Duke was feeling pretty desparate. For one thing, he needed to take a whiz. He knew something was bad wrong with Aunt Cathy, or she woulda let him out by now. He was thinkin' how they both needed some help about now.

He was a good dog. A smart coonhound. But in a situation like this, being a hound was definitely a limitation. He was smart about hunting and the woods, and could guess what a coon might do before the coon thought of it hisself. His old nose nearly gone, and he wasn't drawn off by the many odors, near and distant, that used to entice him to roam the ridges and the holler. That's why he was unaware that the little mountain feist who lived with the farmer at the mouth of the holler was in heat. She was just too far away for his old nose to catch that particular message.

When that damned uppity cat showed up, he actually was glad to see him. Figuring out what to do in this kind of situation was definitely more up the cat's alley than his own.