For Your Paws Only by Heather Vogel Frederick Page A

understand—why would Bunsen send the music to me?”
    Oz prodded his glasses, which had slipped down his nose as usual. “Um,” he replied, “I think he wants youto record the song. He’s probably figured out some way for Glory to lip-sync it.”
    D. B. stood up so fast she nearly knocked Oz over. “Me? No way.”
    â€œWhy not?” said Oz.
    â€œGlory thinks her voice is bad? I don’t even sing in the shower. I’d probably scare the shampoo. And besides, even if I could sing, I can’t read music.” D. B. folded her arms across her chest. “No way, Oz.”
    â€œWell I certainly can’t sing for her!” protested Oz. “What are we going to do?”
    He and D. B. stared morosely at the decoded note. Then they looked at each other. “I guess there is somebody else we can try,” said Oz slowly.
    D. B. relaxed her arms. “Oh, yeah,” she said with a relieved smile. “It ain’t over . . . ”
    â€œÂ . . . until the fat lady sings,” finished Oz. “We’ll ask my mom.”

CHAPTER 9
    DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 0900 HOURS
    Roquefort Dupont crawled out from underneath the train. “New York, New York!” he crowed, stretching his legs and sniffing the air appreciatively. Donuts, pretzels, pizza, popcorn, bagels—the smells from the train station’s many concession stands were mouthwatering, and Dupont’s eyes glinted greedily. “Now this is my kind of town.”
    Behind him, Scurvy and Gnaw emerged from where they, too, had been clinging to the underside of the train. Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie, Dupont’s young rats-in-waiting, were right behind them, their eyes wide with astonishment.
    Led by Dupont, the cluster of rats climbed up the side of the platform and cautiously poked their long noses over the edge. A herd of human feet clattered by, and someone trod on Scurvy’s long, droopy whiskers.
    â€œHey, watch it, buddy!” he cried.
    â€œShut up, you fool!” snarled Dupont in a low tone. “Do you want every human in the place to know we’re here?” He gave his aide a vicious kick, and Scurvy went tumbling back down onto the track. He landed with a thud and clutched his tail, whimpering.
    Dupont turned to his rats-in-waiting. “So, kids, what do you think? Was I right or what? Is Grand Central Station the rat’s pajamas?”
    Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie nodded enthusiastically in agreement. They always agreed with Dupont. That was their job. This time, however, they really meant it. Limburger Louie’s stomach growled. It had been a long trip, and he was hungry.
    Dupont chuckled. New York always put him in a good mood. “I could use some breakfast too, Louie,” he said. “And we certainly have our choice here. They don’t call it the Big Apple for nothing. But first, we need to rendezvous with the others. We’re meeting under Track Seventy-seven. Easy to remember, because there are seventy-seven of us.”
    Taking one last look around, the rats crept back down and scuttled off into the shadows. Dupont, who as a ratling had spent many a vacation visiting his New York relatives, knew the city like the back of his paw. He led his aides expertly through the tunnels and ductwork and pipes that connected the hallways and tracks, and within a short time they emerged at Track 77.
    â€œSo, where is everyone?” squeaked Lulu, looking around in disappointment.
    â€œAll in good time, my pet, all in good time,” said Dupont. He whipped his tail toward a grate on the far side. “Watch for trains!”
    With that warning, he darted across the track, shoved a sewer grating aside with a thrust of his powerful snout, and disappeared through the hole. Scurvy, Gnaw, and the Limburger twins followed.
    The rats descended into darkness, the twins clutching each other’s tails fearfully as Dupont