times a day； and in a
few weeks you'll have yourself a little peeper。”
He handed me a lightbulb and an extension cord with a socket attached。 “Fasten this through
the hole in the Plexiglas。 I'll find some
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thermometers。”
“Some？ We need more than one？”
“We have to make you a hygrometer。”
“A hygrometer？” “To check the humidity inside the incubator。 It's just a thermometer with wet
gauze around the bulb。”
I smiled。 “No mushy chick disease？”
He smiled back。 “Precisely。”
By the next afternoon I had not one； but six chicken eggs incubating at a cozy 102 degrees
Fahrenheit。 “They don't all make it； Juli；” Mrs。 Brubeck
told me。 “Hope for one。 The record's three。 The grade's in the documentation。 Be a scientist。
Good luck。” And with that； she was off。
Documentation？ Of what？ I had to turn the eggs three times a day and regulate the
temperature and humidity； but aside from that what was there
to do？
That night my father came out to the garage with a cardboard tube and a flashligh