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“Surely,” said Bob, arching a superior
eyebrow, “stealing dog biscuits is beneath you.”

Miss Demeanor arched a superior eyebrow of her own.
“Nothing
is beneath us,” she said with pride.

I caught the little smile behind her eyes and began to wonder if Chester might have been right. Perhaps something terrible
was
going to happen.

C
HESTER was thinking the same way I was.

“Didn't I tell you?” he muttered, as Jill and Daisy escorted us to our bungalows. The two of us trailed behind Jill, while Howie rode first class in Daisy's arms. “Those two spell trouble.”

“I don't know if they're that bright,” I said. Personally, I wasn't sure they were the biggest of our worries. After all, we hadn't met the hymn-singing weasel yet.

As it turned out, we didn't have long to
wait. He was staying in the bungalow next to mine.

“Harold,” Jill said, “this is The Weasel. Don't let his name fool you. He's a sweetie, isn't he, Daisy?”

Daisy looked up from where she had her head buried in Howie's tummy. “I call him Little Darlin',” she said, as if that proved something other than her own inability to call animals by their rightful name.

After she and Jill returned to the office, The Weasel weaseled out of his bungalow and into mine. I retreated to a corner, not sure how eager I was for the company of this slinky, not exactly aromatic creature with the beady eyes and pointy nose.

“Hello, friend,” he said in a velvety, soothing tone. I suspect he sensed my discomfort. The fact that the floor was covered with the hair I'd shed immediately on his arrival might have been a tip-off.

“I've just come to spread a little sunshine,” he went on.

“That's nice,” I said.

“I just want you to know, since we're going to be neighbors and all, that you can call on me anytime. If you need anything, anything at all, I'll be here as quick as a mink.”

“That's very—”

“Weasels get a bum rap, don't you agree?”

“Yes, well—”

“Look at me, do I seem mean, sneaky, homicidal?”

“Gee, I—”

“Of course I don't. Judge not, lest ye be judged, that's what I always say. Take yourself, for instance.” I wanted to take myself right out of there, but The Weasel was blocking the way. “You're not dumb and lazy and covered with fleas.”

“Well, he got one out of three right,” I heard Chester crack from the bungalow to my left. I glowered in his direction.

“Would you like to take a stroll with me?” The Weasel asked. “Get acquainted?”

I noticed that he never stopped smiling. I
began thinking what a great game-show host he would make.

“Well?” he asked.

“Oh, sorry.” I wanted to say no, but fearing that he'd think me lazy if I did, I said, without much conviction, “Sure.”

There's one thing I should tell you about Chateau Bow-Wow. For all the fancy security, the bungalows are a snap to open from the inside. We were out in the compound in a flash.

Chester hissed at me as we passed, “Watch your wallet.”

“May I come too?” Howie yipped.

“Of course,” I said.

It took Howie a minute to maneuver the latch with his nose, and then the three of us set off on our stroll.

After a moment, Howie said, “Wow, to think this is where I was born. I wish my mom and dad were here. What were their names again, Uncle Harold?”

“Howard and Heather.”

Howie sighed. “Where was I born, Uncle Harold? I mean, show me the place.”

Given the dramatic circumstances surrounding Howie's birth, it wasn't difficult to recall the exact spot. “Over there,” I said, nodding toward a far corner of the compound. There wasn't much to see. I instructed Howie to lift his chin.

“Up,” I said, “above the fence, on the other side of the compound, what do you see?”

“A roof.”

“That's it. That's the roof of the storage shed and inside that storage shed is where you were born.”

“Can we go in?”

The Weasel chuckled. “I imagine your parents dug under the fence to get in there, but
nobody
digs under that fence anymore. Believe me, I've tried.”

“Aw, shucks,” Howie said. He sighed again, deeper this time.

I wanted to ask The Weasel what reason he'd had for trying to dig his way under the
fence but a startling sight knocked the question right out of my mind.

A dog, a big dog, the biggest dog I'd ever seen, stood gazing at us with drooping eyes. He woofed once, rather forlornly, then dropped his head as if he'd used up all his energy for the day.

“That's Hamlet,” The Weasel informed us. “I visit him at least once a day to cheer him up.

“Why does he need cheering up?” I asked.

“It's a long story. I'll let him tell you,” said The Weasel. Then skittering off ahead of us, he called out, “Hamlet, how are you, my good fellow?”

“I like him,” Howie said of The Weasel. “He's really friendly. Besides, it's nice knowing somebody else who looks like a hot dog in a fur coat.”

I nodded. I liked The Weasel too, even if he was a little odd. But, then, in my particular circle of friends, who wasn't?

“This is Hamlet,” The Weasel said as we
approached. “Hamlet, this is Harold and this is Howie.”

We both said hello, and Howie asked, “What kind of dog are you, Hamlet?”

“A Dane.”

“A Great Dane?” he asked.

“I
was
a Great Dane, but I'm so down-hearted these days I don't feel so great anymore.”

Howie nodded. “I guess you're more of a melancholy Dane, huh?”

“Indeed,” said Hamlet.

“But why?” I asked. “Did something happen to you?”

Hamlet lifted his head enough that he could let it drop again. “In a way,” he said. “Accompany me to the community water cooler and I will tell you my sad tale.”

As he lumbered slowly ahead of us, I could see his age in every limping step. “Danged arthritis,” I heard him mutter.

We all had a drink of water, then Hamlet directed us to a nearby tree. As we gathered
around him, he gingerly settled down next to its trunk, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“I am here because my owner, Archibald Fenster, the great Shakespearean actor—perhaps you've heard of him?” He looked at us in such a hopeful way that I felt sorry to have to shake my head no. In fact, I had no idea what a Shakespearean actor even was, but I didn't want to admit it.

“Ah. Well,” said Hamlet and, even sadder now, he went on. “Well, Archie—Archibald Fenster, that is, the great Shakespearean actor—travels a great deal, you see, because he is so in demand. And I have always accompanied him and Little Willie wherever they appeared.”

“Little Willie?” I asked.

“His acting partner. They call him that because he's so short. Well, several months ago, Archie informed me that he and Willie were departing on a tour of Europe and that they could not take me with them
this time. I was stunned. I whimpered and drooled and panted briskly. But all to no avail.

“He said something about my advanced years and my arthritis, not wanting to put me through the travails of travel and all. But I suspect it was his own advanced years and failing health that made him decide not to take me. I'd probably become a burden to him.” Hamlet sighed. “He told me that while he was away, I would stay with his cousin Flo Fenster of Centerville and there he would find me upon his return.”

He hesitated long enough to give me a good idea what was coming next. “Three months have passed and Archie has not returned.”

“But why are you here?” I asked. “What happened to Cousin Flo?”

“She married a man who loved her dimples but hated her dog,” Hamlet replied simply. “I only hope Archie knows where to find me when his journey brings him home at last.”

Three months was a long time. I tried to
imagine the Monroes being gone for three months. No sharing chocolate treats with Toby. No feeling Mr. Monroe's fingers scratching that special spot between my ears. No surprises in my bowl from Mrs. Monroe. No Pete's smelly socks.

I got choked up just thinking about it. Not the socks, I mean, but the loneliness. No wonder Hamlet was a melancholy Dane.

Just then, a loud raspy voice cried out,
“Dinnertime! Dinnertime!”

“Sounds like Jill gargled with Drano,” Howie said.

“That isn't Jill, it's Ditto,” The Weasel informed us. “Look, there, in the window of Dr. Greenbriar's office.”

Far across the compound, just inside Dr. Greenbriar's open window, sat a bird in a cage. A large, green bird with a bent-over beak.
“Dinnertime! Dinnertime!”
it repeated.

“Ditto's great,” said The Weasel. “We call her ‘the informer.' She's telling us they're going to be out here with our food dishes any
minute. We've got to get back to our bungalows before they find us on the loose.”

We rose and accompanied the limping, lumbering Hamlet to his bungalow before returning to our own. As he drew closer, he stopped and moaned, “Woe. Oh, woe is me.”

“Is the food really that bad?” Howie asked.

“Maybe he's thinking about Archie,” I suggested.

“Perhaps it's the cramped quarters,” The Weasel said. “Awfully small for such a big dog, don't you think?”

“It's none of the above,” said Hamlet. “Rather—” He perked up his ears. “There it is again; don't you hear it?”

I strained to listen, but heard nothing.

“It's coming from over there,” said Hamlet. He looked in the direction of the storage shed. And that's when I heard it too. It was a whining, a whimpering sort of sound.

Howie's ears perked up. “Mommy?” he asked. “Is that you?”

“Is there a dog in the shed?” I inquired.

Hamlet shook his head. “That's what I thought when I first heard it. But it seems to be coming from this side of the fence.”

Howie ran toward the corner of the compound and began sniffing madly. As we followed, the sound grew louder, although it remained muted, as if it were coming from under something.

“What is it?” I asked.

We all looked to where Howie stood stock-still, his nose pointing toward the ground. Dirt. Nothing but dirt. A chill came over me as I realized that whatever was making the sound was buried beneath the earth.

The whimpering changed to a plaintive barking.

“Wow,” Howie said, “I've heard of an underdog, but this is ridiculous!”

Just then, Ditto squawked,
“Get the door, Daisy! Get the door.”

“They're coming!” said The Weasel. “Hurry, back to the bungalows.”

As I turned to go, I noticed that Hamlet was shivering. I assumed, considering that it was a hot day and Hamlet's bungalow was only a few yards from where the mysterious noises were emanating, that he shook from fear, not cold.

“Don't worry,” I told him. “I'll talk to my friend Chester. He's good at figuring things out.”

Wow, I thought, as I raced away with Howie and The Weasel, a real paranormal experience. What would Chester say?

“Baloney!” I heard him mutter as I told him the news over our dinner dishes. A wall separated us, but I knew Chester well enough to imagine just what his face looked like when he said it.

“What do you mean?” I asked, surprised at his response.

“This food is worse than baloney,” he answered. “I can't believe how this place has gone downhill. I'm calling my travel agent when we get home.”

I have to admit the food wasn't great, but
at least there was lots of it, which is a primary consideration for us canines. Cats, as you undoubtedly know, are much more finicky eaters.

Chester gagged. In cat language, that means the current cuisine has just failed to get a four-star rating.