Minutes later, Snowball and Plato were standing outside of an apartment somewhere near Times Square. The rabbit was thankful that he had worn his special suit underneath his clothes or else. Thumping his foot on the ground nervously while occasionally glancing over his shoulders, he mumbled, "You sure this guy will help us?"

"He's a doctor Snowball, he's sworn to help people," Plato replied without hesitation. Sighing quietly, he murmured, "Hopefully he's home." A few seconds later, the bloodhound knocked on the front door for probably the seventh or eighth time since they had gotten there. Stepping forward, Snowball piped up, "Mind if I try?"

"By all means," Plato responded, backing off and gesturing to the door. Standing before it, Snowball took a deep breath. Forming a fist, he began pounding the door. Getting three good pounds in, he was about to deliver a fourth when he heard movement coming from inside the apartment. He smiled at Plato, who rolled his eyes. At the same time, the door opened to reveal an elderly basset hound in a wheelchair. Looking up at the two visitors at his doorstep, he squinted his eyes as he mumbled, "Chief Plato, is that you? Long time no see."

Clearing his throat, Plato began the introductions, "Snowball, this is Dr. Pops. Some call him Doctor Canine."