Bo was a Doberman, sleek and serious, with a glossy black coat and a very small bow tie clipped to his collar — because paws cannot tie knots, and Bo knew that. Every night, Bo stood at the velvet rope of the Pemberley Grand Hotel. He watched the doors. He checked the guests. He took his job very, very seriously. But tonight was different. Tonight was the Golden Collar Gala, the fanciest night of the year. The chandelier threw little diamonds of light across the marble floor, and somewhere inside, a twelve-tier cake with one hundred and four candles was waiting to roll out.
Except it wasn't. Chef Greta burst through the kitchen doors in her white coat, patting every single pocket — chest pocket, hip pocket, the small one near her elbow — her toque wobbling dangerously. "My keycard! The refrigerator is locked! The cake is stuck!" Bo lifted his chin. He straightened his bow tie. He had a new job.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. He pressed his nose to the cold marble and trotted down the grand corridor, ears swivelling left and right like two small satellite dishes picking up signals. Beef wellington. Floor polish. Someone's rose perfume. No keycard yet. He nosed around the revolving door — a blast of cool night air and the faint smell of taxi exhaust — then doubled back toward the service stairs, where the carpet changed from red to grey and the ceiling got much lower. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Closer. Something metallic. Almost.
The smell led him all the way to the lost-luggage room at the end of the hall. Bo pushed the door open with one neat paw. And stopped. There, sitting inside a very large tartan hat — the kind with earflaps — was a baby raccoon. It had both small hands folded in its lap. It looked extremely pleased with itself. Bo stared. The raccoon blinked. A sequin from somewhere had stuck to its nose. This was not professional.
Bo could not leave a small animal in a hat in a luggage room. He sighed — a long, slow breath through his nose — and gently, carefully, nudged the raccoon toward the side door with his snout. The raccoon waddled. Its tiny paws went tap, tap, tap on the tiles. Bo nosed the door open into the cool outside air. The raccoon stepped through — and something caught the light. Something small and rectangular, stuck flat to the raccoon's left paw. The keycard. Bo picked it up in his mouth, delicately, the way a Doberman at a gala absolutely should. He turned and trotted back. Past the service stairs. Down the grey carpet to the red. Sniff, sniff, sniff — all the way back to Chef Greta. She took one look at the card in his mouth, grabbed it with both hands, and sprinted for the refrigerator without saying a single word. Bo considered this a fine thank-you.
Thirty seconds later, the ballroom doors swung open. Out rolled the cake trolley — twelve tiers, perfectly white, one hundred and four candles blazing — and the whole room burst into applause that echoed off every marble wall. Bo walked back to the velvet rope. He took his position. Chin up. Shoulders square. Bow tie perfectly straight. The music started. The candles flickered. Somewhere far above, the chandelier turned slowly, throwing those little diamonds of light across the ceiling, across the guests, across one very serious Doberman whose eyes were growing heavier and heavier — but whose bow tie stayed perfectly, absolutely, completely straight.
