“The Monroes are leaving, and they’re going to do something to us with boards,” I told him.
“Don’t say hello or anything,” Chester replied, without moving a muscle.
“Oh, sorry. Hello, Chester. How’s it going?”
Chester just nodded his head slowly as if that were supposed to be telling me something. “Now what was that about boards?” he asked at last.
“I’m not sure. They’re leaving, and they’re going to tie us to boards or something, that’s all I know.”
“I’m sure that’s not all you know, Harold,” he said smoothly. “It may be all your brain can handle right now, but I’m sure you know at least one or two things more. Now, let’s try again. What exactly did you hear?”
“Well,” I explained, “Toby told me that while the family goes on vacation, you and I are going to be boarded.”
“Boarded?!!” Chester exclaimed, his mellowness suddenly gone with the passing breeze. “We’re going to be boarded? I can’t believe they’d do this to us. It figures! That’s all I can say. It just figures!”
“What figures?” I asked. “What are they going to do to us?”
“Oh, just lock us up and throw away the key, that’s all. Prison, Harold, that’s what it boils down to. We’re in their way now that they want to go off and have some fun. So out the door we go and into some dank, dark pit where we’ll be fed moldy bread and rainwater—if we’re lucky! You don’t know what these places are like, Harold. But I do!”
“How?” I asked. “Were you ever boarded?”
“Was I ever boarded? Was I ever boarded?”
“That’s what I asked, Chester. Were you ever boarded?”
“I’ve read Charles Dickens, sport,” was his only reply, and he turned his attention to his tail, which he suddenly felt compelled to bathe. A scowl grew on his face, and I thought that if it were possible, dark rain clouds would have formed around his eyebrows.
“I’ll tell you something else, Harold,” he muttered. His hysteria had subsided, and he spoke now in a low, serious tone.
“What’s that?”
“You have to keep your eyes open all the time in places like those. You never know what will happen next.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Think about it,” he went on. “A group of strangers are thrown together by circumstance. Who knows who they are? Where they’ve come from? What they’re doing there? The one smiling at you across the food dish in the morning could murder you in your sleep at night.”
“Chester,” I said, interrupting, “I think perhaps your imagination is running away with you.”
“Hah!” Chester snorted. “Mark my words, Harold. Keep your eyes open and your door shut. Just remember: they aren’t called strangers for nothing!” And he walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
With everything Chester had said about strangers, it was hard for me at that moment to picture anyone stranger than Chester. But time would certainly bear out his warning. And I have to admit that even then there was something in the conviction with which he spoke that made me uneasy. So much so that when I saw Mr. Monroe coming in my direction, I was immediately distrustful. And this of a man whose home I had lived in for years and whose running shoes I had been eating but moments before!
“Hey there, Harold, guess what? You’re going away on a little vacation. Aren’t you lucky?” I smelled a con job and kept my distance. “You and Chester are going to stay in a nice animal hotel for a few days. You’ll meet some new friends and have a lot of fun. Doesn’t that sound terrific?” Interesting he doesn’t mention the food, I thought. Having no intention of being conned into living on mold and rainwater, I decided to try a tactic I save for only the most dire of circumstances. As pitifully as I knew how, I started to whimper.
“Aw, poor Harold,” Mr. Monroe said quietly, reaching down to pat me on the top of my head (I was sure I had him hooked), “I wish we could take you with us, fella, but we can’t.” Rats. “Besides, you’ll have a good time at Chateau Bow-Wow. Doesn’t that sound like a nice place to stay? Now, come on, boy,” he said, moving back toward the driveway, “jump up here into the back of the station wagon.”
Hmm, Chateau Bow-Wow, I thought as I followed him, it doesn’t sound so bad. Not the Waldorf-Astoria maybe, but not bad. Still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go anywhere, particularly after everything Chester had just told me. I lifted my head and let out a soft, muted moan. When I dropped my head again, I noticed Chester lying under the car in the shade by the rear tire. He looked at me and shook his head slowly.
“What a disgusting display,” he said, sighing heavily. “But what can one expect from a dog, after all?”
“Well,” I replied, “I’m glad to see that you’re so resigned to being dragged off to prison.”
“I’m not resigned,” he said calmly, licking a paw. “I’m not going.”
“Oh really?” I asked. “And just how do you intend to manage that?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Monroe came out of the front door with Chester’s carrier, a large square box with a little window in one end. I always tell Chester that it looks like he’s on television when he’s inside. He doesn’t find that very amusing. In fact, just the sight of his carrier is usually enough to send him into a panic, hissing and hyperventilating up a storm. This time, however, he seemed determined to remain cool.
“Toby,” Mrs. Monroe instructed her youngest son, “see if you and Pete can find Chester, will you?” Pete appeared at the door behind Toby.
“Excuse me,” Chester said to me, “it’s time for my exit.” And so saying, he made a mad dash for the nearest lilac bush.
Unfortunately for him, Toby and Pete were on to his favorite hiding places. And Pete, who had taken up jogging with his dad, was fast on Chester’s heels. Grabbing him by the tail (not the best place to grab anyone, let alone a cat), Pete yanked him back and into his arms before Chester could do much more than let out a yelp of disapproval. Pete then attempted to force Chester into the waiting carrier, but Chester spread out all four of his legs so that his paws tightly clamped the edges of the box. With his legs held rigidly in place, he screamed and he hissed and he generally let it be known in no uncertain terms that he had no intention of going anywhere. All, however, was to no avail, for he was quickly surrounded by the entire Monroe family, and before he knew what had happened, he was squashed into the carrier and plopped into the car.
I, on the other hand, went with quiet dignity, allowing myself to be lured into the back of the station wagon by a chocolate cupcake and Mr. Monroe’s calm affirmation that adventure was good for the soul.
Chester and I had a few moments alone before the rest of the family joined us. Licking the last traces of chocolate frosting from the tip of my nose, I turned to the beast growling inside the cat carrier. I was intrigued by Mr. Monroe’s statement about the effect of adventure on the soul and thought perhaps I could pass the time engaging Chester in a deep philosophical conversation.
“Well, Chester,” I began, “what do you think?”
“I think you made a fool of yourself over that cupcake,” he said.
Then again, I thought, perhaps not. I decided to try another tack.
“You know, Chester,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, “maybe there’s nothing for us to worry about. The way Mr. Monroe tells it, Chateau Bow-Wow sounds like a really nice place.”
Chester, who had been grumbling under his breath all this time, was suddenly silent.
“What did you say?” he asked after a moment.
“I said, ‘Chateau Bow-Wow sounds like a really nice place.’ ”