YOWZA!

I back out from the bush, my white paw buckling under me. Bits of leaves and twigs cling to my fur. “Fire! Fire!” I howl. “My paw is on fire!”

Goldie and Patches race over, panting. “I don’t see any smoke,” Goldie says. “Or flames.”

Patches cocks her head and listens. “But there is definitely a lot of buzzing going on.”

Goldie focuses on the bushes. “Probably bees,” she says, backpedaling.

Bees?! Who said anything about bees? My paw is on fire! I leap—no, hop—frantically through the grass, my white paw refusing to move. And it’s throbbing. I give it a couple of licks. And then a couple hundred more.

Patches trots up to me. “What’s with the paw, Fenway?” she asks.

“I told you, it’s ON FIRE!” I scream. “My paw’s being burned to a crisp!”

“Fenway,” she says gently. “I think you’ve been stung.”

Stung? I don’t think so. I jump around on three legs. “It’s on fire, I tell you! Fire! Fire!”

Goldie and Patches huddle together, talking. But they don’t do anything about the fire. What’s wrong with them? We’re all in terrible danger!

I’m vaguely aware of Hattie and Angel calling from the porch. But I can’t stop to listen. All that matters is my white paw. It’s pulsing and burning. And what’s this? It’s puffing up! I drop down and lick, lick, lick . . .

I give it everything I’ve got! That burn is fierce, but I’m fiercer!

“Fenway!” Hattie is at my side. How long has she been here? Her voice is concerned, her arms are reaching.

I hop away from her. “No thanks, Hattie! I’m way too busy to snuggle!” I howl. “The bottom of my paw is on fire and I need to lick it!”

Hattie is undeterred. “Fenway!” she calls, more forcefully this time. She must really want to snuggle. I try to dodge out of the way, but her hands are too swift. They grasp my torso and lift me up.

I start to protest but quickly stop with an amazing realization. In Hattie’s arms, my tongue can reach my paw pads more easily! Slurp, slurp, slurp . . . I must lick that terrible hurt!

Suddenly, Angel is here, too. And we’re all rushing to the house.

Craning my neck, I spot Goldie and Patches curled up near the giant tree in the back of the Dog Park. They look like they’re trying to disappear.

Hattie cradles me in her arms. “Aw, Fenn-waay,” she says. Her voice is full of sympathy. She smells sad and hurt.

Welcome to the pack, Hattie! I’m pretty sad and hurt, too! Ow-oh-ooooow! Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . .

“Hattie?” Food Lady’s voice calls from the upper window.

Hattie hoists me up. “Help!” she yells at Food Lady. “Uh-BEE!”

Food Lady’s loud “Oh no!” drifts into the Dog Park as Hattie hurries up the porch steps. Next thing I know, we are tearing through the house.

Fetch Man and Food Lady appear in the hallway, reeking of paint. Fetch Man reaches for my white paw.

Ow! I yank out of his grasp, curling my paw against my throat. “Keep your hands to yourself!” I yelp.

Hattie turns, shielding me from Fetch Man’s grabby hands. Thank you, Hattie! You’re the one I can count on. Slurp, slurp, slurp . . .

I’m so focused on licking my paw, I barely see Fetch Man talking into his hand. “Now!” he snaps.

Keys jingle. We’re in the garage. Fetch Man opens the car door. Me and Hattie bound into the back seat.

Normally, riding in the car is very exciting—sticking my head out the window, the rush of air hitting my face, my nostrils pulsing with thrilling scents. Normally, I’d go nuts wondering where we’re going. Maybe someplace interesting. Or delicious.

But none of those things is happening. This is no normal ride in the car. All I want to do is curl up in Hattie’s lap and lick, lick, lick that awful fire away. Slurp, slurp, slurp . . .

We zoom. We cruise. We turn. We stop.

Hattie flings the door open, and we race up to a building that looks like a store.

But it doesn’t have big windows like a store. And it doesn’t smell like a store, either.

It smells like dogs . . . and cats . . . and . . . FEAR.

My fur tingles. This place reminds me of somewhere I’ve been before. Someplace scary. I think about making a run for it. But it’s too late. We’re already inside.

A dog growls. “Let me at him!”

A caged cat hisses.

We go up to a counter with treats on it. Treats?

A lady human greets us like she knew we’d show up. We trail her into a tiny room. And chills tingle up my spine.

The room reeks of terror and agony and doom. On one wall is a picture of dogs with lots of bones—inside their bodies. And worse—another wall has a metal table with no legs.

I know this table. It goes up and down. Claws scrape and slide on it. Like the Table of Panic at the vet’s office in our old neighborhood.

Uh-oh. There couldn’t be more than one vet’s office, could there?

Now I really want to bolt!

But before I can make a move, the side door opens and in walks another lady. She’s wearing a white coat. Dark hair is piled loosely on top of her head. Her eyes are wide and kind. She smells friendly. She speaks to us with breath that smells spicy, like cinnamon. She’s gazing at me intently . . . in a way that’s disturbing.

Extremely disturbing.

Because she’s looking at my white paw. Just like Hattie and Fetch Man did at home. If Spicy Breath thinks she’s touching this paw, she’s going to be very disappointed.

I press against Hattie’s chest. “Keep this lady away from me! She’s got evil on her mind!”

Spicy Breath comes at me.

But Hattie doesn’t move. “Shhh,” she whispers, kissing my head.

“Can’t you see she’s headed this way?” I bark, my hind legs kicking. “Let’s get out of here! Before it’s too late!”

Hattie still doesn’t move. She gazes at me, her eyes glassy and wet. She smells upset.

And then to my gut-wrenching horror, she hands me over.