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“Good idea!” Madison ran down the hallway, with Mrs. Food close behind her.

“Holy cow, you guys! You are not going to believe—” Marco yelled as he and Polo came streaking out from behind the couch. Marco held up one finger as he bent over panting. It was a lot farther from the basement to the fourth floor than he’d thought. “You are not going to BELIEVE—” he started again.

“Get in the cage! GET IN THE CAGE!” Walt said, running over and nudging Marco toward the rat cage. “You too, Polo. RUN!”

“Emergency situation!” Butterbean explained as she raced by. (She was doing her circles again. It might not have worked as a distraction, but it worked as a freak-out technique.)

Marco and Polo scrambled up the table legs and belly flopped into their cage just as Madison came back into the room. She looked around aimlessly and then gasped.

“OH NO!” Madison said, pointing at the open window. She turned to Mrs. Food, her eyes wide. “Do you think he got outside?”

“Oh no, no, he wouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Food said. But she had gone pale.

“But he’s not ANYWHERE,” Madison said, on the verge of tears. “We’ll never find him! It’s all my fault!”

“How is it HER fault?” Butterbean asked.

“Beats me,” Walt said. “It’s obviously my fault.”

“It’s the raccoons’ fault,” Butterbean said.

Madison peered out of the window.“I don’t see him. If he got out, he’s just GONE.”

“Have you checked the hallway? Maybe he got out there somehow?” Mrs. Food said, trying to sound hopeful. But she couldn’t take her eyes off of the open window.

“Good idea, maybe he’s there,” Madison said, her voice thick. She wiped her eyes and then hurried to the front door.

“Oscar?” she called as she threw the door open wide. And was immediately hit in the face by a large mynah bird streaking into the room.

“OOF!” Madison said. “Oscar?”

“Why do I keep doing that?” Oscar wailed. “Excuse me! Apologies!” he called over his shoulder as he flew over to his cage. He crash-landed inside, collapsing on the floor with his wings stretched out. They were quivering with exertion. Oscar hoped they’d recover. “I’m back,” he croaked.

“He’s back!” Madison cheered. “How did he get out?”

“I must’ve forgotten to close the door to his cage,” Mrs. Food said, hurrying over to the cage and closing the door. “I am so sorry, Oscar.” She turned to Madison. “He looks traumatized, poor guy. I wonder how long he was out there?”

“Too long,” Oscar said softly.

“Thank goodness he’s back,” Madison said, sinking down on the couch. “We found him.”

“Thank goodness you were here,” Mrs. Food said, sitting down next to her. “See? It turned out all right in the end.”

Madison nodded.

Oscar looked down at Walt and Butterbean.“I failed. This isn’t going to turn out all right. The raccoons aren’t leaving.”

Butterbean nodded.“It’s okay,” she said. “We failed too.”

Walt sat down, her face grim.“You didn’t fail, Oscar. None of us did. We just haven’t succeeded.” She curled her tail around her feet. “Yet.”

— 13 —

“YOU HIT BOB IN THE FACE?” Butterbean couldn’t believe it. She’d never even considered something like that, and she and Bob had had some issues.

Oscar cringed.“It was an accident,” he said for the third time. He hadn’t even realized it had been Bob at first—Bob had just been an obstacle to deal with as he was making his escape from the raccoon. Oscar had been so relieved to see that door open, he hadn’t stopped to consider why it had opened. Orwho had opened it. Or that Oscar might want to take evasive maneuvers when he flew inside. It was just the shortest way to get home again (and the only way he thought his wings could handle). Oscar made a mental note to do some more wing exercises in the future. (And to look where he was going.)

“But the FACE!” Butterbean said again. “And then Madison’s face! So many faces!” She couldn’t get over it. As far as she could remember, Oscar had never hit ANYONE in the face before, and now here he was with two in one day! It was definitely a day to remember.

“Again, accident,” Oscar said. “Not something I’d recommend.” He cleared his throat. “Now, we need to get down to business. Plan out Operation Raccoon, um, Part Two.”

“Right. We need to figure out what to do next,” Walt said. “Any ideas?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Butterbean asked. “Forget Operation Raccoon, Part Two. It’s time for Operation Dog Therapy. I’ve got to go down there.”

Walt took a deep breath.“No, Butterbean. You can’t go down there. How many times do we have to tell you? Therapy dogs and therapists are not the same thing!”

Polo raised her hand tentatively.“It’s true, Butterbean. I’ve seen shows on TV with therapists. I don’t think any of them are dogs.”

She looked at Marco for confirmation. He nodded.“She’s right. No dogs.”

“It’s true. They’re mostly people,” Wallace agreed.

“Besides, therapists are licensed professionals,” Walt said. “You know how important licenses are, don’t you?”

Butterbean looked down at her dog tag.“Yes,” she grumbled. “But…” She looked around the group. “But Madison said I’d be a great therapist.”