ARTHUR!”

What now? Do I ask for much? No, not me. Who could be more undemanding or easier to live with? All I want from life is a little peace and quiet. But now, somewhere outside but not nearly far enough away, we had Bro shouting a name that gets shouted fairly often in these parts.

By these parts, I mean the Blackberry Hill Inn and surrounding property. It’s a beautiful inn—which you probably guessed, since it’s mine, and I’m all about beauty. The inn is not mine alone, of course—I’m happy to share it with the rest of the family, meaning Mom, Bro, and Harmony. Bertha the cook is also on board—she’s in charge of pouring my fresh cream into my special china saucer, known as Queenie’s saucer, after which she whips up breakfast for the guests. It’s possible we haven’t had enough guests recently—I’ve caught a worried look on Mom’s face a few times—but what would be the point of me worrying about it? My job is to concentrate on, well, me. Me and me alone, and only me. But it can be hard to concentrate when—

“ARTHUR! STOP! WHAT GETS INTO YOU?”

What gets into Arthur? An interesting question. Bro was not alone in bringing it up. I’d asked myself the same thing, and was now asking it again, as I glided down from the top of my grandfather clock across from the front desk, where I could keep an eye on all the comings and goings at the inn, and moved in my lovely silent way across the hall, past Mom’s desk, and onto a filing cabinet next to a window with a good view of the front yard.

And there, in the shade of our giant tree—an oak, if I’d heard right, and I always do—we had a Frisbee lying on the ground; Bro gazing down at Arthur; and Arthur, standing in a deepish hole, his face dirty, one of his misshapen ears drooping down, the other sticking out weirdly to the side, gazing back up at Bro and panting a bit, like he’d just run a race. Not that Arthur had any racing experience. He’s not built for running. He’s built more for … well, what, exactly? I was trying to come up with something when I heard Harmony approaching behind me. No need to look. I could tell by the soft pat-pat of her bare feet on the wooden floor, her smell, like our meadow after the rain, and from just how the feel of the whole room changed.

“There you are.” Harmony came up beside me. “What’s so interesting?” She looked out the window. “Ah,” she said. I watched her watching. Is there a more beautiful human than Harmony? The way she stands so straight, and her glowing skin, and her big brown eyes, full of golden glints and every bit as sharp as Mom’s. Yes, a thing of beauty in her own right. Although not quite in my class. I hate to say it, but I don’t want any misunderstandings between us, you and I.

We watched the scene under the big tree, me and Harmony. Bro went to the toolshed, returned with a shovel. By that time, Arthur had climbed out of the hole and was lying on his side, eyes blank. Bro filled in the hole, picked up the Frisbee, held it for Arthur to see, if in fact Arthur could see anything at that moment.

“It’s simple,” he said. “I throw the Frisbee. You catch it and bring it back. Are we good?”

“I wonder what he’s saying,” said Harmony.

I glanced at her, just shifting my eyes, head staying still. I have graceful ways of moving and graceful ways of not moving. But that’s not the point, which was all about being reminded once again of the weakness of human ears. The thin sheet of window glass was all it took to keep Harmony from hearing the goings-on outside. You had to feel bad for humans sometimes, although I never actually did. Are they my responsibility? Not in the least. My responsibility, as you must know by now, is me.

Meanwhile Bro spun the Frisbee in the air. “Go, Arthur, go!”

Arthur remained absolutely still. The Frisbee glided in a long curve and landed softly on the lawn. Bro picked it up, showed it to Arthur again, and said, “Try just watching. I’ll show you how.”

Arthur, eyes still blank, thumped his tail on the ground. Bro flicked the Frisbee again, an easy motion that sent it gliding on another long, smooth curve. But this time, Bro took off after it, legs churning, flip-flops flying off. What a nice runner he was! For a human, of course. It’s something of a miracle they can even stand up in the first place.

The Frisbee sailed toward the toolshed and began dipping down to earth. Bro sped up, his hair—uncut so far this summer and on the longish side—streaming behind him. Then, just as the Frisbee was about to touch down, he dove, fully stretched out, and snatched the spinning thing out of the air with one hand.

“Wow,” said Harmony.

Bro landed, somersaulted, and trotted back to Arthur, a big smile on his face. “There. See how it’s done?”

The answer was almost certainly not, what with Arthur now curled in a comfy ball, eyes shut tight.

Harmony backed away from the window. “You and I are going to have an easier time, Queenie.”

Oh? For a strange moment I thought—but how ridiculous—that Harmony was about to propose something having to do with me, her, and Frisbees. Instead she took a neatly folded sheet of paper from her pocket, straightened it out, and read, “ ‘Calling all cats! Come to the county fair for our first annual cat beauty contest! The winner gets a year’s supply of catnip and a state-of-the-art scratching post! And for your human pal, a brand-new mountain bike! No entry fee! All you have to do is look your best!’ ”

Harmony gave me a careful once-over, head to tail. “It’s in the bag,” she said.

Who was I to disagree? There’s no hiding from the truth.