As the pilot steered us upriver, I reviewed Colonel Kats’ file. The Army had sent their finest dogs to chase him, but nothing had come back but rumors — whispers of a cult deep in the jungle, where dogs and mice alike worshipped Kats like a god.
The pilot, a schnauzer named Chase, had been eyeing me nervously the whole trip. Finally he spoke. “My orders say I’m not supposed to know where I’m taking this boat, so I don’t!” he said. “But one look at you, and I know it’s gonna be hot.”
Susan G. shares a letter: “My name is Chase, and I’m a 9 year old miniature schnauzer. Ok… I’m not so miniature. Anyway, these are pictures of me driving my daddy’s boat this summer in Summerville, South Carolina.”