by Bobby D. Lux
Counting the stoplights, it took us twenty-seven minutes to reach Williamson Park from the Hart residence. The park was named to honor Grand City’s third mayor, Millard Williamson, who served one term in the early days of Grand City from 1932-1936. He lost his reelection bid, abandoned politics altogether, and opened a resort hotel in southern Mexico.
The ride was quiet, awkward, tense, and no eye contact was made. The air conditioning was too loud and the talk radio station was barely audible. Mrs. Hart drove and Officer Hart angled himself away from her towards his side window with his arms folded and chewed gum with his mouth open. Missy was perched in Officer Hart’s arms. She wore a pair of wings and a flimsy shiny ring made to look like it was hovering over her head.
“Could you keep your mouth shut if you’re going to do that?” Mrs. Hart said. Officer Hart rolled down his window and spit the gum out. I watched it stick to the asphalt. Missy tried to poke her head through the window to get some air. Her wings and the head ring were blown off into the back seat with Simon. She looked relieved. “That’s great. One more thing I have to do again.”
“I’ll fix her costume,” Officer Hart said, as he pressed the button to roll the window back up. He held the button down after the window was all the way up until the side of the door buzzed. “Weren’t you supposed to take the car in to get the noise fixed during the week?”
“I was busy.”
“Then so am I.”
Ernie circled the cramped back of the car and tried to get the best view of every lane change, turn, and stop that we made. I lay still, afraid to move for fear of tearing my get up. As long as I stood, the clothes fit okay. As soon as I sat down they stretched in ways that they weren’t designed to. If they ripped, Mrs. Hart would think I tore it. Nipper, poor jerk, was curled up in the back corner. I didn’t look at him with what that kid did to him with the contents of that box. He was most definitely dressed in a manner unbecoming a canine. I’ve never been one to stare at car wrecks. Either help out or don’t. Just don’t slow down and stare. Everyone was in their own little world. Simon played a video game on his TV screen; his world being the only one which seemed habitable.
Seven individual planets on a collision course towards the collective unknown. Oooh, that’s a good one.
“Aw, the sweet smell of the dog park,” Ernie said, as Officer Hart opened the back door of the Intimidator. “These are the days we live for, fellas.”
He leapt down and jogged around the parking lot until Officer Hart yelled at him to get back here before he got himself killed. I gingerly stood on the tailgate. Jumping down would have been the end of that costume.
“Come here,” Officer Hart said, wrapping his arms around my torso. “Nice and easy on your leg.”
My leg. Maybe it wasn’t the costume I was concerned about. Officer Hart scooped me up and lowered me to the ground. I heard him cringe as he bent his back to set me down. I felt bad and gave him a lick. He shouldn’t have had to hurt himself just to get my hunk of junk out of the Intimidator.
“Make sure they don’t get hit by a car,” Mrs. Hart said, carrying Missy away to a picnic table where the other women sat.
Nipper didn’t budge. He stayed in the corner of the Intimidator with his head down and his tail curled under him.
“Nipper, get out,” Officer Hart said, slapping the side of the car. “I can’t leave you in the car so you’re coming out one way or the other.”
“It’s not that bad Nipper,” Ernie said.
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’ve seen worse looking mutts when I was on the streets.”
“How much time did you do on the streets?” I said.
“Three and a half years,” Ernie said, too proud. “But then I was rescued. Before that, me and Saucy were doing just fine.”
“Could you do something, Ernie?” Nipper said. “Everyone’s gonna laugh me.”
“No more than usual-”
“Not funny, Ernie.”
“Okay, you guys, stop barking,” Officer Hart said, leaning into the car and grabbing Nipper by his collar. He tugged Nipper towards the light of the parking lot. Nipper did his best to anchor his rear end to the floor of the car, but his costume robbed him of any chafing friction.
Now I’ve been saying costume, but the word doesn’t truly describe what Simon did to Nipper. Over the course of my career I’ve seen a good share of ridiculous costumes. The junkie in a spider-webbed tutu with bunny ears who made a decent claim for belonging to either gender. The woman in a caveman outfit after a high speed pursuit; she assured us she was evading the ensuing apocalypse and not the police. The guy who doused himself in chocolate syrup and barricaded himself in his closet with the lights off. They wouldn’t let me at that guy. We once even jammed up a derelict Santa Claus for begging next to the freeway off-ramp. Nipper’s costume was one for the books alongside those.
Let me start from the back and work towards the front of this disaster. Christmas tree streamer was tightly coiled around his tail and tied off around his leg. The mast for a plastic toy-sized Canadian flag was tucked and taped into the tail coil as the flag punctuated Nipper’s every wag. Both legs were adorned with superhero socks that were kept taut with doubled-up rubber bands. I shouldn’t fail to mention that the socks did not match. The right leg featured a caped muscleman. The left was brighter and depicted a female Viking swinging from a rope and shooting a laser.
His lower torso was surrounded by cardboard with old cereal box covers taped up the sides, evidence pointing one to conclude that the Hart family had no problem indulging Simon’s sugar cravings. Simon left several messages in between the box covers like “I Love Nipper!” and “Nipper is the meanest most tough dog!!!” A saddle, too small for anyone to sit on, was taped to the top of the box. Happy Birthday wrapping paper was taped around Nipper’s forearms. At least both arms matched.
A gaudy necklace hung from his neck; one I suspect came from Mrs. Hart’s early collection. I wondered what Simon was doing with it. A skull and bones eye patch obscured his right eye while the capstone of Nipper’s Halloween nightmare was secured to his head: a dreadlocked hat specially woven for dogs so that the ears could stick out. The result resembled a cross between an elf, an alien, and the smoking guy on a lot of bumper stickers. When it’s added to the rest of what Nipper had, it was a nuclear explosion of embarrassment.
I felt a yank at my side as Simon removed the handcuffs off me.
“Earrings,” he said, draping the loops over Nipper’s ears.
Nipper shook off the toy hand cuffs and Officer Hart told Simon that Nipper had enough costume on him before he tried again. Officer Hart led Simon away from Nipper by the hand and walked ahead of us towards the park. Nipper stayed behind Ernie and me.
“You have to understand,” Ernie said, “he’s upset because since he’s not a pure breed like you, I’m assuming you’re one at least, so Nipper couldn’t ever be a cop.” Wanting to do something when everyone has told you that you can’t? Maybe Nipper and I had something in common after all. I was no closer to being a cop that day than he was, costumed or otherwise. “Hey, don’t worry about it Nipper, I think you look cool.”
“So, what do you do here?” I said. I’d never been to a bona fide dog park. I’ve been to regular parks before, who hasn’t, but I always thought the idea of a park just for dogs was nonsense. They have the same stuff as the other parks. The other parks are less crowded too.
“You do whatever you want, man. Up to you. Just don’t mark on the front gate. No one likes that. There’s plenty of room in the back.”
“Hadn’t crossed my mind, Ernie,” I said.
“Oh, well yeah. I mean, you wouldn’t, but some the breeds who show up here-”
“What’s happening, big Ernie?” Godzilla said, interrupting at one o’clock. Godzilla being a beagle in a costume that cost far too much money. “The big E. Easy E. My main man E up in the park.”
“Hi, Gringo. How you doing?”
“Ah, you know. Just surviving. Making the most of the holiday. You like my digs?”
“First class,” Ernie said.
“I know it. Sailor outfit’s looking sharp too.”
“Have you seen Saucy, Gringo?”
“Nah. But then again, it’s tough to see in this.” Godzilla left to wreak havoc elsewhere but not before making a crack about Nipper’s tail being a stiffy.
“Like I was saying,” Ernie said, “some real low class mutts around here, you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“Hey, you know what?” Ernie said, stopping and turning to me. “You never know, maybe someone here knows about those two dogs you were looking for, uh, Scamper and what was the other one?”
“Clay.”
“Clay. That’s it. Might be worth investigating. Let me know if I can help. Anyway, make haste like they say. We only get so much time here, so I gotta run and find Saucy.”
Ernie disappeared into the hoard of costumed dogs. The cat calls were really starting to pick up as Nipper made his way into the park.
“Love it or leave it, Canuck!” said a cowboy-dressed Yellow Lab.
“Awww, Simon says Nipper is the most meanest,” said a Cocker Spaniel, dressed like a swashbuckler. “I best not be messing with him.”
“Make no mistake Nipper,” said a Great Dane, in a lazy basketball jersey, “I think your costume is the most ridiculous, most stupid thing I’ve ever seen, but you got guts. Or you left your brains in the garbage can you got that costume from.”
“That’s enough,” I said. “Leave him alone.”
“Who’s the new guy, Nipper? What’s his problem?”
“Nothing,” was all Nipper could force out.
“Well, tell him to lighten up. We’re just having some fun. A little teasing never killed anyone.”
“Nipper,” I said, “If it means anything, I’m sorry.”
“Just leave me alone. You wouldn’t understand.”
You can’t talk with someone who doesn’t want to talk. If they’ve committed a crime, you do what you have to do to get them blabbing, but it was a nice day out so I left Nipper to his fate.
As I waded through the crowd of dogs, all doing everything in their power to soil their outfits, I started to feel like myself again. I was in charge here even if none of them knew it yet. The costume actually helped me fit in. That feeling of being part of the group again allowed me to walk with a head higher than it’d been since before the night with Nitro and the buffalo heads and the greatest hits video. I was a dog again. Even better, I felt like a cop again. Ernie was right. It was time to make these mutts talk.
I cornered a full-sized French Poodle in foofy military regalia by a tree. He sat in front of me with his chin up and his paw rested inside his coat against his chest.
“I don’t have to answers you or your questions, monsieur,” he sneered, as he took his paw out of his jacket. I watched the shadows of the tree tap dance across his face with his crooked mouth trying to keep up.
“Watch it,” I said. “Slow. Let me see your paw. Don’t you try to pull anything out on me. Keep your paws where I can see them, Frenchie.”
“Frenchie?”
“You heard me.”
“You Americans. Hmmpft, I never!”
“Clay or Scamper? What do you know? You’re not going anywhere until I get an answer. No more wine and cheese for you at the pound where you’re headed.”
“Aren’t you getting a little carried away here?” he said, suddenly dropping his accent completely. “I get it. You’re a cop, but take it easy, buster. It’s just Halloween.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry. You’re free to go, sir.”
“I know.”
A good cop had to readjust to his setting. If I was going to get anywhere, I had to play it cool and remember that I was dealing with the pampered suburbanites. These weren’t the con artists and hustlers I’d wrangled throughout my career. I had to ease into things. You got more with honey than you did with vinegar. It was time to get sticky.
I looked around for a dog who looked like he knew something. A football hit me in the back of the head. It was a real football with points on the end. Not the kind Detective Hernandez and Sergeant Rodriguez watched on their lunch breaks.
“Gee, sorry mister,” a mutt with a football helmet too large on his head and mud smeared in his fur said, as he ran up to me. “That didn’t hurt ya, did it?”
“What’s your name?” I said, standing in front of his ball.
“I just want my ball, officer.”
“Your name?”
“You can play if you want? We need a ref. A cop would be a good ref.”
“I want your name or you and your buddies don’t get your ball back.”
“Buddies? I’m playing by myself. Just me, Mr. Mac Nugget Head.”
“You just said you needed a ref.”
“Who did?”
“You did.”
“Oh. Maybe. Well, since you bring it up. We could start a game if you want to be the referee.”
“Does your head bounce around a lot in that helmet?”
“Sure does,” he said, laughing. “Kinda gives me a headache, but then it’s like I don’t feel anything after awhile. I can’t figure it out. My humans think it’s funny.”
“I bet.”
“So, can I have my ball?”
“Do you know a Rottweiler that goes by Clay?”
“Hmmmm, no, but I know a Chow named Chuck over there.”
“Does Chuck know Clay?”
“I don’t know. They both start with the same letter, so maybe.”
“Do you know anything?”
“Can’t help you there, officer.”
“Here.” I nudged his ball over to him. He tried to catch it in his mouth, but it bounced off his facemask. This cycle of the helmet bobbling side-to-side with rhythmic thuds repeated as I watched this most interesting creature off.
I saw a crew of pugs acting suspicious and went code five on them. I watched them sniff each other for an extended period and decided to make contact. Ernie intercepted me with another dog close beside him.
“Hey Fritz, this is my friend Saucy. She’s from the streets too like me. We go way back.” Her eyes were different shades and she was part Border Collie. I want to say there was some Dachshund tossed in there too.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me-”
“I don’t live on the streets anymore,” Saucy said. “I have a nice yard and I don’t miss the good old days as much as Ernie does.”
“What do you think of her costume, Fritz?”
“Ernie, that’s rude. Don’t put him on the spot.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Looks nice.”
“She’s a nurse.”
“I see that, Ernie.”
“She wanted to be a sailor like me. That was our plan, but her owner wouldn’t go for it.”
“I’m sure Fritz doesn’t want to hear my life story, Ernie.”
“Just trying to introduce my best pal,” Ernie said.
“I thought Nipper was your best pal?”
“He is, Saucy, but you’re my best girl pal.”
“Speaking of Nipper,” I said, “is he okay? This whole costume thing seems to be bothering him more than it should. It’s just an outfit. Who cares what any of these hounds think?”
“It’s not that, man.”
“It’s not that he cares about what these hounds think of him,” Saucy said. “He cares what one hound thinks of him.”
“And not just any hound,” Ernie said.
“Well, who is he?” I asked.
“It’s not a he.”
“It’s a she,” Saucy said. “My yard mate, Scarlet. She’s the prettiest dog you’ve ever seen. At least that’s what everyone, literally everyone, says. I don’t know, maybe they’re right. I think I see it. But Nipper, like every other tongue dragging mutt in here, he’s
got it bad for her.”
I’ve never been one to bite when dogs fish for compliments, but Ernie, she teed that one right up for you. I gave him a moment to tell her he thought she was pretty. His face remained idle.
“So what’s the problem?” I said.
“Easy for you to say,” Saucy said. “You look like a cop.”
“He is a cop,” Ernie said.
“Oh yeah? Here in Grand?”
“This is just a costume. I was a cop. If it were up to me, I’d let Nipper have it.”
“It wouldn’t even help,” Ernie said. “Nipper’s been stuck on her for years, but she won’t give him the time of day. He’s tried everything. Every line in the book. He’s sang to her. He tried poetry. I helped with it. Something like wait, wait, okay, your eyes are a pleasant surprise like a half-eaten cheeseburger in a garbage bag and your voice is the fries; when you pass me your scent sticks with me like a fresh piece of meat that I want to devour. Your legs are-”
“We get it Ernie,” Saucy said. “And who could ever figure out why that didn’t work.”
“It’s art. It’s not for everyone, okay? Besides, those were my words anyway and they were meant for… Here we go.”
“What?” I said, my ears tingling up.
“There’s Nipper,” Ernie said. “He’s going for it. He’s going to talk to her.”
On the other end of the park, Nipper took small steps in a direct line towards a dog who had to be Scarlet. The word perfect gets tossed around nearly as much as genius does, but I’d be a stone cold liar if I said Scarlet was a tad short of being anything less than a, yes, perfect feminine canine specimen. Purebred Siberian Husky. I was quite positive she wasn’t pulling any sleds, though she had the hips for it. There was just enough trace of wolf in her face that was as intimidating as it was mysteriously magnetic. She had curves where it counted and a striking jaw line that said yeah, mister I’m talking to you. You know all of that attention you have for the rest of the world that you like to spread here and there, yeah, that. It’s mine and you don’t have a say in the matter. Poor Nipper.
“Let’s get a good seat,” Ernie said.
“If he’s going to talk to her,” Saucy said, “give him his respect.”