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It struck me as odd. I mean to say, who in their right mind, when in the possession of unlimited funds and a vast real estate portfolio, would want to spend the best years of his or her married life in a dank cottage overrun with newts? I guess that’s the English for you. They are different from the rest of us.

Too bad Angela was there, or I would have bombarded Odelia with questions myself. As it was, we had a strict rule that when in the company of strangers, Odelia didn’t talk to us, and neither did Gran or Marge. You can probably see why. Most people think it strange when other humans start meowing. It often ends in tears and a one-way trip to the looney bin, strapped in a straitjacket. For those of you not in the know, a straitjacket is a special garment wornby those who’ve lost their marbles. Meaning they’re nuts.

The trip to the airport was uneventful, and when we arrived the car was directed to a parking space reserved only for those deserving special treatment. And so, all of a sudden, we’d been transformed into VIPs!

“I think I’m going to like this,” said Dooley.

“I think so, too,” I said as a muscular man in a snazzy suit and sunglasses gestured to a plane that stood waiting on the tarmac. It was small, it was sleek, and it looked absolutely fabulous.

Odelia and the others were chatting with some sort of official-looking individual, handing him their passports and documents. He cast a quick glance over to us, as we sat on the tarmac in our respective pet carriers, and I hoped he wouldn’t tell Odelia we couldn’t come along. Gran had been surfing the internet and had discovered England, on account of the fact that it is an island, has some pretty strict rules about pets being brought into the country, and that we needed to have all of our shots and stuff. The mere mention of the word shots was enough to scare the living daylights out of me, but as it turned out we did have the shots we needed to have, and anyway, Angela had made ‘arrangements’ to make sure we would be allowed into the country.

“Remember that episode with Johnny Depp and his dogs?” asked Harriet now as we sat waiting patiently.

“What episode?” I asked, keeping a keen eye on the person who seemed to have the power to decide our fate.

“Johnny Depp tried to bring his dogs into Australia and when they found out, the politician in charge said he’d murder the dogs if Johnny didn’t remove them immediately. They’re pretty tough on pets in Australia.”

“Oh, my God,” said Dooley. “That’s terrible!”

“So what did Johnny do?” asked Brutus.

“He filmed a video apologizing to the people of Australia for bringing his dogs into the country and then immediately flew them back to the States.”

“I hope the Queen doesn’t ask for us to be murdered,” said Dooley.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Angela said everything has been arranged.”

“Angela is not the Queen, Max,” said Harriet. “She doesn’t get to decide who lives and who dies.”

“Must be a tough job,” said Brutus. When Harriet shot him a critical look, he added defensively, “Just saying. Deciding who lives or dies? Tough.”

“Does she really get to decide if we live or die?” asked Dooley.

“I think so,” said Harriet. “England is a monarchy, so the Queen has a lot of pull.”

“I’ll bet she would never order her corgis to die, though,” said Dooley. “She loves those corgis. I saw it on TV.”

“I think we need to make friends with the corgis,” I said. “That’s the only way to make sure we don’t get murdered by the Queen. If we make friends with the Queen’s favorite pooches, and get them to vouch for us, we’re in the clear.”

“I ‘m not going to play nice with a bunch of mutts,” said Harriet disdainfully.

“It’s either that or death by execution,” I said. “Your choice.”

“I heard they have peculiar methods of execution,” said Brutus. “Like, the gallows? And the ax? Very medieval. And sometimes they lock people up in a place called the Tower of London. Very creepy place. I’ll bet it has rats.”

I gulped. I did not want to get my head chopped off with an ax. Or get locked up with a bunch of rats for company.“We need to find those corgis and make nice and we need to do it as soon as we arrive,” I said.

“I’ll bet the Queen’s corgis smell of lavender,” said Dooley, apropos of nothing.

“What makes you think so?” I asked distractedly, as thoughts of execution by hanging flashed through my mind.

“I don’t know. The Queen just looks like a lavender type of person to me, and I’ll bet she makes sure her dogs smell nice, like, all the time.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed. Most mutts smell terrible, but the Queen being a clean and hygienic person would make sure hers smelled wonderful.

“Maybe they smell like roses,” said Harriet.

“Or chocolate pudding,” said Brutus.