I NEEDN’T HAVE WORRIED about losing track of my prey because my mother drove like an octogenarian who’d forgotten her reading glasses. Slowly and carefully, she led me down Main Street, through a tree-lined residential neighborhood, then along a two-lane highway just beyond the outskirts of town. There, her bright red vehicle turned up a gravel drive toward an imposing edifice perched atop a grassy knoll.
If this was Celia’s home, it was no wonder she’d turned up her nose at our pack’s decrepit living quarters.
I pulled over onto the shoulder and let my rental car idle as I watched the human unlock the house and prop the front door wide open. Out of her trunk came potted pansies and geraniums, and the back seat soon revealed caterers’ trays of food that I could almost smell from a tenth
