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To be honest, Butterbean never really thought she’d be able to sneak past Mrs. Food. And even then, she expected Mrs. Food to come out looking for her right away. But it didn’t look like anyone had missed her. It gave Butterbean a queasy feeling in her stomach.

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.