by Diane Kelly
“Heel!” I barked.
The dog, who had been the epitome of obedience inside, ignored me now.
I shifted the cage in my hands the best I could and jerked back on the leash. “Listen up, dog! I t-told you to heel.”
The dog glanced back at me. If I didn’t know better, I would swear she rolled her eyes.
“Well, well, well.” Derek leaned back against his shiny black pickup, causing the pink rubber testicles hanging from his trailer hitch to sway. He crossed his meaty arms over his chest, a nasty grin on his face. “The bitches are on the beat.”
Ignoring the Big Dick, I continued three spaces down to my tiny two-seater metallic-blue smart car. Why was I taking the dog and her things home with me? Because she and I were to form our own pack now and cohabitating was evidently an essential part of the canine bonding process. I now had to think and act like the alpha dog. Perhaps I should lift my leg and take a pee on my back tire.
I set the cage and bag down on the asphalt and bleeped the door locks. After depositing the bag containing Brigit’s bowls, brush, and flea shampoo in the small space behind my seat, I rolled down the windows, opened the passenger door, and gestured to the dog. “Get in.”
Sniff. Sniff-sniff. The dog performed an exploratory snuffle along the floorboard, dash, and seat before attempting to climb into the car. No luck. Her furry hindquarters hung out the side. She turned on the seat, but that wasn’t much better. There wasn’t enough room for her.
I waved her back out of the car. Grabbing the lever under the front seat, I moved it back as far as it would go and leaned the seat back to the rear until the headrest met the back window. “That’s as good as it gets,” I muttered.
The dog climbed back in, fidgeted for a moment or two, then settled back. The tips of her ears touched the ceiling and she was forced to rest her front paws on the dash, but at least all of her was in the car now.
As I struggled to lift the dog’s cage to the roof of my vehicle, nearly dropping it twice, a sharp corner of the metal dug into the paint. Screee. My roof now bore a five-inch scratch. Fantastic. The cage was nearly as big as my car, and I had to turn it sideways for the best support.
If the Big Dick had been half the man he thought he was, he would’ve offered to help me, maybe even put the cage in the bed of his pickup and delivered it to my apartment. Instead, he just kicked back against his truck and watched, a smirk on his face. Asshole. Who needs him? Not me, that’s for sure.
I ran a rope through the bars of the cage and looped it through the windows. I tied it off as taut as I could and silently pleaded with whatever deities might be observing that it would hold.
With the rope through the windows, it was impossible to open the door. I had to slide into my car through the open window like a NASCAR racer. Once I was seated, I looked over at the dog. No two ways about it. She was going to be a total nuisance, an enormous burden, an impediment to my career plans. “I really don’t deserve you.”
She gave me a look that said she felt the same way about me.
I cranked the engine. Finding the gearshift among the dog’s long fur wasn’t easy, nor was backing up with her enormous body blocking my line of vision, but eventually we managed to make our way out of the space.
Two other male officers had gathered with Mackey to watch, shaking their heads as I drove past.
“For someone who drives a smart car,” the Big Dick called after me, “you sure look stupid!”
Grrr. It took everything in me not to hook a quick U-turn and run the guy over. If I’d thought my car was up to the task, I might’ve done it. Unfortunately, a strategically placed sneeze could probably blow me over.
Don’t let him get to you, Megan, I told myself. He’s not worth it.
When guffaws broke out behind me, though, I changed my mind. He was worth it.
My tires emitted a short squeal as I slammed on my brakes, shoved the gearshift into park, and wriggled out the car window.
“Uh-oh,” one of the other cops teased as I stalked toward them. “You’re in trouble now, Mackey.”
I ripped my baton from my belt and extended it with a flick of my wrist. Snap!
Derek straightened and instinctively turned sideways to make himself a smaller target. His hand rested on his gun.
“What the fuck is she doing?” said the third cop, taking a few steps back.
My baton down at my side, I stomped up to Derek’s truck, bent down, and delivered a solid whack to his truck’s rubber testicles.
Damn, that felt good.
That first whack had been for Derek, but I delivered a second one for the jackass who’d invented those disgusting rubber truck nuts. Whack! The nuts swung back and forth, just like the real thing.
Standing, I collapsed my baton, gave the men a smile and a nod, and walked back to my car.
Derek’s voice came from behind me: “Told you that girl is crazy.”
Glancing over at the enormous beast as I drove, I cursed my short temper. If only I’d been a little more patient, if only I hadn’t pulled my Taser, I wouldn’t be in this situation now, paired up with a dog for a partner. This would not be a career-enhancing partnership. What could a dog teach me about being a cop?
The air conditioner blew at full power, fluffing the dog’s fur as she sat panting on the seat, drops of drool falling from her tongue to my dashboard. Having so much thick hair had to be a bitch in the Texas heat and, since it was only early June, the worst was yet to come. She’d be miserable in July, when we’d have day after day of one-hundred-degree weather.
Wait. Was I actually feeling sorry for the dog? How ridiculous. Why should I? This dog would tie me down and shed all over my tiny apartment.
Brigit glanced over at me, her eyes narrowed as if she’d read my mind.
Blurgh. The dog was right. This wasn’t her fault. It was mine.
Didn’t mean I had to like it, though.
As we waited at a red light, a beat-up black Mustang pulled up beside us. Two pimple-faced boys sat inside, the thump-thump-thump of a hip-hop bass line shaking their car and reverberating off mine. The driver glanced our way, did a double take, and rolled down his window. “What the hell is that?” he hollered. “Sasquatch?”
The two hooted with laughter. The light turned green and the driver floored the gas pedal, tires squealing as he sped off. Evidently he hadn’t noticed my uniform. I supposed I could call him in, report him for exhibition of acceleration, but why bother? The kid was right. The dog did look like a ’squatch.
On the way home, I stopped by a Target store. Brigit came inside with me. A dog in a store with a grocery department probably violated the health code, but what would they do, call the police? I was the police. Besides, I couldn’t very well leave the beast in the car in the ninety-five-degree heat. If she didn’t die of heatstroke she’d probably eat the seats.
Brigit padded along behind me as I made my way to the automotive department. Shoppers watched as we passed them, their eyes going from Brigit to my uniform. Not likely to be any shoplifting going on while the two of us were in the store.
I grabbed a lemon-scented air freshener to hang from my rearview mirror. My smart car wasn’t much, but I didn’t want it to smell like dog. We headed to the pet section next, where I loaded my cart with a twenty-pound bag of dog food, a box of dog biscuits, and the largest fleece dog bed the store carried.
Brigit stuck out a paw and put it on top of a cardboard canister of doggie beef jerky. She looked up at me and batted her big brown eyes.
I checked the price. Nine bucks? This dog had expensive taste. Heck, I didn’t pay that much for my own fancy organic snacks.
“No,” I told her, using my foot to nudge her paw off the canister.
Brigit stiffened, stared up at me, and emitted a low warning growl: Grrrr.
Time to let this bitch know who was boss. I bent down, got in her face, and narrowed my dark-brown eyes at hers. “‘No’ means ‘no.’ I’m the one in charge and don’t you f
orget it.”
The dog stared back at me, unblinking, her lips pulled back in a silent snarl. I returned the sentiment, my eyes locked on hers in a primal power play, waiting to see who would blink first. After twenty seconds or so, my eyes began to water, but damned if I’d let this dog best me. I’d keep them open until my retinas burst.
A woman rolled a shopping cart up the aisle, stopping next to me. “’Scuse me. I need to get to the cat litter.”
My watery eyes still locked on Brigit’s, I motioned with my arm. “Circle around the next aisle.”
The woman made no move to back up her cart. “Can’t you just scooch over a bit?”
“No.” My eyes tingled painfully. “Official police business going on here.”
The woman harrumphed. “Looks to me like you’re just making goo-goo eyes with your dog.”
Had this woman failed to notice the weapons on my hip? I was tempted to whip out my baton and give her toes a nice whack. That would teach her to give a cop some respect.
When the woman still made no move to back off, Brigit began to growl again: Grrrr. Though the dog kept her eyes glued on mine, she turned her snout toward the woman, curling her lip back even farther to expose her ready fangs. The cat lady gasped, turned her cart around, and made a swift retreat down the row.
When Brigit turned her snout back my way, I pressed my warm, dry nose firmly against her cold, wet one and reached a hand out to cover her eyes. It was a low-down, dirty move, but there was no way I could keep my eyes open any longer. “We’ll call this one a draw,” I whispered.
When I removed my hand, Brigit gave me an unmistakable look of disgust. After my flagrant cheating, I supposed I deserved it.
Our battle for dominance over for the moment, I stood, turned my attention back to my cart, and pushed it down the aisle, pulling Brigit along behind me.
When we reached the front of the store, I rolled into the express line and began to unload the items in the cart onto the belt.
“What the—!”
Brigit clenched the canister of beef jerky in her mouth. She jumped up, put her front paws on the countertop, and dropped the can onto the end of the moving belt. Klunk. She sat down and looked up at me, her tail moving up and down, slapping the floor in what had to be canine language for “screw you.” Slap-slap.
I eyed the canister as it slid by on the belt. The darn thing bore holes from Brigit’s pointy teeth. I couldn’t very well expect the store to put the damaged container back on the shelf, could I? I glared down at my partner. You win this time, dog.
I paid for our purchases and headed back out to my car. It took a bit of wrestling to get the oversized dog bed and food into my car’s tiny trunk, but eventually we were on our way to my apartment.
My complex was called Eastside Arms, appropriate since the buildings were pocked with bullet holes from drive-bys and the tenants, the majority of whom were single males, likely packed heat. The place was nothing to brag about, obviously, just a trio of three-story concrete bunkers painted in a peeling pastel-blue hue reminiscent of a beachside souvenir shop. Never mind that the closest beach was a five-hour drive away.
The buildings formed a U around a common area that contained the parking lot and a rectangular pool only marginally bigger than a bathtub. The pool, in turn, was surrounded by cracked concrete and a chain-link fence. If you wanted a lawn chair, this was strictly a bring-your-own situation. Not much landscaping to speak of unless you counted the dandelions that had cropped up in the gaps between the sidewalks and buildings. The rent was cheap, though. One of these days, when my student loans were paid off, I’d find better digs. Until then, I’d power through.
I pulled into a spot and retrieved the food, bed, bones, and jerky from the trunk, clutching them against my chest, leaving the cage for a second trip. Circling to the passenger side, I found the window fogged from Brigit’s breath and smudged top-to-bottom with doggie nose prints. Wonderful. There went the twenty-five bucks I’d paid to have the car detailed. It was my turn to growl now: Grrr.
My next-door neighbor, whom I knew only as Rhino, sat on the side of the pool in a pair of cutoff jeans, his skinny legs dangling in the water, his bare shoulders sunburned. His bleached-blond hair was swept up and glued into a single pointed horn standing up stiffly on his scalp, directly above his forehead. The guy had three gold rings through one eyebrow, randomly placed teeth, and a can of Bud consistently clasped in his hand even when, as now, he was fooling around on his bass guitar. He played in an indie punk band called Crotch Rot.
Charming, no?
Rhino gestured to my car with the can. “You win that big dog at Six Flags?”
I shook my head. “She’s not stuffed. She’s real.”
His mouth fell agape. “You’re shitting me, right?”
If only. Alas, my assertions were excrement-free.
I opened the passenger door with my free hand. “Come on, dog.”
Before my fingers could round up the leash Brigit leaped from the car and bounded toward the fence surrounding the pool, hurdling the four-foot enclosure with the ease and grace of a gazelle. If I hadn’t been so enraged at her disobedience, I might’ve been impressed by her agility.
“Get back here!” I ordered. It wasn’t the official command the other K-9 handler had instructed me to use, but I wasn’t yet accustomed to using the formal charges. I racked my brain for the command word and said that, too. I could tell you what the word was, but then I’d have to kill you. Would I be correct to assume neither of us wants that?
I might as well have been talking to a rock. The dog ignored my orders and jumped into the pool, her belly flop causing a tidal wave and sending up a splash that doused Rhino and his guitar. Good thing the instrument wasn’t plugged in or the guy would’ve been electrocuted.
“Hey!” Rhino scrambled backward, grabbed his towel from where it hung draped over the fence, and dabbed gently at his guitar.
I might’ve been inclined to apologize to Rhino if the guy hadn’t been jamming until 2:00 AM in his apartment last night. Every note was audible through the walls, which I suspected were made of cardboard. I’d debated reporting the offense to the on-site manager but decided to cut Rhino some slack. After all, if he didn’t practice his bass he wouldn’t get better and if he didn’t get better Crotch Rot wouldn’t get the gigs that would enable them to move down to Austin, which had a better live music scene. Rhino couldn’t control when his muse showed up, and if I went down to complain to the manager I would’ve had to put on something other than panties and a tank top. Besides, with my meeting with the chief hanging over me, it wasn’t like I was dozing peacefully last night anyway. So I’d let the offense slide and instead stuffed toilet paper in my ears and put my pillow over my head.
After circling the pool three times with her leash trailing in the water behind her, my new partner and roommate paddled to the steps and climbed out. Leaving a wet trail, she trotted back to the fence, jumped over it, and returned to my side, chlorine-scented water pooling at her feet.
The dog looked up at me, an evil gleam in her eye.
I pointed a finger down at her. “Don’t you dare!”
Again my words fell on deaf ears. Brigit’s hindquarters began to gyrate, slowly at first, then faster, working her body into a full and frenzied shake that would’ve registered a 9.8 on the Richter scale. Before I could back out of range Brigit sent up a shower of dog-scented spray that doused me head to foot and left my car spotted with droplets from the headlights to the back bumper.
Wiping the spray from my face, I glared down at the dog. “You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”
She did the up-down wag again. Slap-slap. Screw you.
I grabbed the soggy leash and headed up the steps with Brigit trotting along beside me. The leash had wound under her belly and between her back legs, giving her a wedgie, but I didn’t bother fixing it. After drenching me the darn dog deserved a little discomfort.
Halfway up the step
s sat an elderly black tenant sporting a dingy once-white tank top, wrinkled boxer shorts, and house slippers with holes in both toes, exposing long, thick, yellowed nails. Edward Scissorfeet. He took one last drag on his cigarette before stubbing out the butt on the step and flicking it over the railing. “That’s one big-ass dog you got there.”
He had a tremendous grasp on the obvious.
Brigit stopped, gave the man’s shoes a quick sniff, then continued on, dripping on the stairs. In the excessive heat, the droplets evaporated almost as soon as they landed.
My apartment was in the middle of the second floor, which meant I had neighbors not only to my left and right but above and below me as well. Maximum neighbors, maximum noise. Upstairs lived an older Latino man who flushed his toilet approximately twenty times a night. Prostate problem, evidently. To my left was a fifty-something leftover hippie with stringy hair and tie-dyed T-shirts. A series of elongated “ohhhhhs” routinely emanated through his wall, though whether they were a meditation mantra or the sound track from porn movies was up for debate. To my right was Rhino. The tenant below me was a grumpy Congolese emigrant who constantly banged with a broom on his ceiling—my floor—to protest the noise my other neighbors made. You’d think growing up with constant machine-gun fire would’ve desensitized him. Perhaps he wasn’t so much protesting the noise as exercising his newfound freedom of expression. At any rate, there were few neighborly days in this neighborhood. Were he still alive, Mister Rogers would be sorely disappointed.
I unlocked the door to my unit and stepped inside what felt like a sauna. Blurgh! The air-conditioning was out, yet again. Some home sweet home. More like home sweat home. First I get stuck with the damn dog, then I get sprayed with pool water, and now my AC was out. Could this day get any worse?
I unclipped the dog’s leash, tossed a handful of bones onto the kitchen floor to keep her occupied for a few minutes, and clunked back down the steps, past my elderly neighbor, to the apartment manager’s office.