Doggone Disaster

by Margaret Lashley

  “It was just thunder,” I said, and sighed with relief.

  A loud bang on the front door turned us back into jumping beans.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “How should I know?” Goober sneered. He opened another cabinet door. “Call the psychic hotline. Maybe they can tell you – and help me find your Jack Daniels.”

  I shot Goober a dirty look and tiptoed over to the front window. I pulled down a slat, peeked through blinds and nearly squealed like a pig.

  “It’s him!” I choked.

  “Who?” Winky asked.

  “The psycho from next door!”

  “Holy flippin’ jalapeños!” Winky screeched. “Don’t answer it!” He dove across the living room and started stuffing his body underneath the couch.

  “I wasn’t planning to,” I hissed. I grabbed the flyswatter from the coffee table and plastered my back against the wall by the front door.

  Ape man banged on the door again.

  “Just like last night,” Goober said. He’d abandoned his search for Jack Daniels and had begun throttling my poor living room lamp to death. “Don’t make a sound!” he warned.

  Winky farted loud enough to rattle the windows. We held our breath, for obvious reasons.

  The banging stopped.

  Despite the deadly olfactory assault like a week-old bag of rotten cabbage, we remained silent and held our positions. After about a minute, Winky whispered, “Sorry, fellers.”

  I rubbed my burning eyes. “What happened over there, Goober? Did the guy see your or something?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it. But first I want to see the Jack and the Zagnut bar.”

  I HANDED GOOBER THE candy bar and poured him a shot of Jack. Goober swallowed it down and slammed the shot glass on the kitchen counter. Winky and I waited with bated breath for Goober to spill his guts. He motioned for another pour. I obliged.

  “It’s kind of a blur,” he wheezed. “I only got a quick glance through the bushes. The guy was doing some kind of weird ritual thing. The Doberman had a sack over its head. It was tied to a post. In some kind of a harness. It looked to me like some kind of voodoo sacrifice or something.”

  “Sacrifice?” I squealed. “Geeze, Goober! What are we gonna do?”

  “I have an idea,” Goober said, and reached for the bottle of whiskey.

  “What?” I asked.

  He poured another shot. “Nothing. I say, let’s do nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I protested.

  Goober unwrapped his Zagnut bar. “Unless somebody’s got a better idea?”

  It was clear from the blank expressions on our faces, none of us had squat.

  “I guess that’s all we can do right now,” I agreed reluctantly. “Tom will be back tomorrow. He’ll know what to do.”

  “I don’t like this one bit,” Winky said. “I ain’t waitin’ around for that weirdo to slit my throat. We need to organize us a watch.”

  “A watch?” I asked.

  “Yep. Help me move the couch.”

  Goober and I followed Winky’s lead and helped push the couch across the living room until it was positioned in front of the sliding-glass doors, facing the backyard. Exhausted from lack of sleep, we flopped on the couch, me in the middle of an idiot sandwich. The plan was to take turns keeping watch out the back door. As if written into a bad horror script, Mother Nature decided to put on another thunderous fireworks display that night. Each time lightning streaked across the sky, it lit up the night in a blue-white flash, like an old-time flash bulb. And each time the thunder clapped, the dog next door let out a bone-chilling howl.

  “That poor dog!” I said. “Shouldn’t we call the police or something?”

  “No!” Winky and Goober hissed simultaneously. I shrunk back in my cushion.

  “If it’s still howling, it’s still alive,” Goober said.

  He had a point. I wondered if Buster was still alive, too. “I’ll take first watch,” I said.

  “Fine with me,” Goober said.

  “Me, too,” Winky said. “And don’t you worry none, Val. We’ll find Buster tomorrow. Prolly just chased a gopher into a hole.” Having said his piece, he tipped his head on the back of the couch and started snoring. Unbelievable!

  A crack of lightning lit up the backyard and boomed. Winky didn’t budge. Another cracked a second later. I thought I saw something moving along the fence line in Laverne’s backyard.

  I elbowed Goober in the ribs. “Did you see that?”

  “Ouch,” he grumbled. “See what?”

  “Something’s walking around in Laverne’s backyard.”

  “It’s probably Laverne, Sherlock.”

  “No. Whatever it is, it’s not much higher than the fence.”

  Goober sat up to attention. “The Doberman, you think?”

  “I dunno. Where’s the flashlight?”

  “Winky’s using it for a neck roll.”

  I yanked the flashlight out from under Winky’s head. “What’s goin’ on?” he grumbled as he regained semi-consciousness.

  “Val thinks she’s seen the creature making those holes in Laverne’s yard,” Goober explained.

  “Is it the hairy ape man?” Winky asked.

  “No. Too short.”

  “Aha!” Winky said. “I tole you all they was miniature monsters out there, but you wouldn’t listen!”

  “We gotta find out what it is,” I said. “Maybe it’s Buster. This could be our only chance. Guys, go in the garage and get the rubber garbage can. I’ll find the trash bags.”

  “We gonna pretend we’re garbage collectors?” Winky asked.

  “No,” I said. “We’re gonna capture it.”

  “Capture it?” Goober asked. “Are you crazy, Val?”

  “What if it’s some kind a chooper kabre or somethin’?” Winky squealed. “It’ll kill us all!”

  “Chupacabra,” I said. “And they don’t exist either.”

  I hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I still prefer the original plan,” Goober said. “Doing nothing.”

  “Not an option,” I said. “We have to find out what’s out there digging those holes in Laverne’s yard.”

  “And by ‘we’ you mean ‘you,’” Goober replied.

  “Whatever,” I said. “You guys ready to roll?”

  “Couldn’t we at least wait ‘til it stops rainin’ and lightnin’?” Winky whined.

  “No. It may be too late then.”

  “Gaul-dang it,” Winky whispered.

  The three of us were gathered at the back door, holding our positions like the world’s most poorly trained SWAT team. Goober was armed with a spatula and a garbage can. Winky had the rolling pin and a garbage bag. I had a garbage bag, too, and the poop net I’d found lying in a corner on the living room floor.

  “I done tol’ you once, Val,” Winky said, looking down at it. “You’re gonna need a bigger net than that to catch that varmint.”

  I blew out a breath. “I told you before. I’m just taking it outside, okay? It’s not part of the plan.”

  “So what per-zackly is the plan?” Winky asked.

  “We’re going to catch whatever it is in the trash can,” I said. “Winky, you and I are going to herd it toward Goober. Goober’s going to trap it in the can and slap the lid on it.”

  “You didn’t say anything about a lid,” Goober said.

  I unclenched my jaw enough to say, “Go get it.”

  Goober set the can down and sauntered off toward the garage.

  “So you mean to tell me you aim to capture it?” Winky asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what?”

  Good question. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Uh...we’ll uh...call...animal control,” I improvised.

  “Got me a cousin who’s a critter gitter.”

  “Maybe we could call him,” I said.

  “Naw. His truck’s broke down. Besides, he lives in Alabama. But I know this other feller –
”

  “Okay, got the lid,” Goober said, returning from the garage. “Ready when you are, commandeerer-in-chief.”

  “All right, then,” I said. “Slide open the door, Goober, and let’s roll.”

  “TURN ON THE FLASHLIGHT, Val,” Goober muttered. “I can’t see a dang thing.”

  “Me either,” Winky said.

  It took the pouring rain three seconds to soak through my clothes and wash my bangs into my eyes. “I don’t want to use the flashlight unless I have to,” I said. “The battery’s nearly dead. And we don’t want to scare the thing away.”

  “We don’t want to scare it?” Goober sneered.

  A crunching sound echoed in the darkness. It came from the direction of Laverne’s yard.

  “Shhh!” I hissed. “Did you hear that?”

  “Sounds like a pack a wild armadillas,” Winky said.

  “Hush! Follow my lead.”

  I crept toward the white picket fence. It glowed palely in the faint moonlight like an endless row of ghostly, pointed teeth. I stopped. Goober ran into the back of me.

  “Ungh,” he grunted. “Say something next time you stop.”

  “Grnngh!”

  “Something besides that,” he hissed.

  “That wasn’t me,” I said. “Winky, hush!”

  “I didn’t say a gaul-dang thing.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I whispered, “I think it came from just over there. On the count of three, jump over the fence with me. Ready? One. Two. Three!”

  I jumped over the fence. Winky and Goober stayed put. “Really?” I hissed. I tugged Goober on the arm. “Get over here!” He reluctantly stepped over the fence. “You, too, Winky!”

  “Okay, already. Don’t get your bloomers in a wad.”

  “For the millionth time, would you hush?” I whispered.

  “How come I’m the only one can’t say –”

  “Grnngh. Ugh.”

  “What is that?” Goober whispered.

  “I dunno. It sounded like it came from over there,” I whispered and pointed. I could barely make out my own hand in the darkness. “Can you guys see anything?”

  “I can hear it digging,” Winky whispered. “Foller me.”

  We tiptoed across the grass between Laverne’s rosebushes, Winky in the lead. As I stepped cautiously behind Goober, something grabbed me from behind. Its claws dug into my arm. I screamed.

  “Aaargh!”

  As I struggled to break free of its grasp, something short and dark and breathing heavily ran past me in the dark. I screamed again.

  “Aargh! Help! Over here, guys!” I shone the dim flashlight on my attacker. It was Princess Margaret, the rosebush. I yanked my sleeve free just as Goober and Winky bumped into me. “It went that way!” I screeched, and pointed the flashlight in the direction I’d seen the creature run. “I think it was a panther!”

  “A panther?” Goober choked.

  I pushed my sopping bangs from my eyes. “Yes. Hurry! It’s getting away!”

  Goober yanked Winky’s arm and the pair sprinted off. A second later, I heard a struggle, then a thump, another grunt, and finally, the click of the garbage lid locking into place.

  “We done it!” Winky yelled from somewhere in the darkness. I took a few cautious steps toward the sound of his voice, shining the anemic flashlight as I went. When I arrived at the scene, Winky and Goober had a hold of either side of the trash can, toting it toward me. Whatever was inside was snarling and thrashing around. The rubber bin was jerking and swaying like an off-balanced lump of clay on a pottery wheel.

  “What is it? I asked. Then, to my horror, Goober stumbled over a garden gnome.

  As he fell face-forward in the pouring rain, the dimly-lit scene unfolded in slow-motion. Goober’s right foot lurched forward. He lost his grip on the trash can. It fell and bounced once on the ground. The lid popped off and flipped through the air like a tossed pizza dough. Winky lost his grip and the garbage bin lunged forward. It skidded on its side in the grass, the open end headed right for me. Inside the bin, two glowing red eyes glared back at me.

  I screamed, stepped back, and fell ass-backward onto the ground. The flashlight flew out of my hand. As the lamp hit the ground, the jolt must have improved the battery connection, because suddenly the flashlight shot out a blinding beam right into the can. I watched, dumbfounded, as a short, black creature with a silvery mane came crawling out.

  “Oh my gawd!” I cried out.

  “Goober! Slap the lid back on!” Winky hollered.

  Goober came charging out of the darkness, holding the garbage lid like a shield.

  “No! Don’t!” I shouted. “Let it go!”

  Goober screeched to a halt. The three of us stood in the deluge and watched, silently, as the creature emerged from the garbage can and straightened out its three-and-a-half foot frame. Laverne’s mysterious garden digger was J.D. Fellows himself.

  “WHAT WERE YOU DOING out there?” I asked J.D. as I poured a round of whiskey for the guys, gin for me. We’d toweled off our wet clothes and were huddled, inquisition style, around my kitchen counter. We stared down J.D., who was perched like a towel-headed criminal on one of my kitchen barstools.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” groused the diminutive attorney. He was pissed, and downed his shot of whiskey in one gulp. I poured him another.

  “Laverne’s been complaining about something tearing up her rosebushes,” I explained. “We were just...you know...keeping an eye out. Trying to help.”

  “Cut the crap, Val,” Winky said. He spun J.D. around on his barstool. “Buster’s missin’, buster!” Winky stopped for a second to smile and nod at his own eloquence, then got back to business. “Val done found evidential body parts in yore yard. And now we done caught you red handed buryin’ more. What is you, J.D.? Some kind a animal murderer?”

  J.D. looked down at the empty shot glass in his hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.

  “Then how do you explain this?” Goober held up a garbage bag containing an animal carcass. We’d found it in the yard beside a freshly dug hole around Laverne’s rosebushes. Thanks to our ambush, J.D. hadn’t had time to finish his task. Goober slammed the bag on the counter in front of J.D. I bit my lip and fought back the Southern urge to grab the bottle of spray bleach under the sink.

  “J.D., we’re just trying to get to the bottom of this,” I said, trying to calm the three men’s testosterone-fueled pissing match. “You have to admit, the case against you doesn’t look good.” I rubbed the scratches on my arm inflicted by Princess Margaret, the rose-thorn monster.

  “I really don’t have to answer you guys,” J.D said woodenly. “This isn’t Judge Judy.”

  “I know,” I said. “But...geeze, J.D. I really wish you would.”

  “Show him the evidence,” Winky said. “Open the bag.”

  As Goober reached for the bag, J.D. threw up his hands.

  “All right,” he said. “Pour me another shot, would you, Val?”

  “Sure.”

  I did as he asked, and J.D. began presenting his argument before a jury of very unlikely peers.

  He cleared his throat. “Let me begin by saying, having attended the Thanksgiving feast at Laverne’s, I’m sure you are all aware of my lovely girlfriend’s...um...culinary talents.”

  We all exchanged grimaces and nods.

  “Well, what for you was a one-off occasion, is for me an everyday logistical problem.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Laverne’s cooking,” he said. “It’s inedible. Agreed?”

  “That’s putting it nicely,” I said.

  “Yep,” Winky said.

  “No doubt,” Goober concurred.

  “So we are all in agreement here,” J.D. said. “Therefore, you can certainly understand that actually eating the food she cooks not an option. So, I’ve had to come up with...uh...other arrangements.”

  “But Laverne told me you ea
t everything she puts in front of you,” I argued.

  J.D. reached inside his waistband and pulled out a Ziplock bag. “Exhibit A. My ‘second stomach.’”

  “Huh?” Winky asked.

  “Let me demonstrate,” J.D. said. He unzipped the baggie and positioned it on his thigh with the open end up. “When she’s not looking, I drop what food I can into my lap, see? And stuff it into the bag.”

  “Why?” Winky asked.

  “Because I’d like to live long enough to enjoy my retirement,” J.D. answered impatiently.

  “I still don’t get it,” Winky said.

  J.D. threw up his hands again. “Look! Here’s the long and short of it.”

  “The short of it! Good ‘un, J.D.!” Winky said.

  I cringed. Well, at least Winky would never be accused of being politically correct. To his credit, J.D. ignored Winky’s remarks and continued with only the slightest pause.

  “I don’t want to hurt her feelings,” J.D. said, “but Laverne’s cooking could kill a buzzard. I can’t throw the stuff away. She’d find it in the garbage can. And lord knows, we’ve already killed enough possums with it. So I started throwing it in the water. But then dead fish started floating up. So I was left with only one option. I started burying her deadly dinners in the backyard after she went to bed.”

  “Oh. I get it,” Winky said. “I had a cousin once –”

  “I knew something weird was going on!” I said, cutting Winky off at the pass. “I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. Laverne kept blaming Buster, but dogs don’t try to cover up the holes they dig.” Convinced of his innocence, I poured J.D. another shot. But Winky and Goober still had a few more questions they wanted answered before they were going to let him off the hook.

  “So, you didn’t kill Buster?” Winky asked, scratching his head.

  “Kill? No!” J.D. said. “I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “But you killed this,” Goober said, and held up the garbage bag.

  “Let me tell you something,” J.D. said. “The chicken in that bag died in vain, that’s true. But I wasn’t the one who killed it.”