Squirrel And Bernie: From The Dog Who Knew Too Much
A squirrel had been by, and not long ago. That bothered me. I hurried to the long window beside the door and gazed out. We’ve got three trees in front of the house. The middle one’s my favorite for lying under, and that was where the squirrel, chubby and gray, tail raised in a very annoying way, was busy burying something. The next thing I knew I was standing straight up, front paws on the glass, barking my head off. The squirrel shot up the tree without a backward glance: burying things under that tree is my department, little pal.
“Chet! What’s all the fuss?”
Bernie was up? I hadn’t even heard him. That was bad. I slid down off the window real fast and smooth, like I’d never been up there at all. Bernie came over and gazed out, giving me a pat at the same time. His hair was standing out in clumps here and there; one eyebrow was crooked; he wore what Leda had always called his ratty robe, although there wasn’t a single rat on it, just a pattern of martini glasses with long-legged women sitting in them. In short, he looked great.
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