Canine Christmas

by Jeffrey Marks (Ed)

  “Yep, Ogilvy takes a real nice picture,” Harlan was saying. “Real cute.”

  I still hadn't spoken. Did the man expect me to stand here and chat about dog pictures? Was he kidding? “How did you get in here, Harlan?” I said.

  Harlan ran his hand through his blond hair. Was there ever a time when I'd thought him good-looking? In faded jeans, cowboy boots, and a scuffed brown leather jacket, Harlan has always been trying a little too hard to look like James Dean. I don't know now why I didn't see it right from the start. Maybe, like Ogilvy inheriting his jumping ability from his dad, I'd also inherited something from a parent. From my mom, I'd inherited a wild streak.

  Harlan had been as wild as they come. I'd met him after work one night at a local bar, and for a while, he'd seemed to me to be the most exciting man I'd ever known. If he drank a little too much, and he gambled away his paycheck a little too often, I was so blind crazy about him that none of that seemed to matter. Harlan made the men I'd dated at General Electric, where I worked as an administrative assistant, suddenly seem boring and dull.

  Harlan had already moved in with me when I found out about his temper. By that time, I'd been telling my parents and friends for months that they were wrong about Harlan, that all he needed was a good woman to straighten him out. My mom and dad had only lived two blocks down the road from my apartment, so I could have gone to them for help anytime. And yet, I'd been too proud to admit to anybody how often Harlan hit me, or how every day I grew a little more afraid of him.

  When Harlan had lost his third job in a row, and yet never seemed to be short of cash, I'd asked him where all his money was coming from. His answer was to become a familiar refrain: That's for me to know, and you to find out. I half expected him to say it now. “How'd I get in here?” he drawled. “Well, Beth, it's the oddest thing—” He had the expression on his face that he always wore when he was lying: wide-eyed sincerity. “I don't know if you know it, hon—”

  I couldn't help it. I winced when he called me hon.

  Harlan frowned, but he let that one go. “—but your bathroom window is busted.”

  I didn't have to guess how that had happened.

  “Since the window was already open and all,” Harlan went smoothly on, “well, I just climbed in and waited for you,” he said. He took a deep breath and looked me up and down. “It's good seeing you again, Beth.” His eyes traveling over my body felt like insects. “You're looking damn good. Damn good.”

  My throat tightened. “You didn't come here just to tell me how good I looked, did you?”

  Harlan smiled. “You're still mad, aren't you? But, Beth, sweetheart, I didn't have a choice. There wasn't any need in both of us getting caught. You understand that, don't you?”

  Oh, I understood all right. I'd gone over it in my mind often enough. Every once in a while, even now, I still had nightmares about that day. Once again, I'd hear Harlan telling me, with that look of wide-eyed sincerity, that he was just going to stop by the bank, that's all. He was just going to make a quick withdrawal from his account. As it turned out, while I sat out front, Harlan went inside and made a quick withdrawal of every cent in the vault, the ATM machine, and the tellers' cash drawers. It had amounted to close to a quarter of a million dollars, according to the Courier. The exact amount was not known since the bank had just taken delivery of some payroll deposits which had not yet been counted.

  Harlan had come running out, his eyes wild and excited, actually laughing as he tossed the bags of currency into the backseat of my car. Since he hadn't bothered to mention that I'd been recruited to drive the getaway car, I hadn't even left the engine running. I was so stunned, so totally unable to fathom what was happening, that Harlan had to yell at me three times before I had the presence of mind to start the car and pull into traffic.

  The elderly bank guard inside was evidently not anywhere near as good as I was at following Harlan's instructions. The old guy had not lain down on the floor with the other bank employees; instead, he'd followed Harlan out, yelling. Harlan had shot at the guy twice, as I was screeching away from the curb.

  Both shots had missed.

  In my nightmares over the years, sometimes those shots didn't miss. I would awake, trembling, bathed in sweat, seeing again the fear in that old man's face. The fear, no doubt, mirrored in my own.

  Halfway back to our apartment that day, I'd heard the sirens. In my rearview mirror, I could see a police car, lights blazing, heading directly toward us. Beside me, Harlan turned around and looked out the rear window, his face white. “Okay, slow down, and let me out here,” he said, pointing at the next street corner. His voice was shaking. “I-I'll meet you back at the apartment.”

  He'd run, leaving the money behind in my car. He was already a block away when the squad car had shot right by me. I never did know where it was going, but it had not been chasing me. I realize now that Harlan had been certain that I was about to be caught; he'd been turning over the money and me to the police in one nice, tidy package.

  When the police car went by me, I'd sat there for a long moment, waiting for my heart to stop pounding, and half expecting Harlan to show up again. He was long gone, however. The police were at my apartment almost as soon as I got there—the old bank guard had given the police my license plate number, and they'd just run a trace on my address—but Harlan was still nowhere to be seen.

  In the last three years, I hadn't heard a word from him. Until now.

  “You understand I just wanted that money for you and me? So you and I could go away together—so we could go someplace on the beach where neither one of us would ever have to work again.” Harlan reached down and scratched Ogilvy's head. “You and me and Ogilvy.” Ogilvy's ears perked as he wagged his stump.

  “You and me and Ogilvy,” I repeated. I forced myself to smile. “You mean it, Harlan? You were just getting that money for us?”

  Harlan grinned, his eyes confident now. “Sure, baby, sure,” he said. He paused, looking down at Ogilvy, and then he said softly, “So where is it?”

  I gave him a blank look. “Where's what?”

  Harlan's eyes flashed with irritation, but he still smiled at me. “The money, Beth. Where did you hide it?” He glanced toward the hall. “I've been looking around, and I have to hand it to you, Beth. You've hidden it real good.”

  I followed his glance. Even from where I was standing, I could see all the stuff littering the hall. Harlan had been looking all right, and he had not been neat about it. I noticed, too, now that I was looking, that the cushions on my sofa were a little uneven—as if someone had looked underneath them and then replaced them in a hurry. Harlan had left my living room intact, so I wouldn't know the second I'd opened my front door that something was wrong. He hadn't wanted to tip me off.

  “Harlan,” I said, “I don't have the money. The police took it.”

  Harlan gave up on trying to smile. “Beth, don't give me that. The Courier said the money was never recovered.”

  “I know what the paper said, but I'm telling you what happened. One of the cops took it out of my car.”

  Harlan just looked at me. “Oh, Beth,” he said. His voice sounded infinitely sad. “I sure didn't want to have to do it this way.” As he spoke, he pulled a gun out of his leather jacket.

  I couldn't seem to drag my eyes away from the gun. The thing seemed to fill the room. “Harlan, I'm telling you the truth.”

  Harlan was shaking his head before I'd even finished speaking. “You know damn well I can't trust a word you say.”

  “You can't trust me?” I was incredulous. “Are you kidding? I did three years, Harlan. Three years, and I never said a word. They offered me a deal, too—told me I could maybe just get probation—but I still kept my mouth shut. If that doesn't prove you can trust me, I don't know what does.”

  Harlan's eyes flashed in an expression of fury that was all too familiar. “All that proves is that you knew what I'd do to you if you didn't keep quiet.” He cleared his throat. “Now
I want that money,” he said. His voice was so quiet, it was almost a whisper.

  I didn't even blink. “I don't have it.”

  He took that one well. The words were barely out of my mouth when he'd slapped me across the face. Ogilvy, that watchdog of all watchdogs, cocked his head to one side, as if trying to decide what game Harlan and I were playing.

  “I want the money,” Harlan said again.

  My jaw ached. I rubbed it as I said, “Harlan, the police got it out of the back of my car, and I never saw it again.”

  Harlan shook his head. “You expect me to believe that?” With that gun pointed at me, it was hard to think straight.

  “You've never heard of this happening? Instead of turning in the evidence, the police keep it?”

  Harlan was staring at me now, his eyes narrowing. I hurried on, trying to convince him. “The police kept on asking me about it, too, but I sure didn't have it anymore. They needed to be asking one of their own, Harlan. You need to go down to the police station and find out who was here when they made the arrest.”

  It did my heart good to see Harlan look so furious. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You really think I should go down to the station and have a nice long talk with the cops about the day they busted you for the robbery I committed? That's what you think I should do?”

  I shrugged. “All I know is, one of the cops has the money. Not me.” Harlan stared at me, studying my face. After a long moment, he said, “Okay, Beth, have it your way.” He took a deep breath, and pointed the gun at Ogilvy. “If you don't tell me where you hid the money, I'm going to shoot your damn dog.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Harlan always did know how to home in on my weakest point. “Please, Harlan—you can't!”

  His only answer was a crooked grin as he raised the gun again.

  “You damn coward! Only a first-class chicken would hurt a harmless animal!” The words seemed to burst out of their own accord.

  Ogilvy doesn't have a huge vocabulary, but those words he knows, he knows well. Other than his name, and the word sit, most all the words he recognizes could be listed under the broad category of food. Words like biscuit, steak, and hot dog. Now, at the sound of the word chicken, Ogilvy's ears perked. Totally ignoring the gun pointed at him, he glanced first at me and then over at Harlan. I knew, of course, what he was doing. He was waiting for one of us to produce one of his favorite treats: boneless chicken.

  It was such an absurd moment, I felt almost lightheaded. Ogilvy was about to die, and yet, all the silly dog could think of was: Where's my snack?

  I turned to glare at Harlan. “You heard me,” I said, “you're a damn chicken!” I emphasized that last word.

  Ogilvy's eyes darted expectantly from my face over to Harlan's. He was beginning to quiver all over.

  Harlan's face was red with fury, but he turned the gun back on me. “I'm a chicken, am I? I'll show you who's a chicken,” he said, taking a step toward me, raising his hand.

  It was too much for Ogilvy. The second Harlan moved, Ogilvy jumped on him, trying to nuzzle his jacket pockets, looking for the snack that Harlan kept mentioning. If Harlan had expected it, he might've been able to brace himself, but as it was, Ogilvy nearly knocked him down. While Harlan was trying to regain his balance, I kicked the gun out of his hand, sending it skidding across the floor.

  Since Harlan was busy with Ogilvy, I had no trouble at all beating him to the gun. In fact, if Harlan had stayed where he was, I would not have had to shoot him, but after flinging Ogilvy away from him, he lunged toward me. The sound of that gun going off was deafening. And, yes, most satisfying.

  It was also most satisfying to phone the police and turn Harlan over to them. As it turned out, the bullet had only grazed his left leg. When the police were putting him on the stretcher, I went over to my Christmas tree and unwrapped one of the presents. Harlan actually moaned a little louder when he saw the neat stacks of twenties inside.

  He'd been right, of course. I did have the money. I'd stopped on the way to my apartment on the day of the robbery, and I'd hidden the money up in the top of my parents' unlocked garage, in a box of my old toys. My mom and dad had both been at work; they hadn't even known I'd been there. The money had been waiting for me all the time I was in prison.

  I'll admit it. Ever since I got out, I'd been thinking about whether I should keep all those lovely bags of currency. As a sort of payment for the years I'd had taken from me. Harlan showing up had made up my mind. I couldn't turn him over to the police without turning over the cash, too. Besides, if I'd kept all that cash, I'd have felt like I was the same as he was.

  I watched the police take him away—watched them get in their cars, carrying every single package that had been under my tree—and I had to smile. When they were all out of sight, I went into the kitchen and got Ogilvy a snack. It wasn't chicken, but it was a hot dog— another one of his favorites. “Good boy, Ogilvy, good boy,” I told him.

  After that, I walked out to my car and opened the trunk. Inside was a single brightly wrapped present.

  Like I said, if I'd kept all the cash, I would've felt as if I were just like Harlan. Now, though, I felt more like Santa.

  Toy Pincher

  H. Robert Perry

  H. ROBERT PERRY is a Cincinnati-based author who works as a marketing coordinator for a textbook company. His short stories have appeared in Mean Lizard, Tomorrow, Tense Moments, and The Stake. Along with his wife and infant son, Spenser, Mr. Perry is owned by a Doberman named Shai.

  I became involved with the toy thief because he made the news, the television news. Or, more precisely, because I could use the phone. I wouldn't have owned a television set except that my VCR and DVD player were hooked up to it. I didn't have cable, and I lived in a valley with no television reception, so the set was never on unless I was watching videos that would make Joe Bob Briggs cringe. My job involves hours of esoteric research, from strange pointless, plotless videos, to children's fads, to technology breakthroughs online and offline. I could be watching My Dinner With André, Barney's Big Adventure, or a DTS DVD on a fifty-thousand-dollar home theater system (provided by several local dealers and one large electronics corporation), trying to distinguish subtle aural differences that would keep a stereophile newsgroup arguing for years.

  But for all the movies I watched, for all the time I spent in front of a monitor writing and searching online, I never seemed to watch television. The irony lay in the fact that I was often called upon to mention Friends, or Seinfeld, or Star Trek in its various incarnations, or Xena in an article, but I never made it through an entire episode of any of them. Online served as my Cliff Notes. As for my phone skills: I had fingers.

  Last Christmas I received two things that changed my television viewing habits or at least those of my household: Hobbes and Nietzsche. Hobbes and Nietzsche are my two Dobermans, puppies rescued by a local pure breed shelter and then foisted off on me because I was too slow to say no. Upon reflection, Nielson households now seem more understandable.

  I had done an article on animal abuse and had come across some numbers that baffled me. I was reading reports on dogs that cost anywhere from seven hundred low-end to a couple of thousand, or more, toward the other end, and people that pushed lit cigarettes into their skin, beat them to the point of broken bones or internal hemorrhaging, or just didn't care about them. Over half of the dogs at the rescue had been malnourished. About ninety percent were untrained. Many of the owners were the same people who had a summer house they hadn't seen in ten years, owned a Jaguar they kept in their garage to show business acquaintances, or had trophy spouses and children to boast about but never cared for any of them.

  Some of the abusers were crack dealers who heard rottweilers or Dobermans or Staffordshire terriers or wolf crosses were tough. Some were blue-collar workers looking to make bucks on the side by selling socalled pure breeds. Abuse flowed across demographics.

  Part of my research was conducted at pure breed rescues
where the lucky victims wound up, and the closest one to me was a Doberman pinscher rescue. The woman who ran it, Donna Parks, gave me about two days of her time, showing me every aspect of her business, from court time to poop scooping. I mouthed the platitude: “Call me if you ever need anything.”

  Donna was a library of anecdotes. She had been a trainer and a breeder for nearly thirty-five years. The rescue was an afterthought, when some of the dogs she sold came back with burns and cuts on them. When she told me about the screening process her potential adopters had to go through, adopting a child sounded easy by comparison, and she still saw the occasional dog allowed into a bad home. Most of her contempt was heaped on “backyard breeders,” the fast buck crowd who'd mate anything and skimp on every step of the process.

  Months later she called me and a brief discussion ensued. The next day, my house had two new owners, and a new philosophy on what made a good living environment. Hobbes and Nietzsche did not like silence. They would whimper, cry, bark, lick themselves compulsively, have total anxiety attacks unless I was watching a movie. I discovered that and was on the phone to Warner cable within the same thirty-second time span, long enough only to check the soothing qualities of the radio. It had none. My guess is the asshole who owned them previously used to turn down the volume of the television before he beat them. I don't know. They can't talk, and the rescuers don't often get complete stories for the orphans they save.

  Other than the minor neurosis, Hobbes and Nietzsche were intelligent and conscientious. Housebreaking took no time (Donna gets most of the credit for that), and all of our schedules seemed to merge without conflict. I would usually work in my study for five or six hours a day, eating breakfast with them, catching a lunch snack by myself. Then we would spend an hour or two at a park. Rain kept us inside, so I'd watch movies or the occasional nature program to keep the boys happy, even though they had been watching television since about eight in the morning.