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M
ORNING exercise is not my favorite thing in the world. Let me put it another way: My idea of morning exercise is raising one eyelid followed within the hour by the raising of the second eyelid. If I'm feeling really ambitious, I sometimes roll over.

When I raised both eyelids this particular morning, I saw that rolling over wasn't going to cut the mustard at Chateau Bow-Wow. There in the center of the compound were Daisy and Jill wearing identical warm-up suits. I know they're called that because Mr. and
Mrs. Monroe have similar ones, except that unlike Daisy's and Jill's they don't say WE'RE ANIMALS FOR EXERCISE on the front and A PHYSICALLY FIT PET IS A HAPPY PET On the back.

“Okay, everybody!” Jill shouted, as she bounced up and down. “It's aerobics time!”

The silence was deafening.

Daisy ran around, throwing open all our cages and crooning, “Out you go, little cuties, nothing like a little workout before breakfast!”

Only Howie exhibited enthusiasm and that's because he's a puppy and doesn't know any better.

Chester and I joined the others in a circle run. I heard him mumbling something about calling his lawyer after he'd called his travel agent just as soon as he got home. At one point, we passed Felony and Miss Demeanor, who clammed up the moment they spotted us. What were those two up to anyway?

Chester was curious too. So he informed me after breakfast (a curious dish that had the consistency
of a paste-and-kitty-litter pudding), although not until he'd had the chance to offer commentary on my dining habits.

“How can you eat that slop?” he asked, eyeing my empty bowl. I noticed he hadn't touched his.

“I pretended it was a hot fudge sundae,” I said, a hair defensively. “Don't you ever use your imagination?” I realized the moment these words left my mouth that asking this of Chester was a little like asking a dancer if he ever used his feet.

Chester rolled his eyes and sighed.

“If I may change the subject,” he began.

“You
brought up breakfast,” I said.

“Nice turn of phrase, Harold.” Clearing his throat, he went on, “Have you noticed anything odd about those two cats?” He indicated Felony and Miss Demeanor, who were stretched out in a patch of sun in front of their bungalows. Felony was twitching her head this way and that, either trying to keep up with a fly or auditioning for the part of Robocat. Miss
Demeanor lay flat on her stomach like an imitation bear rug. Her head bobbed up and down to the rhythm of her chewing.

“No,” I said, “they seem like normal cats to me.”

“They are definitely up to something,” Chester said. “I wonder if they have something to do with the secret of Chateau Bow-Wow. I know one way for us to find out.”

“What's that?”

“You.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to pal around with them, Harold. When you're not busy digging our tunnel to freedom, that is.”

I started to protest, but Chester was already way ahead of me. “It'll be easy. You're going to be hanging out on their turf anyway. Just see if you can get them to leak some information.”

“What are you going to be doing, if you don't mind my asking, while I'm looking for leaks?”

He lifted his head and stared off toward the office. “I'm going inside,” he said dramatically.

“Ah.” I looked over at the office window. Through it, I could see Ditto pecking at some birdseed in her cage. Beyond her, there was a general bustle and commotion as Daisy, Jill, and Dr. Greenbriar went about their business.

“And exactly how do you think you're going to get in there, Chester?” I asked. “It's not like you have an appointment.”

“True. But I do have charm,” said Chester.

I cocked an eyebrow at this one.

“And if all else fails, there's the bird. A veritable font of information.”

An hour later, Chester found me digging behind the bush between Felony's and Miss Demeanor's bungalows.

“What did you find out?” I asked.

“That charm without an appointment only gets you as far as the door. And Polly wants a cracker.”

I nodded. Chester looked at the hole. It
wasn't very impressive, but then again we hadn't been digging very long. Howie was still on a break that had begun a few minutes after we'd started; he was at Bob and Linda's having smoked Gouda-flavored doggie bones. The Weasel and Hamlet were trying to see if they could get Rosebud talking again. And as for the cat burglars . . .

“What did
you
find out?” Chester asked.

“Talk about forthcoming,” I said. “I kept track of their answers. There were four ‘What's it to ya's,' three ‘What d'ya wanna know for's,' seven ‘Mind yer own business's,' and one, ‘What're you, a police dog?'”

“Gosh,” said Chester, “what kind of questions did you ask?”

“Nine out of fifteen were about the weather.”

Chester shook his head. “Where are they now?”

I shrugged. “Looking for trouble or making it,” I said. “They didn't let me in on their plans.”

“Hmm,” said Chester, looking decidedly unhappy, “this is going to be a lot tougher than I thought. Let's see how Hamlet and The Weasel are doing.”

I was pleased to stop digging. Not even halfway through the job and I was already wondering if I'd ever get the dirt out from under my nails. Lucky Hamlet, I thought, not to have to dig at all. But when I saw his woebe-gone face and remembered his limp, I decided maybe he wasn't so lucky after all.

The Weasel looked up from where he and Hamlet were hunched over what I presumed were Rosebud's remains and headed toward us like an express train. He was out of breath when he announced, “She spoke to us. Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

“Calm down,” said Chester. “Come on, take a breath.”

The Weasel sucked in air with such force I felt my whiskers tingle. “Oh, my, oh, dear, oh, my,” he exclaimed as he exhaled. “This is terrible, just awful.”

“What?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

“You tell them, Hamlet,” The Weasel said as we approached the woeful Dane. “I can't, I just can't say the words.”

“It was a warning,” Hamlet told us. “We asked her about the secret. She wouldn't talk at first. Then, when she did, it was more a riddle than an answer. ‘My fate is a mirror in which to see.'”

“Th-there was more,” The Weasel panted. ‘One will look in and end like me.'”

Chester nodded slowly as he repeated the words. “My fate is a mirror in which to see. One will look in and end like me.” He looked off toward the office. Through the window, it appeared that Ditto was alone.

“This is my chance,” Chester said. “Maybe I can get her to talk.”

“But, Chester,” I said, “the warning.”

He was halfway across the compound before I could get out the rest. “What if Rosebud means
you?”

CHESTER was gone for most of the afternoon. I spent the time digging. It went very slowly. Bob and Linda were more talk than action. Howie and The Weasel had small paws. I was getting more worn-out by the minute.

And the metal fence seemed to have no bottom.

It was late in the day before Chester returned, a jubilant expression on his face. I looked up as he jerked his head toward our bungalows. Howie and I ran to join him.

“Nice of you to show up,” I said. “Don't tell me you've spent this whole time talking crackers with a parrot?”

“Oh, we had a much more interesting conversation than that,” Chester exclaimed. He looked around and lowered his voice. “I've learned the secret of Chateau Bow-Wow!”

“Really?”

“Wow,” said Howie.

“It's a code, so I still have my work cut out for me.”

“Is it a common code?” Howie asked. “Or more of a flu?”

“It's a number code,” said Chester, gritting his teeth. “All I have to do is make sense of it. For a while there, I thought I wasn't going to get anything out of her, then all of a sudden she started repeating these numbers. Over and over. It has to mean something, don't you see?”

He looked around to be sure no one was listening, leaned his head in toward ours, and said very softly, “Six-one-one-one-five.”

“Six-one-one-one-five?”
Howie yelled excitedly.

“Howie!” said Chester, annoyed.

“That's it!” someone shouted.

“Ee-yes!”

We looked up. Felony and Miss Demeanor smiled down at us from atop Chester's bungalow, then scampered off.

“Nice going,” Chester told Howie.

Howie lowered his head and looked up at Chester sheepishly.

“I'm sorry, Pop,” he said. “I get carried away.”

“Don't tempt me,” said Chester. “Now where are those two off to? And why did they want to know the code? I'm telling you, Harold, those two are our culprits. I'm going to follow them and you can—”

Chester was cut off by Ditto's sudden squawking.

“New one coming tonight! New one coming tonight! Hamlet got to go! Hamlet got to go!”

I looked around. Bob and Linda were sitting on their haunches in front of their bungalow, staring wide-eyed at the jabbering bird. Felony and Miss Demeanor had stopped in their tracks halfway between our bungalows and theirs. They too were staring. The Weasel's head poked out from behind the bush. He turned sharply. I followed the direction of his gaze.

He was looking at Hamlet, who was quivering with fear.

“Too late!” cried Rosebud. “Too late!”

The door to the office opened. Daisy came out and walked slowly the full length of the compound. Reaching Hamlet, she burst into tears. “I'm sorry,” she said, sniffling. “I'm so sorry.” She put her arms around his neck and hugged him for a long time. Then she took hold of his collar and led him away.

As he reached the office door, Hamlet turned back and looked at us. He raised his head and let out a piteous whimper, one that filled the very air with sadness and left it empty as the sound died away.

“The rest is silence,” he said.

Daisy tugged gently on his collar. They walked into the office. The door closed.

And the rest was silence.

S
ILENCE
remained like an unwanted guest. The only thing that broke it was Chester's muttering from the next bungalow after dinner. Numbers, letters—I knew what he was up to. He was trying to decipher the code.

After Hamlet's departure, although no one had said as much, it was clear we were all thinking the same thing: Something terrible was going to happen to him. Chester was convinced that the answer lay in the code, which was going to reveal the secret of Chateau Bow-Wow and somehow help us understand Hamlet's fate.

As it turned out, it wasn't the code that helped us so much as a ditsy little poodle who arrived later that night.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It was just beginning to get dark when Chester cried, “Harold!”

“What is it?!” I was so startled I bumped my nose on the wall as I swung around to face Chester's bungalow.

“I've got it,” he whispered hoarsely. “I'm coming over.”

A moment later, he was inside my bungalow.

“I've been substituting letters for numbers. It took me a while to get the right combination, but now I have it, I'm sure of it. Six, one, one, one, five. Six equals
F.
That's easy.”

“If you say so,” I said.

“One is
A,
the next two ones are eleven, that equals
K,
and the five means
E.
Put them all together, they spell—”

“Muh-uh-uhther!” I sang out. I'm a sucker for that song.

“Knock it off, Harold,” Chester snapped. “It spells
fake.
Get it?”