The Presidential Pets, as they call themselves, meet on both the first day of the month and the last day of the month. They cross through time and space itself to get in touch with each other, making sure that their respective homes are kept in order and that the humans don’t get too out of line.
Laddie Boy has always taken pride in the title, considering it one of the most important tasks that an animal could have. That’s why he’s eager to walk over to the doggie door. The air around it is cold as winter, and the blue glow that surrounds it seems blinding. He has to close his eyes when he ducks down his head, stepping through the hatch.
It doesn’t let out into the White House.
At least, not into the same White House that Laddie Boy has left.
Instead, the doggie door opens up into what is known as the Room. Some say that the place itself is sentient, that it understands various tongues and can respond, at times, in ways that don’t revolve around the vocal cord.
It’s a legend that Laddie Boy puts a lot of stock into. He fully believes that the Room is a sentient, living thing. How else would it change? How else would it know exactly what the animals within needed?
Right now, the doggie door lets out into a tunnel of shadows. It’s just tall enough that Laddie Boy’s folded over ears brush against the top. Every time someone passes through the tunnel, it’s a different length. The passage changes depending on what time period the Council is being held in.
Today, it must be in a time far away from Laddie Boy’s own. The tunnel seems to stretch out forever. Laddie Boy walks on, and on, and on – eventually coming across another doggie door. Instead of a ring of blue, there is a green light surrounding the silver.
This one leads into a large, circular building. The walls are completely white, a room crafted from starlight and sunshine. Every four feet, there is another door. At the moment, they all appear to be doggie doors. That isn’t always the case, of course. Just like the Room, the Door will change to allow entrance to every presidential pet, no matter their shape, breed, or species.
The floor is white as well. It clacks against Laddie Boy’s long toe nails like tile. Several plaques have been placed at various points in the room, each one depicting a different name. There’s only one other animal in the room; a stunning Greyhound that sits behind a plague that reads Cornwallis.
His voice is stiff and ungiving when he asks, “alright, Laddie Boy. What did you need this time?”
“There’s something wrong in the White House,” says Laddie Boy. “One of the aid’s, I think she’s taken something. But I need to know that I’m correct, before I do anything. Can you tell me anything about it, Cornwallis?”
The greyhound gives a very put upon sigh. He stands up, all long legs and short fur. “Ask Dixie. She should be here soon.”
Katelynn E Koontz – Author
