"Hey, fellas, I wonder what that is," he said.
"What what is?" Mike Nesmith asked.
"That yip," Peter said matter-of-factly.
"I didn't 'ear anything," Davy Jones said.
"Neither did I," Mike agreed.
"I did," Micky Dolenz stated.
As Peter loaded his bass guitar into the backseat of the car, he heard it again. He whirled around . . . and found himself looking at a sweet-faced Golden retriever. She was sitting on the grass near the car, looking up at Peter. The blonde Monkee went over to the dog and knelt down next to her. "Hey, pretty girl, where did you come from?" he asked, stroking her soft fur.
"Hey, groovy! A dog!" Peter turned to see Micky looking down at the Golden retriever. "Where'd she come from?"
Peter shrugged. "I guess she must've came from that brush over there," he decided. It was all he could figure out.
"She doesn't have a collar," Micky pointed out. "She's probably a stray."
"Do you think Mike would let us keep her?" Peter asked hopefully.
Micky sighed. "You know how Mr. Babbit feels about having animals around. Mike would be worried that Babbit would find the dog and kick us all out."
"Hey, Pete, Mick, what's going on?" Mike asked, coming over to where they were, followed closely by Davy.
"We found a dog!" Micky said. "She's probably a stray."
"She's so sweet!" Peter exclaimed. "Oh, Mike, could we keep her?"
Mike groaned. "You know how Babbit feels about pets. Besides, as you pointed out, Pete, she does seem like a real sweet dog," the Texan stated, giving the dog a long look. "I can't picture anyone abandoning a dog like her."
"Maybe she's never had an owner," Micky suggested.
"Anyone seein' her would surely want her," Davy said.
The dog looked up at Mike and offered him a paw to shake. Reluctantly he took it.
"Oh, please, Mike, can we keep her?" Peter pleaded.
Mike sighed. His friends could tell he would give in. Sure enough, he said, "Okay. But only for a little while," he said warningly. "And we'll have to keep a lookout for someone to permanently take her in."
That agreement was good enough for Peter. "Hear that, girl? You're coming home with us!" he declared, leading her over to the car. "Here, girl, hop in," Peter instructed. Obediently, the dog jumped in, settling down comfortably on the backseat.
"What should we name her?" Micky asked.
"Now, we shouldn't get too attached to her," Mike warned. "We can't keep her, you know."
"But she's gotta have a name," Micky protested.
"Oh, alright," Mike sighed.
"How about Maisie?" Peter suggested. He wasn't sure where the name came from, but he knew instantly that it fit.
"That's as good as any, I guess," Mike said.
The Monkees had just finished a successful gig and were putting their instruments back in their red Pontiac GTO when Peter Tork heard a soft yip.
"She's such a wonderful, special, unusual dog," Peter declared. "Even Mr. Babbit would love her!"
"Doesn't it ever seem strange how she just suddenly turned up where we were?" Mike said Thursday morning at the breakfast table. "And think about this: If she was a stray, why was she so well-groomed? She must have an owner somewhere, who's frantically looking for her." He again warned his fellow Monkees not to get too attached to Maisie.
"Get in the boat, foolish woman!"
"I won't!"
"Get in the boat, or there'll be trouble." As the scene came into the two Monkees' and Maisie's view, they saw a man pull out a gun and aim it at the woman.
"Please let me go," she pleaded.
"Ha! And let you alert the cops about me? Not on your life!"
"Micky, that's the bank robber we heard about on the news who robbed a bank and kidnapped the teller!" Peter gasped.
"You're right!" Micky exclaimed.
"Well, we have to stop him!" Peter insisted.
Maisie suddenly sprang forward, racing toward the man, barking loudly. The man whirled, aiming his gun at Maisie.
"No! Don't shoot her, please don't shoot her," Peter screamed, running up next to Maisie, with Micky quickly following.
The man wasn't quite sure what to make of this. Now two more people could identify him. He wasn't going to let that happen. He wasn't going to get caught. The police hadn't found him yet—they'd been looking for fifteen years—and he wasn't going to let them get him now.
He suddenly lunged at the two Monkees, taking them by surprise. He swung a punch at Micky, knocking him off-balance. He whipped out a stick and pushed Micky to the ground, beginning to beat him with the stick. Peter screamed at the woman to go call for help, which she did. The blonde Monkee then rushed forward, grabbing the man's arm. "Stop! Don't hurt him!" he screamed. The man shoved Peter back against a hard rock, where he remained, dazed. The man then pulled out his gun to shoot the Monkee.
Peter looked up, suddenly seeing a golden blur barreling toward the man. She sprang up, pulling his gun hand down. When the man turned and saw Maisie, he did a very strange thing. He turned pale and said in disbelief, "It's you! But, no, it can't be!" Then they fell to the ground, wrestling with the gun, and several times Peter heard sickening gunshots. Once he distinctly saw a bullet strike Maisie. Apparently unaffected, she continued to fight with the man, and eventually she wound up on top. She was able to pin him down with her paws until the police arrived.
When the officers were snapping handcuffs on the man and marching him over to the squad car, he got a good look at Maisie in the glare of the car's headlights and gasped. "It is you!" he gasped. Maisie barked.
The hero dog sauntered triumphantly over to Peter and sat down in front of him. Peter stroked her head. "Good girl," he said softly. "You saved our lives!" He inspected her for the bullet wound he was sure he'd find, but he found none. "Impossible," he said in disbelief, knowing he'd seen her get struck.
Maisie then went over to Micky, sprawled on the ground. She gently licked his face. Micky opened his eyes and reached out to pet Maisie. "Good dog," he said weakly.
On Sunday, the Monkees went over to Babbit's house to pay their rent. While there, Davy happened to notice a picture of a beautiful Golden retriever on Babbit's mantle.
"'ey, who's this?" he asked. "She's a beautiful dog!"
Babbit turned to look. His normally stern expression softened. "Yeah, she was," he agreed. "She was my dog." "Your dog, Mr. Babbit?" Micky asked incredulously.
Babbit nodded. "Yeah. I named her Maisie. She was the sweetest dog anyone could ever have. She loved everybody. The only time she ever got tough was when someone tried to hurt someone else." He paused, then slowly went on. "One day, I was walking Maisie through town when we witnessed a bank robbery. The robber realized we had seen him and tried to shoot me, but Maisie jumped in front of me. . . . The robber shot her. She was killed instantly. She died defending me!"
The Monkees looked at the dog's picture. Peter and Micky were nearly bowled over at what they had heard, but Mike and Davy didn't realize the significance.
"What happened to the creep?" Mike asked.
"He escaped," Babbit said quietly. Suddenly he brightened. "But, you know, I heard that he was finally caught the other night after committing another bank robbery."
Peter and Micky looked at each other and slowly nodded. They turned back to Babbit. Mike and Davy didn't know what was going on, and they were shocked and horrified when Micky burst out, "Mr. Babbit, we were there when he was caught. He had kidnapped the bank teller and was attacking us, when suddenly this beautiful Golden retriever we had found a couple of days ago rescued us."
"Yeah," Peter chimed in, "and the strangest thing happened. When the robber saw the dog, he turned pale and said, ‘It's you! But, no, it can't be!' He was shooting at her, and I know he hit her, but later when I was looking at her, I couldn't find any bullet wound whatsoever!"
Now Babbit was looking a little strange. "You say you found this dog a couple of days ago?"
Peter nodded. "Yes. We had just completed a gig at the Bluebird Cafe and we were loading our instruments into our car when I saw her. She was sitting on the grass looking up at me."
"I have to admit, we couldn't resist her charm and we brought her home with us," Micky said.
Mike's mouth dropped open. If he had been shocked before, he was positively stunned now. "Micky, what are you doing?" he hissed. "Do you wanna get us kicked out?"
To Mike's and Davy's surprise (but not to Micky and Peter's), Babbit didn't seem to be upset. Instead he said, "Do you still have the dog?"
"Yes," Peter said.
"We weren't planning to keep her," Mike hurriedly broke in. "But we just couldn't leave her out there wandering around, so we brought her back with us until we could find her a good home."
Babbit wasn't paying attention to Mike. "Can I see her?" he asked.
"Of course," Peter said.
As they walked over to the Monkees' beachhouse, Babbit asked, "Did you give her a name?"
"Yes, we did," Micky said. "Actually, we call her Maisie." Babbit nearly stopped in his tracks.
"I don't know why," Peter said. "It just seemed to fit."
They went inside and found Maisie sitting contentedly on the rug. When she saw Babbit, she suddenly sprang up and rushed over to him, offering her paw to shake.
"Maisie!" he cried. "It's really you!"
Mike gave Micky and Peter a funny look. "Would you mind telling me what is going on here?" he demanded. "How could that be his dog? He said she was dead!"
"She is," Peter said simply.
Babbit and Maisie sat together quietly for several minutes, both greatly happy to see each other again.
After a while, Maisie suddenly stood up, looking out through the open door. Babbit and the Monkees looked out too, but couldn't see anything.
"What's she see?" Mike wondered.
Maisie turned to look back at them. Her soft brown eyes shined.
"She's telling us goodbye," Babbit said softly. "She has to go now."
Maisie shook hands with the Monkees and Babbit, then turned back to the doorway and walked through. "Goodbye, Maisie!" everyone called, even Mike, who still didn't get exactly what was going on. She walked down the steps and along the beach. After about ten feet, she suddenly disappeared.
"Goodbye, Maisie," Babbit said softly, staring at the spot where she'd disappeared. Turning back to the Monkees, he said, "That's why I never allowed you boys to have pets . . . it pained me too much. They reminded me of Maisie." Before the Monkees could say anything, Babbit, too, left, walking back to his own house.
"Well, Mike, Maisie is dead," Peter said softly. "She was killed when that robber shot her."
"And then she came back years later," Micky added. "She knew that Pete and I were going to get into trouble with the same robber. She came back to avert a tragedy."
"You mean," Mike said slowly, trying to comprehend what they was telling him, "a ghost dog has been living with us for the past week and saved you two from being hurt . . . or even killed?"
Micky and Peter nodded.
"That's why the robber was so shocked to see Maisie the other night," Peter said. "He realized she was the same dog he had shot and killed years before."
"When Mr. Babbit told us about his dog Maisie and what had happened to her, we realized what was going on and knew that Babbit would love to be able to see his dog again, if only for a few minutes," Micky said.
There was a long silence as Mike digested the news. Finally he said softly, "Incredible!"
"Then you believe it, Mike?" Micky asked.
Mike shrugged. "It's pretty strange, but I've seen stranger things in my life." He paused. "Yeah, I believe it."
Outside, a beautiful Golden retriever unseen to the human eye sat looking at the beachhouse, satisfied that all was well. She turned and walked down the beach, then turned and looked at Babbit's house. We will meet again, she thought, and continued on.
