Next morning and Denny takes to opening all the cage doors. A flurry of activity ensues: all wags and sniffs as the contents of said cages make proper introductions. 
Neutral territory begs a certain calm manner and the kennel residents are on their best behavior–all except for La Tour: a golden cat shaped like the Eiffel Tower. 
He has not been released to the fray on the floor below. He sits like a statue mid-cage and hisses without moving his lips.
I wave my nose under the door of his “cabin”. He makes no move, eyes frozen on the door to the outside deck, and moans a low, controlled growl.
Virgina gives me a nudge and I follow her into the next room. Denny, the steward, turns a box on its side and a dozen green tennis balls roll across the smooth floor. 
Suddenly pandemonium erupts as every dog must find at least one ball. 
Virginia scoops up two between her jaws and Churchill noses one into the corner until it has no where to go but onto his tongue.
We are all sitting down, looking at each other, waiting for the first ball to drop, when Denny sets the floor with eight bowls.
I am the first to let the ball roll. I have my priorities. The steward pours something dry into the dishes. When I reach the first offering, I give it a cursory sniff and nibble: generic, crunchy kibble.
A knock on the door and Virginia’s woman appears with a plate of something that smells divine. The woman scrapes it into the bowl nearest Virginia and Virgina wastes no time trying to determine what it is. 
It disappears in several gulps and Virginia give a broad lick of her lips.
Room service, she says.
I cast her a long look and narrow my eyes.
Give me the number.
Chow.
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We have reached Southampton and the odyssey is over.
