The house seemed nice enough. A neat, well maintained Colonial on the small side. The kind of place you see in ads for towns named to a “Best Places to Live “ list. The lawn was manicured, the hedges trimmed, the only indication that it was the site of a dog reunion were the signs. They were everywhere, directing you to the walkway along the side of the house.
“Woof This Way,” read one. “Bark in the Back,” was another. They were handwritten, and appeared to me to be a cry for help. Mixed in among the signs were big mylar balloons. One was floating from the mailbox. It was the shape of a dog biscuit. Another was the shape of a food bowl.