She stepped out into the hallway and glanced back at Mrs. Food’s door. They hadn’t missed her YET. She didn’t have much time.
Butterbean trotted down the hallway and pushed the button to the elevator. (It was hard not to do her jaunty walk, because even though everything was very serious, she was still OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT. BY HERSELF. In the hallway without even her LEASH.)
Butterbean pushed the elevator button again, in case that would help. (Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six had seemed to think it would.) Then she waited anxiously, shooting looks back at Mrs. Food’s door every few seconds.
She knew what she needed to do. She just couldn’t get caught. Her plan would work.
The elevator dinged. The doors opened. It was empty.
So far so good.
Butterbean straightened herself up to full height (which, to be fair, wasn’t very tall) and marched inside. Operation Dog Therapy had started.
Walt paced around the bedroom, her tail twitching anxiously. Butterbean was gone. Probably in trouble. And there wasn’t anything Walt could do.
Mrs. Food hadn’t even really needed company. She’d just patted Walt on the head a few times and climbed into bed, falling asleep almost right away. She was already snoring.
Walt circled the room one more time. Before the knock on the door, Walt had barely been able to keep her eyes open, but now she didn’t think she was ever going to sleep again.
Walt sat down and looked around, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She’d been so careful to make a secret escape route behind the couch in the living room. She could go anywhere, at any time, and no one would ever know.
She’d thought she’d been so smart. It had never occurred to her that she might need one in the bedroom. But she did. And now it was too late.
She was trapped.
Oscar stared at the flowery quilted cover surrounding his cage. It had always made him feel cozy before, but now it just made him feel claustrophobic. He cocked his head and listened as hard as he could, but he couldn’t tell what was going on in the living room. He didn’t even know if anyone was in there. It was like he was sitting in a soundproof box. Anything could be happening out there. Anything.
Oscar dumped his food dish out onto the floor in disgust. He was useless. He should’ve taken Butterbean’s therapy talk more seriously. But he hadn’t. And now she was in danger.
Marco’s feet twitched in his sleep, like he was running in a dream. (He was.) He kicked one of his hind feet out hard, hitting Polo squarely on the head. She sat up abruptly and looked around, her eyes bleary. She stared for a long minute at Oscar’s covered cage, frowning. Then she blinked and swayed slightly. She blinked again, but this time her eyes stayed shut. “Celery sticks,” she murmured as she stretched out onto her stomach and fell back asleep.
“Mmmmm,” Wallace muttered to himself in his sleep. He’d always loved celery sticks.
Walt was tired of pacing. She was tired of staring at the clock. She wasn’t even sure how long it had been. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. (Standard clocks were still a mystery to her.) But she knew one thing. She wasn’t waiting anymore.
“OUT! NOW! MRS. FOOD!” Walt yowled from her position at the door. Mrs. Food’s only response was a soft snore.
Walt jumped up onto the bed to assess the situation. Mrs. Food was lying on her back with her mouth open slightly. Walt examined her carefully. Definitely asleep. She leaned over and meowed loudly into Mrs. Food’s ear. No reaction.
“Ahem. Mrs. Food?” Walt meowed again, batting Mrs. Food on the nose with one paw.
Nothing.
Walt batted again, on Mrs. Food’s chin this time. Mrs. Food stayed asleep. (Although Walt suspected she might be faking.)
Walt shook her head. She had no choice. She was going to have to go big. She just hoped Mrs. Food would understand.
Standing up, Walt stepped heavily onto Mrs. Food’s stomach.
“OOF!” Mrs. Food let out a puff of air, but her eyes were still closed.
Walt walked slowly up to Mrs. Food’s head. Then, turning around, she lay down squarely on Mrs. Food’s face.
“MMMFFFRTTTH…” Mrs. Food sputtered, spitting cat fur out of her mouth. “Wha…” She sat up, pushing Walt onto the pillow. “That’s it, cat,” she said, flinging the covers back and staggering to her feet. Then she marched over to the bedroom door, throwing it open wide. “Out!”
Walt didn’t need to be asked twice. Without a backward glance, she streaked out of the room and disappeared down the hallway.
“Hello? Is someone there?” Oscar cocked his head. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the cover on his cage had shifted a little. He shifted on the perch and cocked his head to the other side. “Hello? Is someone—WHOOOOOAAA!” Oscar clung to his perch as something landed with a thud on top of his cage, making it swing violently from side to side.
Oscar tumbled to the floor of his cage. He’d only ever had this happen once before, and that had been a few years earlier when a delivery man had knocked his cage over by mistake. (Oscar had dubbed it the Great Cage Catastrophe. It still gave him nightmares.) He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for impact.
But the crash didn’t come.
Instead, there was a slippery sliding noise as the quilted cover fell to the floor, making the cage swing even more crazily.
Oscar wobbled over to the bars to peer out.
There, on the floor, was Walt. She was sprawled in a heap with the cage cover tangled around her. She stood up and shook herself off, stepping gracefully out of the crumpled fabric.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” Walt demanded, smoothing her fur. “Butterbean’s in trouble. Let’s go.”
Walt and Oscar made it down to the basement in record time. They hadn’t even waited to make sure that no one was in the elevator—they just bolted inside as soon as the doors opened. (Luckily it was empty.) But aside from a few signs of Butterbean here and there (a patch of drool by the elevator doors, a clump of hair stuck to the elevator rug), there was no signof the dog herself.
“We’ll get there in time,” Oscar said quietly, watching the numbers light up. “She’s fine.” But his words sounded hollow. They both knew that might not be true.
“That raccoon wasn’t joking,” Walt said in a low voice. “That threat was real.”
Oscar didn’t say anything. They both knew Walt was right.
“Basement,” the elevator voice said. Walt leaned against the doors, and as soon as they opened, she raced out of the elevator. Three rats were standing outside the door to the storage area.
One stepped forward, holding his hands up defensively.“We tried to stop her. Don’t blame us.”
“She wouldn’t listen,” the second rat said, wringing her hands.
Walt and Oscar looked at each other in dismay.
“Um. Thanks… Pocky, was it?” Oscar said.
“I’m Lego,” the first rat said. “That’s Pocky.” He jerked his head toward the second rat. “And over there, that’s Ken.”
“Hey,” the third rat said, lifting his hand in a low wave. “Your dog friend? She’s in there. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. You shouldn’t go in there,” Lego said. “It’s bad.”
“Is she really a therapist?” Pocky asked.
“But how did she get in?” Walt asked. That had been the one thing giving her hope. That Butterbean wouldn’t be able to get inside. She couldn’t go through the vents, after all, and no one was with her to open the door. She turned on Pocky, the rat who was closest to her. “Was it you? Did you open the door for her?”
“Not us,” Pocky said, raising her hands up. “Him.” She jerked her thumb upward.
Chad, dangling from the exit sign, waved a tentacle.“How’s it going?”
“Chad?” Oscar couldn’t believe it. It had never occurred to him that Butterbean might have an accomplice.
“Why would you do that?” Walt demanded.
“What? She showed up at my door. She said she’d pay. Canned tuna,” Chad said grouchily. “How was I supposed to know this was a rogue operation?”