by Kelly, Diane
Ignoring my insult, the dog plopped down on her bed in front of the television, where she lay, rapt. When her show was over, I switched to the ten o’clock news, which contained the usual reports of murder, rape, and drug violence, as well as details of political unrest in various foreign countries and the latest evidence of global climate change. I liked to be informed, but did the news always have to be so damn depressing? Was it too much to ask for the world to break out in peace for a change? For everyone to put down their guns and join hands for a round of “Kum Ba Yah”?
I switched off the set. After brushing my teeth, I lowered the back of the futon to convert my couch into my bed. Brigit looked up at me, growling softly, as I tugged her bed out from under her and placed it inside her cage.
“In you go.” I motioned with my hand for her to go into the cage.
She looked up at me but didn’t move.
“Come on,” I said, jerking my head. “Get in.”
Her handler had assured me she slept in the kennel every night, yet here she acted as if she didn’t recognize it. Of course my apartment was new to her and so was the cushy dog bed I’d put inside the cage. Maybe she just needed a reminder.
I got down on all fours and crawled backward into the cage. “See,” I said once I was inside. “This is where you sleep. Comfy, comfy, comfy.”
The dog glanced at me with a look of disinterest and I could feel my Irish temper reaching the red zone.
“I paid forty dollars for this bed!” I barked. “Get your furry butt over here and sleep on it!”
Brigit stood and walked over. Finally, she was getting it. Rather than attempting to step inside the cage, however, she bumped the door with her nose. It swung closed, smacking me in the forehead as I attempted to crawl out. The dog plopped herself down against the closed door and did the up-down tail wag. Screw you.
“Hey!” I pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “Move, you stupid dog!” I poked my fingers through the cage and jabbed Brigit in the butt. She lay there, unmoving, refusing to even give me the screw you wag now.
My mind ran through the list of basic commands the handler had taught me. Sit. Stay. Heel. Down. None of them would work in this situation. I needed a command for move your fluffy ass!
I twisted around in the cage until my feet were braced against the door. I pushed with all my might but managed to get the door open only an inch or two before Brigit turned sideways and blocked the door even more effectively. Her mouth hung partly open and her chest moved as she breathed. She glanced back at me through the bars, a look of loathing in her brown eyes.
A loud rattling sound came though my vents and the cool air that had been streaming through them stopped. A moment later, hot hair began blowing through the vents, carrying gray smoke in with it. The AC had given out again, just as I’d expected. From the look of things, the unit had caught fire, too.
I closed my eyes, which stung with tears only partially caused by the smoke.
This was it.
I’d taken all I could take.
Tomorrow morning, I’d give my move-out notice to Grigsby and move back in with my parents across town. I’d resign my job, return the dog to the chief, and give up on my plans to become a detective. I’d tried being a cop and failed. Time to accept that and move on. Right?
HELL, NO!
The name-calling and the heat and this crappy apartment and my nasty partners who enjoyed making my life hell … it was all too much. Something in me broke—I felt it snap—and I exploded in rage. My eyes popped open and, with a primal scream, I threw my body against the side of the cage, knocking it over onto its side. Brigit leaped to her feet and darted to the other side of the room, her ears back. The dog might not respect me, but at least she feared me a little now.
I kicked the door open, crawled out of the cage, and stood. My downstairs neighbor banged his broom on the ceiling. I grabbed my twirling baton from under my futon and banged right back. Whomp-whomp-whomp! Take that, jackass!
Baton in hand and Brigit on my heels, I stormed downstairs to Grigsby’s office. Three other tenants were already at his door. My upstairs neighbor held a frying pan with a steaming pork chop still in it. Rhino had his bass guitar aimed at Grigsby’s door as if it were a machine gun. One of men from the first floor had a crowbar. A more proactive tenant had pulled the garden hose up to the third floor of Building A, where he stood on the walkway, his thumb on the nozzle as he directed a stream of water at the flaming HVAC unit on top of my building.
When Grigsby opened his door, we brandished our various weapons of choice.
“Replace that air conditioner!” I demanded, my fist tightening around my baton. “Now!”
The other tenants backed me up with murmured agreements while Brigit backed me up with a low growl: Grrr.
Grigsby glanced at the various weapons in our hands, looked up at the flaming system on top of our roof, and raised his palms. “I’ll make a call first thing tomorrow morning.”
“No refurbished equipment,” I snapped. “Get us a brand-new unit. One with a warranty.”
“All right, all right.”
When I was sure the fire had been thoroughly extinguished, I returned to my apartment with Brigit, turned off my AC, and threw open the windows again. I plunked down on my futon and sat there, twirling the baton until I calmed down.
Brigit padded over to the mangled cage. Her bed lay halfway in, halfway out of the kennel. She settled down on the cushion, took one last glance in my direction, and, with a shuddering breath, closed her eyes to go to sleep.
I turned off the light and lay down, still twirling my baton in the dark. Swish-swish-swish. Though the motion provided both a calming effect and a soft breeze, it was no match for either my emotions or the temperature.
Tomorrow would be my first day of training as a K-9 officer.
I needed a good night’s sleep.
It wouldn’t be easy.
EIGHT
YOU CAN’T KEEP A BAD DOG DOWN
Brigit
Her new handler thought she was the boss. How naïve. It might take some time, but Brigit would set her straight. From the tenacity Megan had shown so far, Brigit knew she had her job cut out for her.
She lay on her doggie bed, listening as her new handler’s breathing became slower and steadier. Brigit heard a mouse in the wall scratching at the drywall, hoping to find a way into the apartment. Brigit didn’t know why the mouse would bother. There wasn’t anything worth eating in the place, unless you counted the shoes. Megan, with her inferior senses, couldn’t hear the noise, of course. Humans. They thought they were so superior to other animals. What were they smoking? Catnip?
Gradually, Megan’s breathing grew slower, deeper. Brigit noticed Megan’s jaw go slack, her fist uncurl. The baton rolled off the bed and onto the floor with a soft thunk. The woman was out.
Slowly, carefully, so as not to make noise with her tags, Brigit crept toward the futon. She paused at the end of the bed and listened again. No change in Megan’s breathing. Good. Brigit gingerly placed one paw on the bed, then another. Waited again. Again no change in breathing. Third paw. Fourth paw.
Home free.
Brigit settled in and panted softly, a dog chuckle.
Sleeping in a cage was for suckers.
NINE
SHOPPING SPREE
The Rattler
It was after 11:00 PM when he ventured into the twenty-four-hour Walmart. Too late for mirrored sunglasses but in Texas it was never too late in the day to wear a Texas Rangers baseball cap. After all, the caps were as much about pride as they were about keeping the sun out of a person’s eyes. He pulled the brim down, casting his face in shadow.
Given the hour, the store was relatively quiet, just as he’d hoped. Fewer people around, fewer potential witnesses who could identify him. Not that he thought anyone would be able to trace his purchase to this particular store on this particular night. Nonetheless, one could never be too cautious.
He swung by the home goods department and picked up a travel alarm clock before making his way to Sporting Goods. He picked up a container of BBs and selected an assortment of fishing hooks, including a box of Ultra Points that, according to the label, were chemically sharpened for maximum performance. Who knew there were so many types of fishing hooks? Certainly not him. But he was going to give the detectives a run for their money, make them earn their paychecks, prove their mental moxie. Yeah, he was going to use these fishhooks to plant some red herrings. He chuckled softly to himself at his unintentional pun.
“Where you headed?”
The Rattler jumped at the voice. He’d been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t heard the overgrown bearded guy approach. He’d have to pay more attention to his surroundings from now on.
The guy rocked back on his boot heels as he looked the Rattler up and down, clearly sizing him up. Fury heated the Rattler’s blood. Who the hell did this redneck think he was?
“Excuse me?” the Rattler said, forcing calm into his voice.
The redneck gestured to the alarm clock and hooks in the cart. “Looks like you’ve got a fishing trip planned. Where you headed?”
The Rattler shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“I caught me a fourteen-pound bass up at Lake Ray Roberts.”
The Rattler knew nothing about bass other than that, thanks to exorbitant market prices, Chilean sea bass had been severely overfished, many of them caught illegally by poachers and devoured by consumers who either were ignorant of the crisis or simply didn’t care. Yet more evidence that human beings were a selfish, self-centered species, thinking only of themselves. Of course these facts had nothing at all to do with the freshwater bass the redneck spoke of. But from the way the man stood, head cocked, brows lifted in anticipation of accolades, the Rattler could tell the fourteen-pound fish must have been an unusually large catch. “Fourteen pounds, you say? That’s quite a catch.”
The man’s ego sufficiently stroked, he lowered his brows and returned his head to the normal, upright position. “You ever been up to that lake?”
“Can’t say that I have.” The Rattler turned back to the display in front of him, hoping the man would take a hint and mosey off. No such luck.
The redneck continued to eye him, even had the nerve to duck his head to get a better look at the Rattler. “What’s your pleasure, then? Trout? Catfish? Crappie?”
Nosey son of a bitch, wasn’t he? The Rattler couldn’t help himself. This backwoods imbecile wanted to talk fish when all the Rattler wanted to do was pick up a few items and get the hell out of there. “I’m partial to piranha.”
The redneck’s brow furrowed. “Say what now?”
“Oops. Got a jiggle here.” The Rattler pulled his cell phone from his pant pocket and pretended to consult the readout. “Looks like the wife needs me in the dairy aisle. Nice talkin’ with ya.”
With that, he offered a phony smile and walked away, leaving the bass fisherman floundering in his wake.
TEN
NATURE CALLING
Megan
Something heavy pressed down on my rib cage, threatening to suffocate me.
My eyes fluttered open to find Brigit standing with her front paws on my chest and panting into my face, as if she were performing some type of canine CPR on me. A quick glance at the clock on the microwave told me it was only 5:00 AM.
“Too early,” I croaked, shoving the dog off me. “Go back to sleep.”
Brigit jumped down to the floor and nudged my hand with her cold, wet nose.
I jerked my hand away and put the pillow over my head. My alarm wasn’t set to go off for another hour and I’d be damned if I’d let this dog tell me when to get out of bed, even if my sheets were disgustingly damp with sweat. If Grigsby didn’t get the AC running today, I’d beat him to death with my baton and enjoy every minute of it.
The dog grabbed the corner of the pillow in her teeth and dragged it off the bed. Still in denial, I pulled the sheet up over my head.
Brigit was quiet for a moment. I assumed she’d acquiesced to waiting. Alas, I assumed wrong. The unmistakable sound of liquid hitting linoleum had me bolting out of bed. I yanked the apartment door open and pointed. “Out!”
Brigit stood from her squatting position in the kitchen and trotted out the door. I left the door open and followed her in my bare feet as she made her way down the steps and onto a small patch of dirt behind the Dumpsters, where she finished relieving herself.
Tonight I’d remember to take her outside before bedtime.
Done, she trotted up the steps, tags jingling, and came back inside. I wanted to scold her, but it wasn’t really her fault, was it? When nature called, nature called, and besides, she’d given me fair warning. These facts didn’t keep me from shooting her dirty looks and grumbling as I used up the last of my paper towels to clean her pee off the kitchen floor. At least she’d had the sense to urinate on the linoleum and not the carpet.
As long as we were up, I figured I might as well get the coffee going. While liquid life gurgled in the pot, I refilled Brigit’s bowl with food, freshened her water, and fixed myself a bowl of oatmeal.
For the next two months, Brigit and I would attend special K-9 training. Of course Brigit had already completed the course with her previous partner, so this round would be primarily for me. She’d come with me, of course, so the two of us could learn to work together, become a real team.
Looking down at the dog chomping kibble at my feet, I wasn’t sure that was possible. She didn’t listen to me, didn’t respect me, didn’t even seem to like me. And I wasn’t sure I liked her, either. She was pushy, obstinate, insubordinate. But if our partnership didn’t work out, I’d be screwed and my dreams of one day becoming a detective would go down the toilet. One way or another, I had to make this work.
I nudged the dog’s butt with my toe. “You and me, girl. What do you say?”
She glanced up at me, loudly crunching kibble. Her eyes were wary, but her tail gave a small side-to-side wag. That was a positive sign, wasn’t it? If we could get past our power struggles, maybe there’d be hope for our partnership.
After breakfast, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and slicked my hair into its usual tight bun, noting my hair looked just as shiny as Brigit’s thanks to her flea shampoo. After applying a soft pink eye shadow and a single swipe of mascara, I retrieved a freshly dry-cleaned uniform from my closet. I dressed and slid into my shoes and belt. Last, I clipped the leash on to Brigit’s collar. “Let’s go, girl.”
Brigit let out a woof, which was immediately followed by a bang-bang from downstairs. I fought the urge to send a bullet through my floor. That would make the guy think twice.
As I loaded Brigit into my car, a large truck from an AC service pulled into the parking lot with three beefy men in the cab. Maybe it was a good sign. Maybe things were turning around for me. They had to, didn’t they? They sure as hell couldn’t get any worse.
A half hour later, my partner and I pulled into the parking lot of the canine-training facility in West Fort Worth and parked next to a blue muscle car with flames painted down the side. The car looked to be an early-seventies model and its front grill bore the Chevrolet emblem. A Nova, if I wasn’t mistaken. The car looked like an overgrown Hot Wheel.
The training site comprised a central one-story administrative and classroom building, plus a barn-style structure that appeared to serve as a kennel. Surrounding the buildings were several separate fields enclosed by six-foot chain-link fences.
In one field, an obstacle course was set up and a trio of purebred German shepherds made their way up and down ramps, over walls, and through large concrete pipes, each of them following the directions of their instructors, who stood nearby issuing orders. Impressive. In another field, an instructor stood behind a line of puppies on extra-long leads, their handlers walking backward away from the pups with their hands raised to give the stay command. All but two obeyed. In the enclosure closest to t
he parking lot, a male yellow Lab scampered around stacks of wooden crates and cardboard boxes, apparently searching for something. Eventually, the dog stopped by a crate and sat.
“Good job, Blast,” came a deep voice.
I turned to look for the source of the voice, surprised to see the blond member of the bomb squad who’d come out of the chief’s office yesterday. He wore his T-shirt today with a pair of navy cargo pants and black ankle boots. He looked even hotter today, if such a thing was possible. A fiery heat detonated in my lower belly, radiating outward and downward.
The guy made his way to his dog with purposeful strides and rewarded the creature with a playful game of tug-of-war with a white towel. As he wrestled the towel from the dog, he turned my way and caught me watching him.
Damn! How embarrassing! I quickly looked down and pretended to adjust Brigit’s collar. She glanced up at me, a quizzical look on her face. What the fuzz?
The yellow Lab trotted up to the fence and barked at Brigit: Arf-arf!
Brigit responded by dragging me over to the fence so she could sniff the Lab through the chain link. Both dogs wagged their tails. Looked like it was love at first smell.
“Hey!” the guy called, walking toward the fence.
Okay, now my damn became hot damn! I looked up and gave Mr. Sexy a small wave, not trusting myself to respond verbally.
“Gorgeous dog,” he said. “She’s got such a shiny coat.”
His eyes went to my hair next, then back to Brigit, then back to me. Oh, God. I hoped he hadn’t figured out I’d used her flea shampoo.
If he had, at least he didn’t say so. “Haven’t seen you two here before.”
“First day,” I replied. No stutter. Thank God.
He smiled. It was a soft smile, a sexy smile, the kind that could cause a girl’s leg bones to turn into spaghetti.
“A newbie, huh?” the guy said. “You’ve got some hard work ahead of you.”