Had they looked back, they would have been surprised to see the farmer still watching them, his shoulders slumped, the expression on his long face a mixture of misery and relief. They would have been even more surprised to see Mr. Tate do a very strange thing. He looked up at the clear blue sky and made the sign of the cross, his lips moving as if in prayer. Only when the car had disappeared did he make his weary way back to the yard. Although the sun was still hot, he shivered as he walked into the farmhouse.

“No going back now,” he muttered under his breath.

CHAPTER 2
THE SLAUGHTERED SHEEP

By the time they had reached the end of the farm track, Woody’s Eau de Country Cow Pie body odor problem had become so bad that Nat could almost taste it.

“Quick!” spluttered Mick, trying to breathe through his mouth. “Open the windows!”

Woody stuck his head out, his tongue snaking over the side of the window like a pink banner. Nat, by this time struggling for fresh air, stuck his head out of the other side as Woody’s distressed moaning stretched into a soul-shriveling howl, so loud it made Nat’s ears ring. At Temple Cross, Mick threw up his hands in surrender and made a decision he regretted exactly ninety-seven seconds later.

“I think a pit stop might be a good idea,” he gasped; the smell was making him woozy.

As Mick pulled into the bustling market square, Woody was getting desperate. “AAAAAAAWHHHHOOOOOOOhhoooooooooo,” he howled in anguish, his ears flattened against his skull. “WHHHOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOO OOOOH.”

Jude’s normally pale face was flushed brick red with heat and embarrassment as shoppers stopped dead in their tracks, craning their necks to see who or what was making such a racket.

“For goodness’ sake, Nat, shut him up!” Jude yelled, putting her hands over her ears. “Everyone’s looking!”

Mick turned off the ignition. Nat closed his eyes in a prayer of thanks as the howling stopped abruptly, and Woody poked his head between the front seats. Strings of saliva swung gently as he made little chuffing yips, blowing his furry cheeks out in distress. To a delicate traveler like Nat, no stranger to a sick bag himself, it wasn’t hard to guess what was coming next.

“LOOK OUT!” he shouted. “HE’S GOING TO BE SICK!”

Across the square, the commotion had alerted customers eating their lunch outside the Slaughtered Sheep, a pretty sixteenth-century inn. Forks poised in disgusted dismay, they watched as the sweaty family spilled hastily out of the tiny car and Mick and Jude fled to the public toilets to clean up. Time seemed to stand still for a moment as the sight of Woody’s last meal registered with the people outside the pub. Nat feared there would be a mass puke-a-thon, as everyone followed Woody’s example and lost their overpriced grub in sympathy.