Muddy Mouth: A Dog Park Mystery

by Newsome, C. A.

  “I hope it happens before anyone else gets hurt. Carol could have been killed. I’m glad they sent Cal to interview her. He’s very reassuring.”

  “Older women love him,” Peter said. “It’s his super power.”

  “It’s the scrubbed freckles. They’re irresistible.”

  “Not to you, I hope.” He reached over and squeezed her thigh.

  “Well…”

  “If you’re immune to Humphrey Bogart…”

  “That’s different. He was mean.”

  “Maltese Falcon was early in his career. We’ll watch Casablanca next time, or one of his films with Lauren Bacall. You’ll see a different side to him.”

  “Oh?”

  “He and Lauren Bacall fell in love on the set of To Have and to Have Not, but he was married to a violent alcoholic. They carried on a hot affair for years. It shows on the screen.”

  “Really?” Lia drew the word out.

  “Hotter than Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.”

  “I never much cared for either of them.”

  “You’re a hard woman to please, Ms. Anderson.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Lia combed her fingers through the hair hanging over Peter’s collar and wished cars still came with bench seats. “You please me quite well, Detective Dourson.”

  Peter caught her hand and kissed her fingers. “Not yet, but we’ll see about that.

  2

  Saturday, June 18

  Lia took a sip of her take-out coffee before setting the cup on the roof of her car. She looked out over Mount Airy Dog Park, noting that for once, she did not enjoy the long shadows cast by the rising sun. She opened the rear door of her ancient Volvo. Her miniature schnauzer, Chewy, bounced to her side while Honey, a golden retriever, exited the car with dignity. I’m not ready for this. No more late nights with Peter until after the parade. She juggled their leashes with her coffee cup, then headed for the inclined service road leading to the dog park entrance.

  The Northside Fourth of July Parade was a community tradition and a tribute to the neighborhood’s reputation as diverse, funky and creative. Anyone could propose an entry. This year, Lia and her dog park friends were performing routines with their dogs. Lia was also building a float for Lucas Cross, AKA Leroy Eberschlag. The float featured a giant Browning Buckmark .22 pistol to celebrate Cross’ soon-to-be-released Savage Gun.

  “Best behavior, Little Man,” Lia admonished Chewy, who was currently dragging her up the road. “Please pretend you remember something from our last eight sessions.” Chewy continued to lunge on his leash like a hooked bass. Lia turned to Honey. “As for you, Missy, no laughing.”

  Honey looked back at her mistress with an expression that seemed to say, “Me? Laugh? How could you think such a thing?” She stopped and ducked her head to sniff at Heavens-knew-what, telegraphing hurt as she dug in her paws. Chewy continued his ascent.

  Lia stood, arms outstretched, unable to move in either direction. A furry boulder goosed Lia’s rear. She yelped.

  “Sophie, can’t you see her hands are full?” Jose Mitsch called to the mastiff now leaning against Lia’s side, seeking attention. “Lia will pet you later.” Jose was a tall man, with an erect carriage that made Lia think he had been in the military or had played football. But an ancient, home-made tattoo of his name on his knuckles and a Fu Manchu mustache hinted at biker origins. She’d never asked. She knew the maintenance supervisor was endlessly kind to animals and could build or repair anything.

  He overtook Lia, who was still caught in limbo between her dogs. “I’ll take Chewy off your hands for you.”

  “Thanks, Jose,” Lia said, handing over the leash. Sophie bent her massive head to sniff Chewy’s nose and the pair ambled ahead. Honey appeared at Lia’s side as if her snit had never happened. Instead, she looked up at Lia, as if to say, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Lia curbed a sigh. Nothing like Chewy getting attention to bring Honey front and center. She lengthened her stride to catch up with Jose. Ironically, Chewy had now stopped and was peeing on the park fence.

  “The float is coming along great. I can’t thank you enough for helping with the armature.”

  “No problemo. You know what they say about men and their toys.”

  What is that?”

  “The only thing better than a gun is a bigger gun.” he winked. “And that gun is big enough to take out passing satellites. I can now say I helped build the biggest replica of a Browning Buckmark ever made. We oughta enter it in the Guinness Book of World Records. It’ll be somethin’ rolling down Hamilton Avenue on the fourth. You know what would be really cool?”

  What’s that?”

  “We should fix it so it shoots a person out, and there’s a net rolling behind to catch him.”

  Lia rolled her eyes. “Sure Jose. You get with Jim and figure out how to make that happen. Are you volunteering to be the human projectile?”

  “Oh, man, that would be great. Is the float still in the parade, with Leroy missing?”

  “I assume so. He may be missing, but his books are still for sale. Sarah’s meeting me at the garage this afternoon. I’ll find out more when I see her.”

  “Building a float, training Chewy to do dance routines, you’re gonna be all over this parade.”

  They rounded a curve that brought them up to a brick and concrete picnic shelter with attached restrooms. The shelter split the dog park into two separate enclosures that together, ran the length of the six acre ridge comprising the former Highpoint picnic area. The pair of remaining picnic tables had been shoved out of the way to make room for an ad hoc training ring. A half-dozen park regulars stood chatting while their dogs mingled, tangling leads.

  Chewy surged sideways, shooting down the path beside the smaller enclosure.

  “What the hell happened?” Jose asked, Chewy’s leash dangling from his hand.

  “Clasp failure,” Lia announced, pressing Honey’s leash into Jose’s hand in exchange for Chewy’s as she dashed after the escaping dog.

  Lia cursed mentally. Why can’t he be like Viola? Peter’s dog, Viola, liked to run free, but she always stayed close to other dogs and wouldn’t run off on her own. It was easy to catch her. Chewy liked to follow his nose. He rarely paid attention to where he was going, so you couldn’t count on him to find his way back. Chances were good he’d patrol the outside of the fence. If she cut him off from the inside of the park, his recapture might be quick. Thank God she’d brought treats for today’s training.

  Lia navigated the entry corral, then paused, scanning the fence line. Sure enough, Chewy had turned at the far end of the enclosure and was trotting along the back side. Lia crossed the park, aiming for a spot that would be well ahead of Chewy when he made the second turn. The goal was for Chewy to come to her on his ramble. If she ran up to him, it would start a game of chase. Who knew where that would end?

  By the time Chewy met up with Lia, he’d forgotten he was an escapee and was perfectly content to follow her back around to the gate as long as she fed the occasional treat through the fence. She checked her exasperation. Chewy wouldn’t understand it, and the only impact it would have on him would be negative.

  Renee Solomon, Lia’s art patron and trainer of the Mount Airy Dog Stars by universal agreement, waited with Jose at the beginning of the path. She was a petite brunette who wore her chin-length hair, which was practically a mandate in Cincinnati, in non-mandated, spiraling curls. Rigorous exercise and high-dollar grooming kept her looking much younger than her forty-odd years. Her exceptionally well-kept appearance was exceeded only by that of her gorgeous champion collie, Dakini. Only Renee’s middle-class roots and cheerful good nature kept everyone from being demoralized by their combined perfection.

  “What happened?” Renee asked.

  “Either the clasp failed, or he’s channeling Houdini. This is the third time in a month.”

  Renee examined Chewy’s leash. “You’ve got a lobster-claw clasp. It should not
happen.”

  “And yet it does.”

  “You might want to try a slip lead like Dakini’s.” Renee leaned over and parted Dakini’s abundant mane to reveal the leash, which was rolled leather with a loop created by feeding the leash through a brass ring stitched into the end. “It’s all one piece, so Chewy wouldn’t be able to get out of it, not unless you forget to adjust the leather slide that keeps the loop from opening up. All show dogs use them. I suggest a four foot lead, at least to start with. If you get one, I’ll show you how to use it properly.”

  Dollar signs tugged on Lia’s conscience as she considered the cost of a leather lead. “This looks like a choke collar. I thought choke collars were bad.”

  “It’s dangerous to leave a choke collar on a dog while it’s unsupervised, or when it’s playing with other dogs. And you should never use a slip lead or a choke collar on a dog that’s less than 18 months old because their neck bones are still forming. Slip leads allow you to give an immediate, gentle correction to a dog. But your problem is bigger than the leash. I suspect you need to spend more time with Chewy on fundamental obedience, if you had to lure him back with treats.”

  Lia sighed. “I was working two jobs and starting my own business when Chewy showed up. I taught him the basics, but he hasn’t had as much training as Honey did. I hoped to use the parade as an opportunity to fix that. He’s really good. He just gets distracted.”

  Renee frowned. “Be sure to fill your left pocket with treats before the parade. It will help keep him focused on you.”

  “Why the left?”

  “It’s closest to his nose. Try it out on your next practice session. You may need to carry a treat in your left hand, if it isn’t enough. Be sure to exercise him before training sessions.” She looked at her watch. “We’d better get started.”

  They rejoined the group in the pavilion. Lia’s best friend, Bailey, leaned over a boom box. The lanky woman with her swing of red hair was tailed by an equally lanky bloodhound named Kita.

  “Didn’t boom boxes go out with big hair?” Lia asked while Honey and Kita sniffed noses. “What do we need those for?”

  Bailey shrugged “Renee suggested it. We’ll have insane amounts of noise at the parade, and it’s time to get the dogs used to it. It's not enough to have the dogs know the routine, they need to be able to do it with drums and sirens, plus the occasional firecracker. I have another boom box that we can put on the outside wall.”

  “But boom boxes?”

  Bailey shrugged. “They cost next to nothing at Saint Vincent de Paul, and I have tons of old cassettes. I even have some John Philip Sousa marches from my brother’s high school band days.”

  “If that doesn’t do it, nothing will.”

  “I also pulled the soundtrack off a YouTube video of the parade from a couple years ago. It includes African American drum core music and fire truck sirens.”

  “Even better,” Renee said, joining them.

  “They came with remotes,” Bailey said, handing the black, plastic oblongs to Renee. “So you can adjust the volume while we’re working.”

  “The dogs will either be ready for a Zen monastery or the booby hatch when we’re done with them.” Renee turned to the group. “Okay everyone, take your positions.”

  Lia put Honey into a down-stay by the shelter wall and took her place next to Jose and Sophie, with Chewy at her left. They and their dogs formed one side of a large square. On her right, Jim McDonald and his lady-friend Bonnie made up a side with Fleece and Chester. Renee and Terry made up the third side with Dakini and Jackson, while Bailey and Terry’s roommate, Steve, completed the square with their dogs, Kita and Penny.

  Renee turned on one boom box at low volume, then started the group with some basic sit-stays, heeling, and returns. When everyone was warmed up, she took them through a weaving routine, with the women circling clockwise and the men headed in the other direction. The formation morphed through several variations until everyone met in the center and put their dogs into a down-stay, walked to the end of their leads, then signaled the dogs to heel. The dogs approached their owners on the right, circled behind them, then sat at their left side.

  “Great job!” Renee said. “Okay, I’d like to try a new routine with some square dance moves. Let’s get back to our original positions.”

  Jackson and Chester got their leashes hung up during a do-si-do. The two dogs took this opportunity to run around Terry and Bonnie in circles for a may-pole effect. Renee left Dakini with a snappy “stay” hand signal to untangle the mess while everyone else fell into hysterical laughter.

  Order restored, Renee tried an allemande, which had the dogs running into each other in the center of the formation. She widened the square and tried again, with better results. After a few more foul ups, Renee returned the group to walking their dogs at heel in an evenly spaced square around the pavilion. She had steadily raised the volume of the boom boxes during the course of their practice. Now a fire truck siren blasted the pavilion. All the dogs stopped, howling in unison. Renee turned off the music and the howls died away, silence ringing in Lia’s ears.

  “I’ll have to make sure we’re nowhere near the trucks when we’re marching,” she said. “I think it’s time to call it quits for today. Anyone have any thoughts about what we have so far?”

  “I think we need to rearrange the dogs,” Bonnie said. “Every time we start to heel, Chester tries to run up Fleece’s tail and sniff her privates. I don't think that's proper in front of children. “

  “He does that to her all the time at home,” Jim said. “Why are you saying something now?”

  “I didn’t think he’d do it in public,” Bonnie said.

  “He’s a dog. He doesn’t care who’s watching,” Jim said.

  “Chester is a pervert. Don’t you know that he likes to sniff tail?” Terry asked.

  “I’ve never been with him around so many dogs at one time,” Bonnie said.

  “You’d know it if you came with me in the mornings,” Jim grumbled.

  “We’re talking about a parade,” Bonnie said. “I don’t think children should see that.”

  “They might as well get used to it. It’s normal dog behavior and they're going to see it for the rest of their lives,” said Jim.

  “Bonnie,” Renee interrupted, “Since we change directions during the routine, Chester is going to be behind Fleece at some point, unless you’d like to partner with someone else?”

  “No, I don’t want that,” Bonnie said.

  “The best thing to do is to spend more time heeling with Chester at home, so that he gets used to staying beside you. Have you been practicing?”

  Bonnie’s eyes slid away.

  “Ten minutes a day will do wonders. Even five will help. Maybe you and Jim can train together. Dogs learn from each other.”

  “Do you think we have too many flourishes?” Lia asked, changing the subject. “I’m worried the dogs are going to get confused and mess up during the parade.”

  “This is Northside,” Steve said. “Consider it comic relief.”

  “If we know the routines and signal our dogs properly, everything will be fine,” Renee said. “The dogs are not learning the routines as much as they are learning to follow you. Consistency is key. Also, as they get used to working with distractions, their focus will improve and the behaviors we saw today are going to go away. Keep training them to heel when we aren’t practicing. Be sure to include u-turns and circles going in both directions. Don’t forget music, as loud as you can.”

  “I think we need costumes for the dogs,” Bailey said. “Something cute, don’t you think?”

  “I got a bunch of bungee cords and zip ties down at the shop,” Jose said. “Maybe we can do something with them.”

  “Bungee cords and zip ties? Yeah that will work,” Steve cracked. “We can do ’50 shades of Rover’ for our theme.”

  “I know an easy way to make inexpensive tutus,” Lia said. “And the same technique can be used to ma
ke ruffs. What do you think? Tutus for the girls and ruffs for the boys?”

  “As long as we’re talking about dogs, not handlers,” said Terry.

  “I don’t know,” said Steve. “I think we should include handlers. Only it should be tutus for the guys and ruffs for the girls.”

  “I ain’t wearing a tutu,” Jose said.

  “But you’d look adorable,” Bailey said, batting her eyes and waving an elegant hand.

  “Can I wear my gun?” Terry asked.

  “No,” the others chorused.

  “On that note, I’m heading into the park,” Lia said.

  Honey chased Kita across the park while Chewy began his usual patrol of the perimeter, this time from the inside. Lia and Bailey sat atop their favorite picnic table, under a hackberry tree.

  “I still don’t understand why you’re using Chewy in the parade instead of Honey. Honey could do this blindfolded,” Bailey said.

  Lia sighed. “I was too busy for advanced classes when I got him. He needs the work.”

  “So you don’t think his behavior has anything to do with him being a furry flibbertigibbet?”

  “What on Earth is that?”

  “I think it came from some Disney movie. It means he’s flighty.”

  “Ouch.”

  “He’s a funny little guy, but you have to admit, he’s no Einstein. Not in the obedience arena.”

  Lia sighed. “Rub it in. He’s ADHD. I’ll need to carry liver treats to keep him focused.”

  “Perfectly legitimate. If they do it at dog shows, you can do it in the parade. Though, in his case, you may want to go for a pocket full of bacon.”

  Chewy trotted over and jumped up, bracing his forepaws on the table bench. He grinned. His beard was clotted with mud.

  “Chewy! Ugh! You’ve been eating dirt again.” Lia jumped off the table and led him over to the pump. “Come along, Mister Muddy Mouth. You aren’t dragging dirt into the house.”