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“Being a therapist,” Butterbean said, nodding.

“Um. Right,” Oscar finished lamely. He didn’t even want to ask. But somebody had to. “Butterbean, about this therapist job—”

“You can’t just decide to be a therapist,” Walt interrupted.

Butterbean looked offended.“I’m not. It’s a real job.”

Walt sighed.“Of course it is, but you’re a wiener dog. Do you really think—”

She hadn’t even finished the sentence when the front door slammed open, and Madison Park, the medium-sized girl who lived with them, rushed into the room waving a piece of paper over her head.

“It’s all set!” she said, dropping her backpack and throwing herself into the chair next to Mrs. Food.

“Well, hello to you too,” Mrs. Food said, swallowing the last of her tuna. Butterbean looked mournfully at the empty plate. It was so unfair.

“Right, sorry, hello. But it’s all set! See?” She pushed the piece of paper toward Mrs. Food. “I got the appointment for Butterbean.”

Mrs. Food peered down at the paper through her glasses.“Well, isn’t that something!”

Madison jumped up and hurried over to Butterbean.“You’re going to be great, Bean!” She kissed Butterbean on the head. “She’s going to be perfect. Look at her—she even looks like a therapy dog!” Madison rubbed Butterbean’s ears and then rushed off toward her bedroom. “I can’t wait to e-mail Aunt Ruby!” Madison was staying with Mrs. Food while her aunt was deployed overseas.

“Therapy dog?” Oscar said slowly. It was all making sense now.

“I told you. I’m going to be a therapist,” Butterbean said smugly.

Walt raised an eyebrow.“I don’t think it’s quite the same thing, Bean.”

“You’re just jealous because I’m going to have my own practice,” Butterbean said.

“OOOOoooh, are we talking about our careers? Me next, please.”

Everyone jumped at the voice. (Marco hit his head on the bottom of the water bottle.)“DON’T DO THAT!” Marco said, rubbing his head.

“Sorry, did I scare you?” The white cat emerged from behind the couch and blinked at them innocently. “Oops. My bad.”

“YOU KNOW YOU DID!” Polo said. “And you can’t just come in like that. Mrs. Food is RIGHT THERE!” She waved her arms in the direction of the dining room table.

“Relax, you know I always keep out of sight,” the white cat said. She lived on the fifth floor but didn’t see anything wrong with using the vents to explore other apartments. “So did I tell you I’ve come out of retirement?” The white cat was the cat featured in all the Beautiful Buffet Cat Food commercials. (Print and television.)

“Only a million times,” Marco grumbled softly.

“Sales of Beautiful Buffet Cat Food PLUMMETED when I retired. They practically begged me to come back. I didn’t have the heart to say no.” The white cat curled her tail around her feet.

“So you’ve said,” Oscar said politely. He’d heard the story so many times he could practically recite it word for word.

“Well, it’s true,” the white cat said.

“I’ve got a career now too,” Butterbean said. “I’m going to be a therapist. That’s why we’re all retiring from investigating, because we’ve got so much to do.”

“Hmm. Well, good to know. Of course, that’s bad news for Biscuit, but I guess he’ll figure things out himself.” The white cat lashed her tail in the air as she turned to go back behind the couch.

“Wait, Biscuit? What’s wrong with Biscuit?” Butterbean asked, frowning.

“Oh, nothing important.” The white cat waved a paw dismissively. “Nothing that a career dog like you should worry about.”

“But which Biscuit?” Butterbean asked. There were a lot of Biscuits in the building, and Butterbean was friends with them all. “Second Floor Biscuit? Eighth Floor Biscuit? Biscuit with the Slobber Problem? Biscuit who—”

“Second Floor,” the white cat said. “But like I said, he’ll probably be fine. I’m sure he’ll survive somehow.” She turned to leave, but Walt blocked her path.

“Okay, spill it.” Walt’s whiskers were bristling. She didn’t have strong feelings about any of the Biscuits, but she didn’t love the way the white cat was toying with them. “What’s wrong with Second Floor Biscuit?”

“Well, if you must know,” the white cat said, her eyes gleaming. “Your friend is in big trouble.” She made a sympathetic face at Butterbean. “He’s getting evicted. Kicked out. By this time next week, your little friend will be out on the street.”

— 2 —

“WELL, THAT WAS FUN,” BUTTERBEAN said, getting up. “Retirement is over. Time to investigate.”

Oscar hopped onto the side of his cage.“What? But we just agreed!” He had really hoped to be retired for more than five minutes.

Walt put a paw on Butterbean’s back. “Butterbean, calm down. We don’t even know if there’s anything to investigate at this point.” She turned to the white cat. “We need details. Why is Second Floor Biscuit getting kicked out?”

The white cat stood up, stretched, and then sat back down.“Well—”

“So wait, Second Floor Biscuit, he’s the one with the good haircut?” Polo interrupted. She had seen him once when she was out with Butterbean. He was a pretty fashionable dog.