Return to Howliday Inn

by James Howe

  “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 g
ood 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.

  “Oh, come on,” I said, “it isn’t that bad.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Chester croaked.

  On the other side of Chester, Howie piped up, “Hey, Pop! Here’s a joke that’s right up your alley.”

  Chester groaned. Howie went on anyway.

  “What do you call a fancy dance for rabbits?”

  “I give up, Howie. What do you call a fancy dance for rabbits?”

  “A hare ball.”

  Chester hissed. Howie chortled. I tried to get us back on the subject.

  “I’m telling you, Chester,” I said. “There was a sound coming from under the ground. We all heard it”.

  “Mass hysteria,” said Chester. “It’s common among dogs.”

  “I heard it too,” The Weasel said from the other side of me.

  “If that’s your star witness,” Chester told me softly, “your case is in serious trouble, Harold.”

  I was all set to express my astonishment at Chester’s failure to be excited by my discovery when the reason dawned on me. It was just because it had been my discovery that Chester couldn’t get excited. He’s usually the one who’s onto some mystery or other while I’m home napping. Well, today the tables had been turned and Chester wasn’t happy about it. I decided to try a different approach.

  “I wish you had been there, Chester,” I said. “You would have known what was going on.”

  Chester began to purr. “Wellll,” he said, “purrrrhaps.” I love it when he tries to sound modest.

  “Say,” I said, “you don’t suppose it could be one of those paranormal things, do you, Chester?”

  It took a moment for him to reply. “Possibly,” he said.

  “Maybe a UFO has landed on the other side of the fence.”

  “These things do happen.” I could hear the excitement building in his voice. “There are recorded cases. Why, in southern California alone, Harold—”

  “Do you think we should investigate?” I asked. I knew if I didn’t interrupt he’d be telling me about every UFO sighting he’d ever read about.

  “In time, in time,” he answered, in a tone that let me know he thought he was back in charge and he intended to stay in charge.

  That was okay with me. To tell you the truth, I was just as glad he didn’t want to investigate anything at that moment. Full of bad but filling food, I was groggy and ready for a little shut-eye. It wasn’t long before I’d fallen fast asleep.

  The sound of hushed voices woke me some time later. I’m not sure how much later, but it was dark and the moon was out. I strained to hear.

  “No! I’ve already told you—”

  “Come on, be a pal. You’re the only one who—”

  “Shh, not so loud. You wanna wake up the whole joint?”

  I recognized two of the voices as Felony’s and Miss Demeanor’s, but whose was the third?

  “Look, leave me alone, will you? You just don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, yeah, tell it to the judge.”

  “Listen, we can’t do this thing without you.”

  “And I told you—”

  Suddenly, I heard Chester’s voice joining the others.

  “What’s going on out there?” he demanded. That’s when I realized the voices were coming from just outside our bungalows.

  “Oohh,” I heard Miss Demeanor purr. “It’s the one with the cute whiskers. How’re you doin’? Want some ’nip?”

  “Some what?” Chester said.

  “‘Nip, ’nip. Want some ’nip to chew? Here.”

  There was a spitting sound and Chester said, “Good grief, I don’t want your used catnip.”

  I moved to the front of my bungalow and looked out. Miss Demeanor was retrieving something from the ground. “I prefer to think of it as sharing,” she muttered.

  Chester sighed. “That is so gross,” he said. “But you didn’t answer my question. What’s going on out there?”

  “Just gettin’ a little air,” said Felony, coming into view. “What’s it to ya?”

  “It sounded to me like you were scheming something.”

  “We’re always scheming something,” said Felony. “We’re cats.”

  Chester didn’t have an argument for that one.

  Just then, Linda’s voice rang out in the night air, “But, Bob, we can’t just do nothing. We must find out what’s happened to them!”

  Before Bob or anyone else had a chance to react, there came a second voice: tiny, plaintive, and so out-and-out weird that it sent a shiver of fear through every part of me.

  At first it barked. Then it began to cry out in a strangled sort of way, “Let me out! Please . . . let . . . me . . . out . . . of . . . here!”

  [ FOUR ]

  Rosebud

  “A H-OOOOOOOOOOO!” Howie’s frightened howl—the kind Chester likes to describe as werewolvian—seemed to make the very walls of our bungalows quiver and shake.

  As fast as we could, we unlatched our doors and hurried across the compound, where we gathered in a hushed semicircle around that curious mound of dirt. I glanced to my left. Bob and Linda were huddled together, their teeth rattling. Next to them were the two cat burglars, looking a little more like timid pussycats than they might have wished. To my right, The Weasel was softly singing an inspirational tune in a tremulous voice while Hamlet whimpered and Howie woofed.

  Chester, meanwhile, stared unwaveringly at the mound of dirt, his head thrust forward in the classic feline stalking position or, as he prefers to call it, his don’t-make-a-move-I’ve-got-you-covered look.

  “What do you think?” I whispered.

  “I think there’s someone in there,” he said.

  At that, the general level of rattling, whimpering, and woofing rose sharply and The Weasel burst out singing: “I will be brave, I will be strong, I will be right, unless I am wrong.”

  If this was some sort of weasel anthem, it was pretty wishy-washy. No one bothered to comment, however. We were all much too busy listening to our own hearts thumping wildly in our chests.

  “Let me out!” called the voice from beneath the ground.

  “Oh, Bob,” I heard Linda say, “why couldn’t they have gone to a Club Med and taken us with them?”

  “I don’t know about anybody else,” said Chester, “but I think it’s time we did a little digging. Harold.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a good digger. I’ve seen you.”

  “Why is it you only compliment me when you want something?” I asked.

  Chester turned, a surprised look on his face. “That isn’t true. Just the other day, I told you I liked your eyes.”

  “Yes, but when I got up to look in the mirror, you took my spot on the rug.”

  “Would you two get on with it?” the voice in the ground snapped. “You sound like an old married couple.”

  Chester and I looked at each other. This was getting weirder by the minute. I asked Howie to help me and we began to dig.

  It didn’t take long before we’d found something suspicious.

  Bones. Small, white, dry bones.

  The others gasped as Howie and I laid them out in a line o
n the ground. Then Howie noticed something else, a pinkish something studded with shining stones that glittered in the moonlight.

  Howie extracted it carefully with his teeth and dropped it at Chester’s feet.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked.

  “It’s a collar,” Chester said. The crowd bandied the word about in amazed whispers as Chester struggled to read the dirt-smudged gold letters embossed on the side.

  “R-O-S-E-B-U-D,” he read. “Rosebud”.

  “But what does it mean?” I asked.

  Chester began to pant, a sign that he was either very excited or dehydrated. The fact that he didn’t ask for a glass of water led me to believe it was the former.

  “This is incredible!” he exclaimed. “Harold, we’re having a real paranormal experience here.”

  “Are you sure it’s not mass hysteria?”

  Chester gave me a cool look, which was no mean trick considering he was still panting. “Cats don’t participate in mass hysteria, Harold. If we’re going to be hysterical, we do it on our own. We’re individuals, not groupies like you canines. No, this is the real thing. Talking bones! And Rosebud! Rosebud, Harold!”

  “But what does it mean?” I asked again.

  “It was my name,” said the voice.

  Howie was a couple of feet away from me, but I could feel him trembling as he whimpered, “I want to go home, Uncle Harold. I don’t want to stay in a place where bones and collars talk.”

  “I am not a talking collar,” said the voice. “I am the spirit of Rosebud. These are my bones. In life I was a Yorkshire terrier.”

  “Good heavens!” Hamlet exclaimed.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He turned his anguished face to me. “Alas, poor Yorkie,” he said. “I knew her, Harold.”

  “You did?”

  “She was being boarded here when I first came. She was supposed to stay seven days, but on the morning of the fourth day she was gone. We all assumed her owners had come for her during the night. But apparently . . .”

  Chester nodded his head slowly. “Apparently, she met with foul play,” he said.

  “Foul play?” The Weasel repeated. “Surely you don’t mean—”

  “Murder,” said Chester. I gulped. Chester had said the same thing the last time we stayed at Chateau Bow-Wow and had been so far off base he may as well have been in a different ballpark. But this time, the evidence was right before our eyes.