Cry Woof

by Sarah Hines-Stephens

  I followed Bananas around while she explored. She found a patch of sun big enough for both of us and we flopped. Sun was nice. Sun could be a new favorite. I soaked up the rays while she licked my sore nose. Then it was time for lunch.

  Whenever I saw The Cat leap on the counters or walk on the back of the couch I felt jealous. I thought it was wrong. But The Kid showed me it could be right. She leaped on the dryer and knocked the box of treats to the ground. We shared. Then we destroyed the evidence.

  When Cassie got home from school, playtime was over. Cats liked to lounge — even Bananas. Lazing and lounging had been fun. But I liked to work. Plus I could tell Cassie had a job for us.

  “Go time, Dodge,” she told me. “We’re taking the Madame LeFarge case.”

  I let out a bark. “Woof!” I loved a case. I couldn’t wait to get started.

  The Kid yowled when she saw that we were headed out without her.

  “We’re going to your house to find out what happened to your lady,” Cassie explained.

  We were? I knew we needed to go back there. But nothing good had come out of our recent visits to Prospect Street. So I sat down fast. Maybe I whined.

  “Don’t worry, Dodge,” Cassie said. “Madame can’t call the police on us anymore.” Then she sighed.

  Right. Madame wasn’t there. That was why we needed to be. That was why we were on the case.

  By the time we hit Prospect my lounginess and hesitation were gone. My eyes and ears were on high alert. We didn’t want to be noticed, so we moved slow and steady. Just a dog and his girl out for a stroll. On the outside, anyway. On the inside we were collecting data.

  I started with a nose scan at the crime scene. Madame’s house smelled like it did before, only staler. Cat food. Cat fuzz. Cat box. The cats were gone but their stink remained. And their mess.

  Cassie tried the back door. Locked. The broken flowerpot was right where I’d knocked it. I stuck my head through the cat door while Cassie checked for open windows and poked around outside. I tried again to get a shoulder through the small passage. No go. I’d have to investigate as best I could with just my eyes, nose, and ears.

  My nose quivering, I looked around. I saw cat climbing towers. Hair-covered cat beds. Bowls and bowls of old cat kibble. Stale and dry — only a little tempting. I smelled all the cat smells. Woof. And something else, something … fishy.

  I pushed harder against the tiny opening, willing myself to be dachshund size, hoping I wouldn’t get stuck. That’s when I saw something new. Out of the corner of my eye. I streeeetched my neck as far as I could. I opened my mouth and managed to get a tooth on it. The thing rolled closer and I picked it up gently. It was a bottle. Plastic. It reeked of cat spit and fish. Tasted like it, too. Slurp.

  I pulled back, leaving a little hair behind. I dropped the bottle on the doorstep before giving it a final lick. It was small and covered in teeth and claw marks. Empty. The opening was chewed. I pressed my snout into it and smelled that deep fishy smell. Then I picked it up and gave it to Cassie.

  My girl turned it over. She wasn’t sure it was a clue. Neither was I. She wiped her paws on her jeans. Her eyebrows came down. Puzzled. Then they went up. Alarmed. We’d been spotted!

  “You there!” somebody yelled at us.

  My hair stood on end and I froze in my tracks.

  “Hide!” Cassie hissed.

  We ran off the steps toward a small shed with the garbage cans. They were ripe, filled with kitty litter. Oh, woof.

  “What are you doing in my neighbor’s yard?” a voice snapped. Erica Bloom’s. We’d been spotted!

  I whirled around, panicked. Erica was peering through the boards of her fence, her red curls bobbing just above it. I couldn’t see her face or the rest of her body, but was sure she was wagging a finger at us. We were caught, stuck in Madame’s backyard — the only escape was around the side of the house, and it would definitely include a lecture about trespassing. Unless …

  I grabbed a garbage can from the shed in the side yard and started to pull it to the curb. “Woof!” Dodge barked. I put my hand on his head to quiet him down.

  “We came to pay our respects,” I called out, pausing to rub my eyes and put on my best sad face. “I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help — like getting the trash out. I — I just can’t believe she’s gone.” I rambled, stuttering and sniffing to smooth Erica’s ruffled feathers. Hardly anyone would scream at a sad kid.

  I dragged the trash can down the path along the fence, hoping my plan would work. It did. By the time I got the smelly garbage to the sidewalk at the front of the house, Erica’s hackles were down, and so were Dodge’s.

  Erica stood listlessly next to her own can of refuse. “It’s funny. I never thought I’d be sad to see her go,” she said.

  I practically choked. That was the last thing I expected to hear from Erica Bloom. Based on everything I’d heard, she hated Madame. I felt my eyes narrow, and all I could think about was how much Erica complained about her neighbor. How angry she was the night Madame hid in the bushes … the night Madame died.

  I glanced down at Dodge, who was sniffing up a storm. Was he getting this?

  Erica was the top entry on our Annoyed Enough to Kill? list. Her ongoing feud with Madame was legendary. This “sad to see her go” stuff had to be an act, and I wanted to get her to break character. “I know what you mean,” I offered, playing along.

  “It’s bizarre, but I actually miss her. I even miss her cats — well, a few of them.”

  “It’s just terrible,” I said consolingly.

  “Terribly surprising,” she admitted, tugging a curl. “Have you ever known someone who drives you crazy, yet who you still sort of care about?”

  That made me stop, because I had to admit I did. “Yeah, like a frenemy. Or my sister,” I offered. But even though I knew what she meant, I was still suspicious. I wanted to go back to Madame’s backyard, or check out her shed, or see what Dodge was sniffing up. But Erica just stood there, awkwardly, waiting for us to leave. “Well, we’d better get going. See you,” I finally said. I called to Dodge, who was busily searching for evidence.

  I thought Dodge would come right to me like he usually does, but when Erica turned and started up her walk he jumped up and put his paws on the rim of her trash can. He called my attention to the corner of a plastic bag bulging out. I took a few steps back and tried to get a closer look without letting Erica see that I was snooping.

  The bag was from a hardware store or plant nursery. STEDI-GRO WITH FISH EMULSION, it said on the front. It was mostly full, and I wondered why Erica was throwing it out. Wasn’t fancy fertilizer kind of expensive? Then the small print caught my eye. Down in the corner there was a label with the word CAUTION in capital letters. Below that it read KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN AND PETS.

  My heart started to race. I kept one eye on Erica’s retreating form, blocked the trash can with my body, and reached for the bag. But just then Erica turned. Rats! She had that look teachers got when they caught you passing notes in class — stern and disappointed. “I thought you were going,” she snapped. Her friendly mood had disappeared.

  “I am!” I replied with a smile. “Just getting my dog!” Unfortunately, Dodge was now ahead of me, trotting down the sidewalk toward home. Oops!

  “Woof!” Dodge barked for me to hurry.

  Erica turned his way, squinting. Probably remembering that he was one of the “feral” dogs from the other night. But while her attention was turned, I seized my chance. I grabbed the warning label, tore it off, and shoved it into my pocket.

  Erica looked like she was about to say something, but I didn’t give her the chance. I hurried to catch up with Dodge, feeling the curly-haired woman’s eyes on my back as the caution label flashed in my head.

  Dodge lifted his nose and sniffed the air as we walked away. I did, too. I was pretty sure I smelled something — something fouler than fish emulsion. Maybe Madame hadn’t had such a great imagination. Ma
ybe she hadn’t imagined anything at all.

  More investigating was definitely in order, and I knew where we had to dig next. “Come on, Dodge. Let’s go see Dad.”

  I didn’t see him until we were leaving. Kales, across the street on his front porch. Staring at Madame LeFarge’s house. Sitting. Staying. Staring.

  “Whuff,” I barked softly to let Cassie know. Only Cassie. Not Bloom, who was huffing about us getting too close to her fishy garbage.

  Cassie heard me. “What is it, boy?”

  I lifted my snout toward Kales. And she saw.

  “Henry Kales,” she murmured. As soon as he saw us Kales got up. He went inside and the door banged shut behind him.

  “Interesting …” Cassie murmured. That guy was always watching. What did he see?

  We would just have to wonder. Cassie wasn’t sticking around to find out. She was following her instincts, and I was following her. Downtown. I thought we might be headed to the station. The Mom’s office. But Cassie turned before we got there. We weren’t headed for The Mom’s office. We were headed for The Dad’s. Woof!

  The Dad’s office was full of smells. Dead was as smelly as it got, and his office was all about dead. The Dad was the town coroner. He was a kind of detective, too.

  The Dad investigated a body to find out how long it had been dead. Where it got dead. Why it got dead. How it got dead. All kinds of stuff. He was good at his job.

  We walked into the front office. It had a desk. Files. Computers. No water bowl, though. Not like the station. A woman typed at a computer. She smelled like doughnuts and mothballs. She started to tell Cassie that dogs were not allowed. Then she realized who she was talking to. Cassie wasn’t just any girl, and I wasn’t just any dog.

  “Cassie! Haven’t seen you here in a while. I’ll get your dad,” she said. She walked back to the place where the dead smells came from. Cassie shifted her weight from foot to foot. She smelled nervous. Like grapefruit. Then The Dad came out to see us.

  “If it isn’t the best crime-fighting team on six legs!” The Dad hugged Cassie. He ruffled my fur. Then he led us back to the room where people ate lunch — a small room with a refrigerator in it. And a microwave that needed a thorough licking. The floor had old crumbs — as old as me. They needed a good dog around the place. While Cassie and The Dad talked, I did what I could.

  “So what brings you to the Dead Zone?” The Dad joked.

  Cassie stood stiffly, still smelling tangy. Her invisible tail was tucked between her legs. “We were in the neighborhood,” she mumbled. It was true. We were in the neighborhood. But we’d walked a long time to get here.

  The Dad knew Cassie didn’t come to his office without a reason. His eyebrows went up. Way up. “Really?” he said. It sounded like a question.

  I located an ancient Cheeto under a chair and crunched it down.

  Cassie was quiet. Not answering. Then she started talking about something else — gardening. Gardening was another thing The Dad was good at. But I had no idea what it had to do with the case. And it wasn’t the time for gardening. The days were getting colder and shorter. It was almost the time for snow. Not the season for digging in the dirt. Not for people anyway.

  “So, if I wanted to fertilize plants, you know, for next year, is it too late?” Cassie asked. “Is it good to fertilize now, or only when you’re putting in plants? And does fertilizer go bad? Like, expire?”

  That was a lot of questions. I licked up stale popcorn crumbs while The Dad answered.

  “Well, you could do some autumn topdressing in early November, you know, add fertilizer to the surface,” The Dad said thoughtfully. “And I don’t think fertilizer goes bad. It might lose some of the microbial benefits, but …”

  “Is it dangerous for pets?” Cassie blurted, interrupting. “Like, if a dog ate a bunch of fertilizer, would it kill him?”

  I sniffed a bit of hardened cheese out of a corner. Mmmm. Cheese.

  The Dad nodded, like he suddenly understood. “I’d say if he got into it and ate enough, fertilizer could make him sick. But I don’t think it would do Dodge any real harm.”

  I lifted my nose from the floor. The Dad scratched my head, behind the ears. He thought we were talking about me!

  “You been eating compost, Dodger?” he asked.

  “Woof!” No! I would never. Ever. Well, maybe if it was really good compost….

  “Whew — that’s good to hear!” Cassie changed the subject before I could fully defend myself. “So how are things going with Madame LeFarge?” she asked. Enough floor patrol. Now we were getting down to serious business.

  The Dad perked up like a Yorkie with a mail carrier on his porch. “I’m not supposed to talk about a case before it’s closed, but I think this one’s pretty open and shut. You want to see?”

  Cassie’s mouth said “yes.” But the rest of her body said No way. She did not like dead. But The Dad was so excited to show us that he didn’t notice. He just led us to an examination room. It looked like the rooms at Pet Rescue, with metal tables and equipment. But bigger. Way bigger. And with drawers in the wall.

  My nose went into overdrive. The drawers smelled like plastic, alcohol … and more. Even the cold drifting out of those drawers was pungent. The Dad pulled out a long one. There was a body inside. A body in a bag. I knew it was Madame before he unzipped it. She still smelled like herself. And like plastic, like cats, and like dead.

  Cassie shrank back. She balled her fists and stuffed them in her pockets.

  The Dad told her it was okay. He spoke gently. “It’s science, honey. Biology.”

  Cassie nodded, but the look on her face said, It’s creepy, Dad. And gross!

  I gave The Dad’s hand a lick to let him know I thought his job was cool. Even if Cassie didn’t.

  “You don’t have to look.” The Dad zipped Madame up and closed the drawer.

  “Can you tell how she died?” Cassie asked.

  “Blunt force trauma. I could see from the head wound that the impact was enough to kill her.”

  Cassie smelled rusty, like disappointment. That wasn’t the answer she was hoping for. “So that’s it? You’re done with your investigation?”

  The Dad nodded. “Open and shut.”

  “You’re not going to check for poison, or alcohol in her blood stream, or anything?” Cassie prodded. She was like a dog with a bone, and she’d just started chewing. She wasn’t giving up.

  “Well, I’ve ordered a toxicology report, which checks for those things, as a matter of course. But I don’t expect to find anything. She probably slipped and hit her head when she fell. Unfortunately, there was nobody there to help her. Only the cats.”

  Nobody there to help her. Hearing that made me think of Bananas. Back at the house, alone. The poor kid. I held back a whimper. I knew Cassie was still chewing, but I hoped we’d go soon.

  “Hey, I’m almost out of here.” The Dad looked at his wrist. “You guys want a ride home?”

  Ride? I loved rides. Rides were my favorite. Wag, wag, wag. And a ride would get us home. Fast.

  We waited, away from the drawer room, until it was time to leave. Then we rode. In The Dad’s car. I got the whole backseat and hung my head out the window. My eyes closed. My ears flapped. My tongue lolled. What a way to forget the day. Woof! Everything smelled better at thirty miles per hour.

  I couldn’t believe I’d seen a dead body up close. Or that it spooked me so bad. I knew every great detective had to do forensic research — dead people came with the job — but I really didn’t have the stomach for it. On the drive home I wanted to stick my head out the window like Dodge. I thought maybe it would help with the barfiness. Luckily, the farther we got from Dad’s office, the better I felt. Until we got home, at least.

  The minute I opened the front door I could hear that something was wrong. Furball and Sam were both screeching at the top of their lungs. Upstairs, somewhere. So much for my recently settled stomach.

  Dodge and I headed away from the noi
se and wound up in the kitchen, where Owen was trying to coax Bananas off the top of the fridge. He wasn’t getting very far.

  “What are you doing up there?” I asked while the kitten waved a claw at Owen.

  Her head turned at the sound of my voice, and as soon as she spotted Dodge she hopped right down, using Owen’s head as a step.

  Owen clucked his tongue. “‘Bananas’ is right,” he muttered. “She wouldn’t even let me open the door to get the jam, but when he shows up …”

  Bananas wove in and out of Dodge’s legs, purring so loudly I could hear it over the yowls coming from upstairs. Not even Owen could keep from smiling.

  Then Sam stormed into the kitchen, hissing and spitting like the cat in her arms. Bananas took one look at them and positioned herself safely between Dodge’s four legs.

  “That … that thing has got to go!” Sam shrieked, pointing at the kitten. “She attacked Furball and ripped her ear. There’s blood all over my new bedspread!”

  I scowled at Sam. I knew Bananas could be vicious, but Furball wasn’t exactly a cream puff. Sam was just being super dramatic, as usual. She needed to cut the new cat a break. Bananas was an orphan!

  Besides, I was mad at her for going into my room and snooping around — a crime I still hadn’t nailed her for. Snooping was totally against family rules and there’d be a price to pay. I just wasn’t sure what it was. While I seethed, Dodge just stood there, calmly protecting Bananas from further attacks. He wagged his tail and sidestepped, rolling over on his back and inviting Bananas to walk all over him. Like, literally.

  The little cat accepted the invitation and strutted around on top of Dodge, sitting down once in a while like she’d brought the big dog down, pinned him, and was posing for victory shots. Dodge happily played along, letting her “win.”

  I was pretty sure my dog was trying to tell me something. So I decided to let Sam “win,” too — at least for now. I couldn’t find the energy to get into it with her, anyway. Then Dad came into the kitchen and Sam started whining to him.