by Alan Russell
“I think his honorary degree should be in comforting,” said Seth.
I nodded. “A few years ago I saw this video on YouTube where this dog went to try and help another dog that had been hit by a car. It was a busy highway with lots of traffic. But that didn’t stop our four-legged hero. He managed to get to the dog that had been hit and began dragging him to the side of the road. You can’t teach that kind of behavior. I know it’s what Sirius would have done, and I’m pretty sure I’m not being anthropomorphic. He always wants to help those in need. It’s part of him.”
“What happened to the dog hit by the car?”
I shook my head. “He was already dead. All those cars kept speeding by his body.”
“What about the rescue dog?”
“It was believed to be homeless. Lots of people wanted to adopt that brave dog, but it couldn’t be found.”
I turned out the laundry-room light, but not before saying, “Good night, Sirius, good night, Annie.”
Seth and I settled in the living room, where I played host. We both decided on the need for caffeine, and I made each of us a Kahlúa and coffee.
“To being up with the owls,” was Seth’s toast.
We clicked coffee mugs. “Owl you need is love,” I added.
Midswallow, Seth’s expression soured. “That answers that question.”
“What question was that?”
“Whether you make bad puns while you sleep.”
I wasn’t quite asleep, but I was comfortable. The coffee and alcohol and sugar and late hour somehow combined for a calming effect, and both of us sipped contentedly.
“So what are you going to do with Annie?” he asked.
“I’ll see if anyone is looking for their lost dog, even if I’m not hopeful of finding the owner. I always think it’s a bad sign when I see a dog not wearing a collar. At best it speaks to an irresponsible owner.”
“It’s possible she just lost her collar. That could have happened during her journey. It’s clear she’s traveled a long way. Something was pushing her to keep going.”
“Male dogs, especially unneutered male dogs, have the reputation of wandering much more than females.”
“So what was driving our Little Orphan Annie?”
I did a Winston Churchill bulldog face and said, “She’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the dog whisperer,” said Seth.
“Tomorrow morning I’m taking her to the real dog whisperer, which is Sirius’s vet. I’ll see what she can tell me about Annie. Afterward I’ll do my Sherlock Bones thing and see if I can track down her owners. I hope to hell she wasn’t abandoned. On the asshole scale, people who abandon their dogs are right up there near the top.”
“One day I should write a paper on Michael Gideon’s Asshole Scale and determine if there is a correlation with Dante’s Circles of Hell.”
“The world could only benefit from such a study. But of course Dante had it much easier than I did. Back when he was writing, there were a relatively small number of people in hell. While he was dealing with millions, I’m working with billions.”
“But not everyone is an asshole, correct?”
“That’s true. Maybe we need to explore a formula that you could expand upon in your paper, something like AH equals some constant percentage of the population.”
“I’d need more specific parameters for your AH scale. For example, I’ve heard you refer to some individuals as major-league assholes, whereas others have been categorized as buttholes, anuses, anal orifices, dinguses, and the like.”
“It’s a sliding scale,” I admitted, “but at the top are pedophiles and those who physically abuse, as well as those who abandon their animals. Those would be the major-league assholes.”
It was a ridiculous conversation, of course, but it was the middle of the night and the two of us were both punch drunk. We were good friends making silly conversation, as only good friends can do.
“Can I get you a refill?”
Seth contemplated his empty glass and said, “How about half a drink?”
“That sounds about right to me.”
I went and poured us half a drink each. When I handed Seth his libation, he raised his mug and said, “To Aristotle, who said the antidote to fifty enemies was one friend.”
It was the middle of the night, and we were toasting a philosopher who’d been dead for more than two thousand years. Somehow it all made sense.
CHAPTER 6
ALONE IN THE DARKNESS
Heather awakened with a splitting headache. Her mouth felt gummy and dry, and her throat was sore. She was dehydrated, and in her fog she found herself reaching over to where she expected to find her water glass. Every night she placed it on the nightstand next to her bed. It wasn’t there, though. That was strange. She always kept her water glass handy. And what were those clanking sounds accompanying the movements of her arm?
She opened her eyes. Even though it was dark, she could see that she wasn’t in her room. She could also see the reason for the clanking noises. Her arms and legs were chained to the wall.
Her sharp intake of breath gave her the moment’s reprieve needed to not start screaming. As she fought off panic, she tried to remember what had happened to her. She recalled how Angie had alerted her to the presence of an intruder, and how she’d barely gotten Angie out the window when her door crashed open. The home invasion had occurred on the heels of Emilio’s threat to make her “pay.”
Heather remembered thrashing around on the floor. One moment she’d been in her bed, and the next she was convulsing. She’d been on the wrong end of a Taser, or stun gun, or something that made her flop around out of control. The attack had left her helpless and incapacitated; she hadn’t even been able to scream. She had some slight recollection of a foul-smelling rag being forced up against her nose and mouth. Probably chloroform or ether—wasn’t that what kidnappers always used? Whatever it was, she’d blacked out without even being able to say a word.
How long had she been out of it? The memory of nightmares kept intruding into her thoughts. Or were they nightmares? She had this bad feeling about what had gone on, even if specifics eluded her. She seemed to remember having awakened a few times, but only for a matter of seconds. Her grogginess, and her thirst, made her suspect she’d been drugged multiple times during her captivity.
She took stock of her surroundings. The chains weren’t the only things holding her. She was confined to the inside of a small jail cell. The cell had been built into a square room with thick concrete walls. It looked like a bunker of some kind, with ceilings that appeared to have been lined with acoustical soundproofing panels.
She tested out the soundproofing of the room by screaming, “Help! Help!”
Her plea was swallowed up. Heather took in as much air as she could so as to give it her all: “Help!”
She tried to shake the walls and did her best to make her voice a trumpet, but the soundproofing and the concrete muted her cries. The room gave up only the slightest echo; it was as if the cavern had absorbed her scream and spat back a disdainful whisper.
Heather began shaking her chains. Forgotten was her promise not to panic. She fought her iron bonds with all her strength, but succeeded only in slicing her skin. Her screams started up again, but there was a difference this time. She wasn’t testing the acoustics. She was voicing her terror.
CHAPTER 7
A CHIP OFF THE OLD DOC
Before Seth left, I told him about my meeting with the 187 Club, and Langston Walker’s interest in having him as their next month’s speaker. Seth promised that he’d call Walker, and said that as far as he knew, he was available.
“Murder is not an easy subject to deal with,” he said, speaking like a shaman.
“You’re telling me,” I said, speaking like a cop.
“With such a traumatic ending of life, the soul often needs assistance in settling. The survivor also needs assista
nce so as to not be stuck in grief. Healing is needed on many levels.”
Being a skeptic, I said nothing. Seth doesn’t mind my being a Doubting Thomas. He believes that’s part of my journey.
“I’ll see if my friend Rose is also available to attend,” Seth said. “She has a way with click sticks that seems to resonate with all.”
Seth’s ceremonies often involve native instruments from around the world. Sometimes he brings his work home, and his backyard sounds like the soundtrack to a Peter Weir film, complete with didgeridoos, drumming, bells, birdcalls, jaw harps, and rattles.
“I’m sure that would be appreciated,” I said.
I refrained from asking if there would also be cowbells.
When I awoke it felt strange to not have Sirius by my side, but I knew my partner was where he needed to be.
I found Sirius and Annie in the living room. Sirius had led her to where the first light of the morning showed itself, and both of them were sunbathing.
“Good morning,” I said.
Sirius bounded over and gave me the kind of greeting that humans would only give if you hit a walk-off homer or game-winning shot. Annie stood up and slowly approached. I didn’t expect a hero’s welcome from her, and didn’t get one. Still, it was good seeing her moving around. She sniffed my hand by way of greeting. Sleep, hydrating, and eating had her looking much better.
I decided we could all do with breakfast. After putting some olive oil in a frying pan, I made sunny-side up eggs. In the same pan I heated up leftover spinach and cut-up apple. The dogs didn’t get salt and pepper on their eggs; I did. I also sprinkled some sugar and cinnamon on my apples. They went without.
While the dogs ate in the kitchen, I sat at the counter. I’m not sure who finished first, but in short order there were three clean plates, and I picked up the phone.
Sirius’s vet is Dr. Emma Wolf. Instead of harboring resentment at her parents for giving her such a name, Dr. Wolf is actually grateful to them. She’s convinced her vocation was preordained and claims that from the time she was a girl she knew she would be a vet.
During our last office visit, I’d noticed that Dr. Wolf was wearing an engagement ring. She told me her fiancé was named Andrew Fox, and her dilemma was whether to hyphenate her married name or change it from Wolf to Fox. Their union, Dr. Wolf was sure, had also been fated because of their names. Of course she probably would have said the same thing if she was marrying a man with the last name of Boxer, Shepherd, Pointer, Basset, or Cocker.
We lucked into a late cancellation; Dr. Wolf had time for us that morning.
Annie didn’t resist when I slipped one of Sirius’s old collars around her neck, and when I walked her to the car it was clear she’d been taught the basic commands of heeling and sitting. She was also no stranger to traveling in a car. Instead of me having to lift her up to the seat, she followed Sirius’s lead and jumped in. I secured the two dogs side by side, and during our drive I kept looking in the rearview mirror to observe how they were doing. Sirius’s presence clearly comforted Annie, and she huddled close to him. I had the back windows cracked open, and a breeze circulated through the car. Annie kept sampling what the flowing air brought her.
Now that she was no longer dehydrated, I could see that Annie was a drool machine and clearly couldn’t care less where her drool landed. When she shook her head, her long, droopy ears flapped back and forth. In fact, her entire face seemed to be in motion, with her jowls and wrinkles also flapping. Whenever she shook her head, there was no safe spot. Even sitting in the driver’s seat, I couldn’t escape being hosed down in drool.
Her constant sniffing reminded me of the way an oenophile takes stock of a wine’s bouquet. She seemed to be searching for something, her head shifting from side to side. At one point she perked up, becoming alert and pulling at her restraints, but her excitement didn’t last long. Whatever she was looking for proved elusive. When the scent disappeared, Annie acted listless and dispirited.
Dr. Wolf’s practice was located off Ventura Boulevard. Whenever we go for a visit, I think of the group America and their song “Ventura Highway.” It’s a quintessential Southern California song, with a mellow vibe and beat. The song’s refrain “in the air” seemed appropriate for Annie. She was looking for something in the air.
It was Dr. Wolf who’d helped with Sirius’s recovery from our run-in with Ellis Haines. The caring way in which she tended to my partner left me forever in her debt. She and the other vets in her practice like to refer to themselves as “the love doctors.” They are definitely the new age group in town, offering holistic medicine, acupuncture, chiropractic services, and nutritional programs that include raw foods, vegetarian and vegan diets, and natural supplements. I’m fond of telling everyone that Sirius has more healthful options than I do.
The three of us were shown into one of the waiting rooms. Annie was led to the walk-on scale and weighed in at sixty-two pounds. The receptionist asked me a number of questions about Annie, most of which I couldn’t answer. She agreed with me that Annie was a “hound mix of the Heinz 57 varieties.”
A minute later Dr. Wolf appeared. “Sirius!” she said.
That was all she had to say. My partner was immediately putty in her hands. It was only after she told Sirius what a handsome boy he was and scratched him in those places he liked most that she acknowledged me. I knew where I ranked.
“Good morning, Detective Gideon,” she said, extending her hand.
“How are you, Dr. Wolf? Or is it Dr. Fox?”
“I’ll be a lone wolf for the next two months,” she said, smiling. “As for what happens after that, we’re still working out the name logistics.”
“Maybe the two of you should compromise and change both of your last names to Coyote.”
Dr. Wolf had to think about that for a second before she started laughing. She had a good sense of humor, but it came with a slight time delay. It always seemed to take her a moment to realize I was joking.
Personally I hoped she’d keep her name. She struck me more as a wolf than a fox; maybe that’s because her hair was dark and not red.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said to Annie, beginning her examination by gently touching her. “What do we have here?”
I explained how Annie had come into my life the night before. While I talked, Dr. Wolf continued her teeth-to-tail evaluation.
“She was bleeding last night in a couple of places,” I said, “and at first I thought her wounds might have been caused by coyotes. A friend helped me apply Betadine, but upon closer inspection, her wounds didn’t look as if they were caused by bites. I’m thinking she might have been grazed by a car.”
“Uh-huh,” said the doctor, but I couldn’t tell if she was agreeing or just showing that she was listening.
“I would be cautious when approaching her blind eye,” she said. “I can see she’s a little skittish.”
“I’ve noticed she prefers Sirius on that side,” I said.
“Smart dog,” said Dr. Wolf. “I’d want Sirius protecting my blind spot as well.”
Her attention moved to the pads of Annie’s feet.
“When I found her, all her pads were worn and cracked and bleeding,” I said. “They each got a coating of Neosporin.”
Another “Uh-huh” was offered as Dr. Wolf intently searched the inside of Annie’s ears.
“No tattoos,” she announced.
“Why would there be tattoos?”
“Although it’s not as common now, some dogs still get tattooed inside their ears with a number that links them to a national dog registry.”
Dr. Wolf finished her examination of Annie, gave her a friendly pat, and said, “Good girl,” and then turned to me.
“I think our Annie has been on quite a journey, but I don’t think she’s been a vagabond for more than two or three days. Despite the outward signs, everything else indicates she’s been well cared for. Her wounds and the abrasions on her pads are all recent.”
“I wonde
r what caused her to be a runaway.”
She stroked the loose folds of skin beneath Annie’s chin. “These dewlaps indicate the bloodhound in her. Her black spotting looks like what you’d find on a coonhound, but she’s not as large as a purebred bloodhound or coonhound, so there are a few more mixes in her. Overall, though, I’d say bloodhound predominates. Her behavior says that as well.
“Bloodhounds are known to be quite independent. Detractors might say they’re stubborn. Part of that has to do with their physiology. I’ve heard them referred to as ‘noses with dogs attached.’ They most definitely are scent-oriented. I think you’re right about this one having been grazed by a car. That doesn’t surprise me either. With her nose leading her, I’m sure she was taking no notice of cars or anything else. Her priority was following the scent wherever it took her.”
“So you think Annie glommed onto something and just kept going until she dropped?”
Dr. Wolf nodded. “Tracking dogs have been known to follow a scent more than a hundred miles. And their olfactory senses are such that they’ve been able to track down a scent ten days old and more.”
“How is it that they can pick out one scent among so many?”
“In general they’re able to key onto a combination of things. They can be following an odor unique to an individual, or their breath, their sweat, the smell of their skin, or a combination of all those things. Annie has a sense of smell that’s a thousand times better than yours. It’s believed that certain hounds create an odor image that goes from their nose to their brain. We carry mental pictures of what people look like in our heads; Annie and her ilk have scent images.”
“So in military terms, Annie gets a radar lock on her target?”
“I think that analogy is more apt than not.”
“Remind me not to get in your crosshairs,” I told Annie.
She shook her head and sent slobber everywhere. “Don’t tell me her drooling also helps with her sense of smell.”
“Not exactly,” said Dr. Wolf, “but I have heard that bloodhound wrinkles catch scent particles that have been swept up by their ears. Most experts seem to think that their droopy ears sweeping along the ground stir up scents. So I guess in an indirect way, you can say the slobber is the price you pay for their having such a marvelous nose.”