Muzzled

by June Whyte

  “No Lofty!” I grabbed for the loop at the end of his lead and hung on as he dragged me through the open doorway.

  Fair dinkum, if a forty five kilo dog sets his mind on heading in a certain direction, puny girl muscles fall well short as a deterrent. Like a programmed missile, Lofty rocketed along the path toward the front gate. The leather lead bit into the soft flesh of my fisted hand. And my upper body struggled to keep up with my running feet.

  “Slow down, Lofty!”

  I may as well have yelled at the sky.

  “Some geriatric dude’s stealing Stella!” Jake gasped, incredulous, as he caught and passed me in a blur.

  Almost tripping over a rocky garden border when Lofty decided to take a short cut, I squinted up ahead at the two kennels at the end of the path. “But he can’t do that—”

  Evidently he could. One of the kennel gates was wide open and an old guy, dressed in tight purple pants and a monster of a Hawaiian shirt, so bright it could be classed as a lethal weapon if you weren’t wearing sunglasses, was running out the front gate with the GAP dog spilling from his arms.

  A cold chill skittered up my spine and my heart gave several quick lurches of fear. If he dropped Stella, her stitches could burst.

  “Hey, you! You can’t just come in and take one of our adoption dogs. You have to fill out an application.”

  Lofty barked in agreement and gave a hard yank on the end of his lead. It was like he was saying: Just let go of me, dude, and I’ll rip those purple pants right off that guy’s backside! I told Lofty I couldn’t take the risk because he might break a toenail while performing a service to the community and I needed him fit and sound for today’s Country Cup heats at Gawler.

  Dismissing my worries, he put his head down and pulled harder. I dug in my heels, spewing gravel up behind me like a surfer riding a wave. If I didn’t stop for oxygen—right this moment—my chest would split down the middle like a dropped watermelon in a game of catch. In desperation, I reached out with one hand, latched onto a tree branch and held onto the branch while Lofty choked and bucked and skidded to a head-shaking halt. His frown of frustration said it all. Especially when I wrapped the lead around the trunk of the tree, tied it in a knot and left him to bark his disapproval while I hurled myself in the direction of the fashion disaster dog-napper.

  Reaching the gateway, I stood there, bent double, breathing hard, unable to believe the scene in front of me. A nondescript, pus-colored Holden car of vague vintage wheezed and roared on the other side of my front gate. Its exhaust proclaimed it was in dire need of replacement and the tar scent of hot engine filled my nostrils. My dude-helper, Jake, who had reached the gateway before me, sat on the ground holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose while the old guy in the car slammed his foot on the gas and skidded off in a cloud of smoke.

  “You okay, Jake?”

  “Yeah, dude,” he said, slowly getting to his feet, handkerchief still attached to his bleeding nose. “Sorry I couldn’t stop the wrinkly from nabbing Stella. Thought I could take the old dude out, easy like, but the bastard used a knuckle duster.”

  I peered into Jake’s eyes to see if he appeared concussed but all I could make out was a high level of indignation. Probably from being taken out by a geriatric, forty years his senior. “Not your fault,” I reassured him. “But you’d better go raid the ice-tray in the dog fridge. Then sit down, lean your head back and put the ice pack on the back of your neck.”

  When Jake shuffled off, my thoughts returned to the audacity of the dog-napper. This guy, who had the fashion sense of a constipated rocker, had a lot to answer for. Stella, the GAP bitch he’d kidnapped would be horrified by the man’s rough handling, especially as the poor dog was recovering from her spaying operation and consequently nursing ten stitches. Like a pressure-cooker simmering on high, anger bit deep into my gut. With no gun to shoot out the dog-napper’s tires, all I could do was shout obscenities as I watched the piece of shit car disappear into the distance.

  “I’ll get you, you no-good, bandy-legged creep! And when I do, you’ll be eating soup through a straw.” Even if I had to put out an SOS email to Scuzz, my seven-foot biker bodyguard buddy, and tell him to jump on his hog and get his leather clad ass back here. His services were needed.

  Frustrated, I untied Lofty and turned toward the kennel-house. No good going after the thief—by the time I found my car keys he’d be long gone. Instead, I’d ring the police and report Stella’s kidnapping. Get them to look out for the pus colored Holden. Put out an all-systems alert. Notify their SWAT team if necessary.

  After returning a disgruntled Lofty to the safety of his kennel, I settled the dogs with a slice of cheese apiece and hurried into the house. What was the old guy in the Hawaiian shirt up to? And why steal Stella? The brindle bitch wasn’t a racing proposition any more. Worth no more financially than a slap up meal at the local pub. I frowned as I snapped open the front door and charged inside. Something wasn’t right. Stealing a pet GAP dog was too weird…unless the jerk thought Stella was one of my racing dogs.

  That troubling thought sent a sudden icy coldness seeping into my bloodstream. It was as though I’d never feel warm again. To be honest, the whole situation freaked me out. Plus if I didn’t leave for the racetrack soon, kenneling would be finished, my dogs would be scratched, and I’d be up for a hefty fine and a bollocking from the chief steward.

  And zero chance of adding to my bank balance.

  Head in a whirl, I collapsed on the comfortable overstuffed sofa set in the middle of the lounge room. My racing dogs were my life, my job, my love. Sensing my distress, Tater, my tiny stegosaurus-hearted Chihuahua and Lucky, my wriggly black greyhound pet decided they both wanted to sit on my lap to comfort me. Tater snuggled on with ease but Lucky, after two unsuccessful attempts, leaned her head on my knees and looked up at me from under her eyes with a troubled frown.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll sort this out,” I told my canine friends before pulling out my cell phone. Finger on the first 0 of the standard 000 emergency number, I hesitated. Perhaps I should ring Detective Inspector Adams, personally. He’d been the policeman in charge of the case when Peter Manning, my psychotic ex-owner dragged me into his crazy murderous schemes. I’d feel more comfortable talking to a policeman I knew.

  But would he remember me? Would he get all upset and snarky if I called him on his private mobile number? I screwed up my nose. Gently teased one of Tater’s tiny ears between the tips of my fingers. Perhaps I should ring my best friend, Tanya, first. Or contact Ben—get his input? Then, mind zeroing in on the terrified expression on Stella’s face and the nasty smile on the thief’s, I started punching in DI Adam’s number.

  3

  Screeeeech!

  A car screamed to a halt outside, horn blaring loud enough to waken fossilized dinosaurs. I shot from the sofa—phone tumbling from my fingers. Holy catfish! If that was a police car—Detective Inspector Adams must have the telepathic powers of the part-faerie barmaid, Sookie Stackhouse. A snarling Tater immediately went into his usual guard dog pose, hair vibrating all along his back, growl deep in his throat, while big soft Lucky scuttled behind the sofa, long ratty tail between her legs, paws over her eyes.

  Could it be Purple Pants returning to steal another one of my dogs? Heart skipping several beats, I stashed my cell in the back pocket of my jeans and sprinted to the front door.

  One step through the doorway I stopped. Paralyzed with dread. I tried to yell, but the sound stuck in my throat. All I could do was stare in silent horror as a stony-faced Purple Pants hauled Stella from the car, and as though she was a piece of garbage, tossed the dog over my front fence.

  “No—” My throat closed over and a red hot fire invaded my chest as I raced across the yard to the whimpering Stella—in time to see Purple Pants thrust one arm through the open window and gesture with an arrogant middle finger. In time to hear tires gouge the bitumen as the pus-colored Holden slewed from one side to the other and took off up the r
oad. In time to inhale a nose full of exhaust fumes.

  Before I could close my gaping mouth, a fire-engine red Toyota Yaris, a car reminiscent of a matchbox toy, spun in through the gateway and came to a four square halt beside me. Out of the car, like an avenging angel, tumbled my best friend, Tanya Ashford and her eleven-year-old daughter, Erin.

  “What’s going on? Did the dog get run over? Who’s the wrinkly who took off in the crap car?” Tanya’s rapid fire questions could barely be heard over the roar of the disappearing Holden.

  “It’s Stella.” I squatted to check on the miserable brindle greyhound bitch lying in a heap at my feet. “And that wrinkly who took off in the crap car stole her and, deciding she was faulty, brought her back.” I gazed up at Tanya and shook my head in disbelief, struggling to stem the tears prickling like hot daggers behind my eyes. “He-he just tossed her over the fence, Tan!”

  “Come again?”

  “That piece of shit threw Stella over the fence.” The red hot fire burning in my chest turned white. “If I find him I’ll kill him—tear off both his arms and beat him over the head with the bloody appendages until he stops breathing—and then I’ll kill him.”

  “Hallelujah!” Tanya stood, hands jammed hard on hips, eyes flashing. Her body language screamed retribution. With that one word—hallelujah—I knew, without a quibble, Tanya would hold the geriatric thief down while I kicked him repeatedly in the nuts.

  Turning away, I cupped Stella’s face in both hands and planted a kiss on her long nose. In return, two sorrowful brown eyes met mine and a rough tongue licked its way across my cheek.

  “Did you get the car’s rego, Kat?” Tanya hunkered down beside me, her fingers reaching to smooth Stella’s brindle fur.

  “The plate was dirty.” I closed my eyes trying to visualize the car’s number plate. “I think the first two numbers were seven and three and there was what looked like a V somewhere in the mix.”

  “Might be enough to find an address. Anyway, I’ll ring my mate, Paul Simmons—ask him to check it out on the police data base.”

  “Paul Simmons?” I frowned. The name rang a distant bell.

  “Yeah. Remember that star footballer I dated back in high school?”

  Still frowning, I shook my head.

  “Well, I ran into him a couple of weeks ago and guess what—he’s a cop now—and he owes me one.”

  A hazy image of a fresh faced high-school footballer’s woebegone expression after Tanya dumped him flashed into my mind. “Dated? Tan, you gave the poor guy his marching orders two days into the relationship.”

  All nonchalant, Tanya shrugged one shoulder and stood up. “Anyway, as I said, we caught up again recently and got to talking over a cup of coffee at Rivers, you know that new restaurant on Philip Highway, and Paul admits the dumping was his fault. He knew the most important rule I dated under—never ever stand me up.”

  I shook my head at her. Tanya might be my best friend in the world and a powerhouse to have on side in times of trouble, but she still had the ability to leave me open-mouthed, gob-smacked at times. “If I remember rightly, the reason Paul stood you up was because he was called away to the hospital. His mother had been in a car accident and was in intensive care. The poor guy sent you a text from the hospital and rung several times afterwards to apologize.”

  “Yes, I know Paul was sorry at the time, but aren’t you forgetting something?” At my duh look, Tanya continued. “Because Paul stood me up that night I made the mistake of my life.” When my duh look intensified Tanya glanced surreptitiously at her daughter who was leaning against the door of the Yaris, completely absorbed in her new Smart Phone and likely discussing how to make petrol bombs with her 2001Facebook friends. “Kat, think about it. That was the night I let Dan tempt me into his bed.”

  Suddenly the penny dropped. Being in Dan’s bed that night instead of at the movies with Paul had changed the course of Tanya’s life.

  “As I said,” Tanya reiterated, “Paul owes me one.”

  “You’re right there.” Noticing two of Stella’s stitches had burst, I added, “And if Paul comes up with an address for us, I say we pay the dog-napper a visit. See how he enjoys being tossed over a fence.”

  Erin, phone cemented to one hand, strolled across to stare at the blood seeping from Stella’s torn stitches. The baby skin between her eyes wrinkled. “How ’bout we toss that bad man in a prickle bush instead?”

  “You bet, pumpkin,” I said. Although Tanya’s daughter and I were always at loggerheads, after Ben and I rescued her from a couple of lowlife thugs who kidnapped her and locked her in a dark cupboard, she and I had come to an amicable understanding. She was still a pain-in-the-butt but she was our pain-in-the-butt–and we loved her. “And if there are no prickle bushes around,” I promised, “we’ll improvise. Okay?”

  Erin’s evil grin was a carbon copy of her mother’s. “Better still, let’s like, chuck him into a hive full of angry bees.”

  Tanya slung one arm around her daughter’s shoulder and drew her closer. “Good idea, cupcake. Or what about a piranha infested river?”

  “Both options are fine by me,” I said giving the nearby gate a vicious kick as I stood up. “At the very least the man will be eating custard through broken teeth.”

  When Stella let out another soft whimper I bent and scooped her into my arms. “I’m taking Stella inside to clean her up. Got time to help?”

  “You betcha.”

  With Tanya and Erin tagging along behind, I lurched up the path in the direction of my front door, all four of Stella’s limbs sticking in the air like table legs.

  * * *

  Naturally Tater and Lucky behaved like it was the social occasion of the year when I brought Stella into the lounge room and lowered her onto the sofa.

  “New friend, guys,” I told the bouncing twosome. “And she’s hurt. So be gentle, okay?”

  Lucky immediately raced into the kitchen and came trotting back with her new purple squeaky toy lizard which she presented to Stella. Tater, not to be outdone, strode around the room, head up, tail cocked, a picture of cool. Probably eager to let the newcomer see he was a Hugh Grant lookalike—only shorter.

  “Why would anyone want to steal a greyhound they could legitimately adopt?” Tanya mused as she selected a bottle of Betadine from my ever-present first aid kit, broke a bag of cotton balls with her teeth and placed the bottle and the open bag on the coffee table beside me.

  I shook my head, every bit as confused as Tanya. “All he had to do was fill out a GAP application form and buy the dog.”

  “And why bring her back a few minutes later?”

  “Got me.” I finished bathing Stella’s torn stitches and tipped a few drops of Betadine onto a cotton ball. “None of it makes sense.”

  Tanya chewed on her bottom lip and you could almost hear her brain ticking over as she snagged the basin of bloody disinfectant water and emptied it into the sink. “Unless he stole the wrong dog.”

  “You mean he thought he was stealing one of my racing dogs?” I blew the bangs out of my eyes. “But which one? The only brindle dog I have racing at the moment is Big Mistake and although Stella’s brindle, no-one could mistake her for Lofty. For a start, he’s eighteen kilos heavier than her. Plus he has all those extra bits and pieces girl dogs aren’t born with.”

  “Still, it might pay to apply extra security around Lofty—just in case he is the brindle greyhound the dog-napper’s after.”

  I gave her a thumbs up. “I’m ahead of you there, Sherlock. There’ll be a new super-lock fitted on Lofty’s kennel as from today.”

  After I’d finished attending to Stella, Tanya collected the used cotton balls, dropped them into the pedal bin under the kitchen sink then moved across to the room to give me a quick hug. “Sorry, Kat, but I’ve gotta get going. Will you be okay?”

  “Yeah. No sweat. And thanks for your help.”

  “I’d hang around in case the dog-napper came back but my shift at The Luv Bug star
ts in half an hour and I gotta drop Erin off at her Dad’s first.”

  “That’s okay, I’m racing at Gawler, but hey, we’ll find this guy, and when we do, we’ll kick his ass to Sydney and back. No-one messes with my dogs and gets away with it.”

  “Right on, girlfriend.” Tanya stooped to rescue her hot-pink faux Gucci handbag from Lucky’s mouth before sending a grin in my direction. “Hey, d’ya remember that young stud who often pops into my shop to test the new products—you know, the guy who looks a lot like Angel from the Buffy series?”

  I nodded. How could I not remember someone who looked like Angel?

  “Well, he’s trialing our new range of blow up bimbos this afternoon.” She wiggled her eyebrows as she ushered her social-network obsessed daughter in the direction of the front door. “Last time he trialed a new product, The Luv Bug was overflowing with drooling women and we sold out of the new merchandise in an hour.” Tanya winked. “Shame you can’t come along and watch.”

  “Tempting,” I said regretfully. “But if I’m not driving out of my gateway and heading toward the Gawler dog track in the next ten minutes I’ll have the Chief Steward breathing all over me. And he won’t be drooling over my alluring curves and scintillating sex appeal. Oh no. He’ll have me reaching deep into my hip pocket to pay a hefty fine—and that’s after scratching all my dogs from the meeting.”

  4

  Even though I donned my Superwoman cape and made do with a two minute shower, dragged cotton knickers up over still-damp skin with one hand while drying my hair with the other—and even though Jake loaded the dogs in the trailer for me and secured their registration papers in the glove box of my car—it still took me twelve minutes to get ready. I’d have made it in five if Lucky hadn’t taken a fancy to my best pair of mandatory black track shoes. With no time to check more than half a dozen of her 101 secret hiding caches, I finally settled for wearing my second best track shoes, the pair with the split in one toe.