Дебора Хоу - Return To Howliday Inn

“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.”

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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

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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 downhearted 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

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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

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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.

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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.”

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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 stockstill, 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.