“Go get it, Julie! Fetch, Paris!”

Aubrey began jerking her head toward the utility knife and staring at them. The dogs watched her with great interest, but they didn’t seem to be grasping the notion.

Spike trotted over to the cages along the wall and began growling at the birds. The birds weren’t too thrilled by this—they began fluttering and squawking.

“Am I making any progress?” Rob asked.

“A little,” I said, glancing over at his hands. Of course, at the rate he was going, we wouldn’t be free for weeks, but I didn’t want to discourage him.

“Fetch! Fetch!” Aubrey repeated.

One of the dogs began to get the idea, and walked over a little in the direction of the utility knife.

“Good boy! Fetch!”

The other dog—Julie, presumably—rose up on her hind legs and began dancing around in a circle.

“Good girl!” Aubrey said.

“How is that helping us?” I asked.

“Well, it isn’t,” she said. “But I’ve been trying to get her to do that for weeks.”

Arroyo began giggling.

“Now fetch!” Aubrey repeated.

Paris got the idea. He picked up the roll of duct tape, trotted over to Aubrey, dropped it beside her, and began licking her face.

“Good boy!”

“He got the wrong thing,” Rob said.

“Yes, but he’s getting the idea. Good boy! Now fetch again.”

Paris dashed away a few feet, then rose up on his hind feet and began dancing beside Julie.

“Oh, brother,” Arroyo groaned, through his giggles. “They’re never going to believe this back in Richmond.”

About that time, Spike got tired of torturing the cockatiels and looked around to see what other mischief he could get into.

“Fetch! Fetch!” Aubrey repeated.

Spike seemed to notice where all our eyes were glued. He trotted over and picked up the utility knife.

“Good boy!” Aubrey exclaimed.

“Oh, great,” I muttered.

Having taken possession of the utility knife, Spike began trotting around the barn floor, as if deliberately taunting us with it. For a few minutes, we were all calling “Here, Spike! Here, boy!” but the more we called, the happier he was to prance around out of reach.

“Everyone shut up!” I said. “And don’t look at him.”

I turned my head so I could pretend to be looking away while keeping tabs on Spike in my peripheral vision. Almost as soon as we stopped paying attention, he stopped prancing and stood looking irritably around.

“Spike,” I said softly.

He turned and looked at me.

“Here, Spike,” I said.

“It won’t work,” Rob muttered.

“Quiet,” I said. “Here, Spike.”

This time I wiggled my fingers. Spike lifted his lip slightly. I wiggled the fingers again. He began slowly stalking toward me. Every time he slowed down, I wiggled my fingers tantalizingly. He finally fell for it, and ran forward to lunge at my fingers, dropping the utility knife at the last second.

“Yow!” I yelled, as he sank in his teeth. “Here, Paris! Here, Julie!”

The two poodles romped over, tails wagging, and began licking my face. As I’d hoped, Spike felt threatened by the proximity of two much larger dogs, and let go of my mangled fingers to bark furiously at them. Julie stuck her nose down to sniff Spike and had to jerk it back quickly when he lunged at her. Paris growled, and lowered his head to stare at Spike in what any sane dog would recognize as a stern warning. Julie barked at Spike, who snapped at her again.