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Preston has superb taste in jewelry.”
    “And it looks like your knee is getting better.”
    Isabel held out one leg and stared in contemplation. “Oh, it comes and goes. The doctor tells me to take things slow, which reminds me—I made an appointment to get Preston’s nails clipped on Monday, but I don’t think I can manage. Would you mind taking him?”
    I played along even though I knew Isabel could walk just fine. “At what time does he need to go?”
    “Three o’clock. The place is right down the street on Sixth Avenue and First Street.”
    “Is that some new vet?” I asked, since last time I took Preston to a place on Prospect Park West.
    “It is. His old place was so expensive. I’m sure they were overcharging me, and I just got this coupon in the mail.” Isabel handed me a postcard—orange with bold black letters that read, NOW OPEN FOR BUSINESS: DR. REESE, VETERINARIAN. KIND. GENTLE. REASONABLE RATES.
    “Sure, I’ll take him.” I pocketed the card.
    “Thank you, dear. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
    Probably fake-limp less, I thought but didn’t say. Instead I found Preston’s leash underneath a pile of sequined throw pillows, clipped it to his collar, and headed out the door.

Chapter 8
    ♦     ♦     ♦

    Bean seems to be having a hard time walking in her new cape. She keeps tripping on all the extra material. I think it put her in a rotten mood. More rotten than usual, I mean. You might want to think about returning it. Or at least getting the thing tailored. Other than that, she did her business, gobbled down her snack, and only snarled at two people and three other dogs. So all in all, we had fun. Thanks for the cash.
    See ya Monday!
    Maggie
    For all the trouble I have with Bean, I do appreciate that her owner, Cassie, pays me with crisp new bills every Friday. It almost seems like they should be worth more than wrinkled old ones. On the other hand, Cassie and Parminder pay me the same amount of money per walk, and Bean is way harder to deal with than Milo, so I guess it all balances out.
    I finished my note to Cassie and hurried downstairs to pick up Milo—my last walk of the week.
    “Hey, guy!” I said as I opened the door.
    As usual, he greeted me with a cheerful bark and a vigorous tail wag. Then he jumped. “Easy, buddy,” I said, and I crouched down to his level so I could pet him some more. But then he wouldn’t stop licking my face, so I stood up.
    Once I got him to sit still long enough for me to clip his leash to his collar, we walked into the park at Third Street. It’s my favorite entrance because of the gigantic bronze panthers flanking each side. They look so dignified up on their tall white columns, chests puffed, gazes forward, super alert like they’re protecting the whole park somehow, at least in spirit.
    We walked straight through them and headed past the playground on the right. A thick row of trees separated us, so even though we couldn’t see the children, we could hear their shouts and laughter drifting through the leaves.
    Farther in, the smells of burgers and hot dogs wafted over from the barbecue pits by the Picnic House, making my stomach grumble and probably Milo’s, too, since he kept trying to tug me closer.
    “No, we’re not gonna go there,” I said, pulling on his leash. “And in case you were worried, don’t be. Hot dogs aren’t really made out of dogs.”
    Sometimes even I’m surprised by how corny my jokes are. Good thing no one heard. No one with opposable thumbs, that is. And there I go again. But I guess it’s okay to think dumb thoughts sometimes. It’s the saying them out loud part that gets me in trouble. I walk a dog named Milo , for example? Why had that seemed like the right thing to say?
    I hurried Milo past the Picnic House. He soon grew distracted by a large black mutt. The two dogs sniffed each other a bit. Then we moved on, Milo stopping to investigate the occasional tree, and me kicking the