Chapter 1

My friends thought it was kinda cool when my dog Hillie went to prison. No one else in my grade has a criminal pet. But Mom said it wasn’t funny—she had to go to court because of what our Golden Retriever did.

I said I could go instead, and Mom said she wished I was old enough, since I found the whole thing so amusing. She found it very embarrassing.

It started when Hillie went on a diet. She lost all her extra pounds and ran around our fields with the Great Dane, Blue.

Then, on the fifth of November that year, Mom, Dad, me, and our neighbors from up the road were celebrating Guy Fawkes night. You know, the man who tried to blow up London’s Houses of Parliament on 4th November, 1605. It’s kinda like an early settler putting dynamite sticks in the basement of your Capitol Building in Washington. Anyway, Guy Fawkes got caught, hanged, and chopped into four pieces. Pretty gross. But that was normal in those days. So each November we English burn a bonfire with a figure of Guy Fawkes on top. We also set off scads of fireworks, and roast chestnuts, and light sparklers to draw pictures in the dark with.

For once it didn’t rain and we were having a great time, so no one remembered to put slimmed down Hillie indoors. She hates fireworks or any kind of big bang. Every time the farmer next door shoots the pheasants, she runs away if she’s outside. She did the same thing that night.

Well, we didn’t notice she and Blue were gone until our neighbors had left. Both dogs wear collars with their name and address on, so we figured someone would call us pretty soon. That’s what usually happens if either of them goes missing.

By midnight they weren’t back, so Mom left a back door open for them. But in the morning the kitchen was still empty and we began to worry. Just as she was dialing the vet’s number to find out if two dogs had been handed in, I spied Blue trotting up our drive.

“Hey, Mom!” I shouted. “They’re back!”

She slammed the phone down and I raced out. But Blue was alone—no Hillie.

“Where’ve you been? What’ve you done with your girlfriend?” I asked our huge gray dog. I really wished he could talk!

“That’s it,” said Mom firmly. “I’m calling the vet and the animal shelter. If they don’t have her, I’ll phone the police.”

“Why the police?” I asked. What could they care?

“She may have caused an accident, or someone’s found her and taken her in,” she replied. “You never know.”

Well, she ended up phoning the local police. They said they had an animal which fitted Hillie’s description, and “if Madam would like to come down to the station…”

I’d never been inside a real police station, so I went, too. It was pretty boring, like a small post office with chairs in a dull yellow room and a counter at one end. Nothing like on American TV, where you’ve got tons of cops pushing handcuffed guys around. There was just a chubby man at the front desk who told us he was Constable Picket. We could see the dog they had in custody in a minute, but there was just one small thing to be discussed first. Mom immediately said, “When the police say ‘small thing,’ it’s usually a big thing.”

“Well, madam, if this is your dog, she was brought in by a farmer who caught her chasing and killing his sheep throughout the night. Apparently she and another dog—” Mom dug me in the side with her elbow as I was beginning to say something about Blue. “—spent the night harassing his flock.”

“But that can’t be!” Mom exclaimed. “Hillie’s the sweetest dog that ever lived!”

“Well, madam—and young sir—” He looked at me—“come along and see if we have your dog. Perhaps she isn’t yours after all.” (I’m already eleven—when do I stop being called ‘young sir’ and ‘young man’?)

He led us outside and down stone steps to a row of tiny prison cells. They were about four feet high, with three sides and a ceiling in brick, and bars on the front. They were all empty except for one.

Mom and I looked at each other. Poor Hillie sat at the back of the last cell and, as soon as she saw us, she came bounding to the front, wagging her tail and expecting us to take her out.

“Hillie!” I shouted.

“I take it we have the right dog, madam?”

“I’m afraid so, Constable. Could we take her home now, please?”

“Well, I’m not at liberty to let her out yet. We have to take her picture and assign her a number.”

“What, a mug shot, like a regular prisoner?” I asked.