From Russia With Fur

by Rene Fomby

  Then it happened. One cat on the floor right below us sprung free from its hiding place, but just as it was about to leap to freedom, a truly enormous specimen of Russian Wolfhound rose up in front of its hidey-hole, its mouth already opened wide and dripping with saliva in anticipation of the coming snack. With the way forward no longer an option, the cat miraculously spun to its left in mid-air, landing somehow on the down escalator, just five steps up from the bottom.

  The Wolfies were on him in a heartbeat, and for several long seconds the cat and his now completely insane canine attackers ran in place with each other on the rapidly descending steps, canine jowls almost to feline tail, with no one animal seeming to make any headway.

  But slowly the dogs began to gain on the cat, and I had to turn my head away rather than watch what was coming to that brave feline, a bloody ending nobody deserved.

  And then out of nowhere I hear a familiar voice ring out, and I turn my eyes toward the source of the sound just in time to see Ike standing at the top of the escalator, holding a large roll of red-and-gold ribbon in his paws! Without delay he tosses the roll down the escalator, the ribbon unreeling easily as it bounced quickly down the descending steps toward the bottom. The frightened kitty, sensing his last possible chance to escape his impending doom, immediately sank his claws into the fabric of the ribbon just as soon as it reached him, while Ike grabbed the other end of the ribbon in his teeth and dashed for the back of the store, hauling his friend up the escalator stairs as if the cat had suddenly sprouted wings!

  The dogs, seeing their prey snatched miraculously from their mouths at the very last moment, stopped dead in their tracks with shock. Which was a big mistake, because the moving stairway was still moving. Like a growling and revengeful animal, the escalator scooped them up and tossed them furiously to the bottom of the stairs in a giant furry heap. One of the less fortunate Wolfies somehow managed to get the hair of his tail stuck in the mechanism at the bottom, and not knowing how to shut the escalator down, and in a valiant attempt to save him, his buddies grabbed the dog roughly by his collar and pulled, tearing all the fur off the top side of his tail in the process as he howled to the ceiling above in heartrending pain. And, no doubt, heartrending shame.

  That episode seemed to have left everyone— humans and animals alike—standing around the store with their mouths hanging slack, breathless and in total shock. And it was at that very moment the cops finally arrived, sealing off all of the exits to the building and pouring in like an invading army hitting a beachhead.

  All the cats have now somehow evaporated into thin air, including Vladimir Kitin, but the dogs are all too stunned to put up much of a fight. Soon the cops had them all chained together by their collars and led them docilly outside into a long line of animal control paddy wagons, like the one that took my buddy Killer away, a million years ago. Boss Dawg was the last to go down and was putting up a valiant fight, swinging his claws and snapping his jaws at any copper who dared to come close. But then special agents from the animal control SWAT team arrived on the scene, and it wasn’t long before they swatted him with over a dozen nets, keeping him pinned down long enough to hit him with a tranquilizer dart and snap an extra-heavy-duty chain around his gargantuan neck. The Boss didn’t look quite so bossy anymore.

  Macy’s, 7:43 p.m.

  W

  ith the Dobermans and Wolfies now all under arrest, the mall had finally started to get back to normal. But the cops were still racing around, taking pictures and checking everywhere for any remaining strays, so for the moment Tommy and I were stuck in our hiding place under the rack of women’s dresses, waiting it out.

  One copper in particular seems to be in charge of the whole operation. He’s busy scribbling carefully into a notebook when another, younger cop grabs his attention.

  “Hey, Muller, check this puppy out! He’s a biggie!”

  The cop named Muller strolls over to where three officers are holding down Boss Dawg, who’s trapped securely in their three oversized nets, a thick chain clipped onto his black leather collar. Muller’s eyes widen like saucers when he takes in the size of the dog.

  “Whoa! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mutt quite that big! You sure he’s all Doberman? And not a cross with something else? Like an elephant?”

  “Good one, boss!” the first cop chuckles. “But I think he’s one hundred percent dog, despite his size. And by the looks of things, the way all the other dogs seem to defer to him, he’s clearly the alpha male, here. Head of the entire pack, most likely. Or at least the Dobermans.”

  Muller slaps a hand on the other cop’s shoulder. “Well, good job getting this fella in the nets. He’s a handful, for sure. And by the way, whatever you do, don’t let him escape. I can’t imagine having a brute like that running free down the Miracle Mile. We might have to shut down the entire street if that ever happened.”

  “Don’t worry, boss, we got ‘im locked down solid. And I called the animal control guys to bring over another knockout dart to conk him out before we ever try to move him. As big as he is, it’ll be hard enough for us to get him up into the back of the truck, even dead asleep.”

  “Good thinking, officer.” Muller leans over to check the cop’s name, then scribbles it into his notebook. “I’ll make sure you get a prominent mention in my report. Keep up the good work!”

  “Thanks, sir!” The copper snaps off a quick salute as Muller walks slowly away from us toward the front entrance to the store, muttering something to himself about canine collusion, all the while scratching feverishly into his notebook with a thick yellow pencil.

  Macy’s, 8:38 p.m.

  W

  ith the store finally starting to close up for the day, the coppers took the hint from the store’s manager—I think her actual word to them was “Leave!”—and gathered up their equipment and headed back to the stationhouse. That gave us our very first opportunity to climb out from under the dress rack and head home ourselves.

  All in all, the night had been a huge success. All of the main honchos from the Crimson Canines were now safely under lock and key, as were what I assume were most of the invading Russian Wolfhounds. With any luck, tomorrow’s presidential elections were now safe and secure, as well. The only missing piece in all of this was Vladimir Kitin, the Russian leader. He had somehow managed to slip away from the police dragnet unnoticed and unscathed. And I suppose he was now well on his way back to Russia, with his scraggly little half-hairless tail tucked tight between his legs.

  Tommy isn’t saying much—I think he’s a little disappointed that we didn’t catch Kitin, as well. We slowly make our way down to the exits, staying close to the shadows to escape notice from all the humans who are now shuffling about tidying up the racks and exhibits that are lying scattered in the aisles throughout the store. I pass by the mannequin head on the first floor and can’t help but giggle when I remember it rolling slowly across the floor and onto the escalator. Looking back, other than that one scary moment with the cat trapped on the escalator, it had been a pretty funny evening. Especially seeing Boss Dawg perp-walked out the front doors and into the paddy wagon. Very funny indeed!

  Nobody had locked the front doors down yet, so we’re easily able to slip through into the street unmolested, and we turn to head back to Tony’s office for a final debrief on tonight’s successful operation.

  That’s when we see him. Vladimir Kitin, staring out at us from the shadows across the street, standing in the framed, gilded entry of a local bank.

  Tommy didn’t see him at first, not until I nudged him and pointed across the street. And the Russian didn’t do anything in response, just stood there staring back at us, like he was somehow daring us to come and get him. Or maybe trying to threaten us in some weird, foreign way.

  Now that I have a good look at him, I can tell you I’m far from impressed. I’d expected someone much larger, more commanding, someone like Tommy or Fat Tony. But this guy is a puny little thing—and w
ell named, because if anything, he looked like nothing more than a tiny, scared little kitten.

  And his fur! Pretty much his entire chest is hairless, and the fur that he did have here and there is all matted and filthy, like he couldn’t give a whiff about his appearance. I mean, even humans know enough to throw on a hat when their hair falls out on top. Would it have killed Kitin to put on a shirt, for goodness sake?

  We stand there for several minutes, glaring at each other from our respective sidewalks, when without any warning Kitin tosses us a smirking little salute and then just—dematerializes, just like that! One moment he’s there, and the next moment he’s not. I can feel Tommy jump ever so slightly right beside me, and realize that I’ve done the same. It’s like we had just seen a ghost. But not just any ghost. A ghost that’s likely to haunt us for a very long time.

  Home, 6:15 a.m.

  O

  nce again my food bowl was waiting patiently for me in the kitchen when I finally struggled home late last night. I could really get used to this whole electronic doggie door thing. It makes coming and going whenever I want to extremely convenient.

  And my humans don’t seem to mind one bit. They were already in bed and asleep when I arrived, and the house was dark, so I decided to hit the old doggie bed myself. From the smell of things, Helen had moved to the front bedroom for the night, something she almost never does (unless Howard is snoring too loudly, which is almost as disturbing as Bella’s barking). I tried her door, but it was shut tight, so I headed back to the master bedroom for the evening.

  I must have been extra tired from all of the craziness of the past two days, because I guess I slept in a little. When I finally woke up, the sun was starting to stream into the room—or it may have been the streetlight from right outside our window—and I could hear Helen downstairs, crashing around in the kitchen. I suppose she was making coffee, which she does nearly every morning, but she’s never been this noisy before when she does it. Curious.

  I’m still trying to pry my eyes open when I notice that my master Howard is lurking around in a far corner of the bedroom, whispering into his phone. With everything I’ve learned about the spy business over the past two days, I decide to fake being asleep so I can listen in on whatever it is he’s apparently trying to keep hidden from Helen.

  “Hey, Phil, buddy. Glad I caught you. You got a minute to talk?”

  Phil is our neighbor from next door. Bella’s master. I can hear him saying something on the phone, but I can’t really make it out. Like I said before, humans have horrible language skills, and it really helps when I can watch their lips move. But I guess that’s not an option, here, so I’ll have to make out the best I can, trying to fill in the conversation based upon what Howard is saying.

  “Yeah, yeah, thanks. I’ve been working on this promotion for a long time now. Not that Helen cares. All she ever thinks about is that damned dog of hers. Which, by the way, is what I called you about. I understand you’re trying to find a new home to dump that little runt of a dog you’ve got, before the baby gets here—”

  Mumbling from Phil—

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that—I’m sorry, it came out wrong—what I meant was, as you know, with us moving to London in less than a month, I don’t know how we’re going to manage the whole thing with our dog. I mean, it’s tough enough managing the little beast here, where we have a big house and a nice yard, but in London, we’ll be living on a boat on the Thames River, and—”

  More mumbling—

  “Right. Exactly. No place for a dog, for sure. And to make it worse, he’s really become quite the bother lately. You heard him howling the other night. No way you couldn’t, right? Can’t have that, can’t have it at all, not on a small boat with neighbors alongside we barely even know. And what’s worse, he appears to be sneaking out of the yard again.”

  Mumbling—

  “Uh-huh, just like last year, when he and your dog got out and had us all worried sick. Well, had Helen worried sick. The way she carries on— But, anyway, I was wondering if you had a lead on a good place to take our dog, some bleeding-heart organization that will place him with a new home, with very few questions asked—”

  Extensive mumbling. I think I hear Bella’s name once or twice.

  “Okay, that makes sense. Can’t take whatever kind of dog he is to a Corgi rescue. So I guess I’m left with no other option but to hand him over to the pound—”

  Mumbling, and it sounds like Phil is excited about something.

  “No, I hear you, Phil. But I just gotta think about what’s best for everyone around. Helen—she’s in no shape to make these kinds of decisions. Whatever organ she uses to think with, it’s certainly not her head, you know what I mean?”

  More excited mumbling.

  “Hey, it was just a joke, okay? I was just trying to be funny. But I—I guess it didn’t come out right. Good thing I’ve got the day job, right? I’d never make it as a comedian.”

  Quieter mumbling.

  “Okay, forget I ever said anything about any of this. I just thought you might have some advice for me, is all. But it sounds like I have a little more homework to do—”

  Firm sounding mumbling.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t do anything rash unless Helen’s on board with it. It needs to be a joint decision, for sure. Otherwise, I’d never hear the end of it, right?”

  Excited mumbling again.

  “A joke!” Howard stops and pulls the phone away from his ear for a second, staring at it with a deep scowl showing on his face. Or what I think is a scowl—it’s always so hard to tell with humans. Finally, he puts the phone back to his ear. “Look, buddy, I understand the ladies have arranged for you two to come to dinner over at our place tonight. Let’s—let’s forget this conversation ever happened, okay? We’ll have a few drinks together tonight and put all of this dog nonsense behind us, right? And, hey—good advice about talking it all over with Helen. I think you’re spot on with all that.”

  Quieter mumbling.

  “Right. Right. Okay, see you two tonight, then.”

  Howard sets the phone down on the dresser, then shuffles over to the window and stares outside for a few minutes. Then he glances down at me. I have one eye just barely cracked, but in the dark I know he can’t possibly tell that I’m awake and listening. Finally he seems to have made up his mind about something and walks angrily out of the room, grabbing his phone off the dresser at the very last second as he stalks out the bedroom door.

  And I know immediately in my gut that Bella and I need to talk. And soon.

  Back Yard, 7:05 a.m.

  I

  paused only long enough to finish off my breakfast before rushing out back to unload everything I’d just heard about may master’s evil schemes to Bella. If anyone could come up with a plan to somehow get us out of this predicament, it would be her. And with a head as big as hers, that only makes sense.

  Bella wasn’t outside yet when I made it to the fence, but a few short arfs was all it took to bring her running.

  “What do you mean, it’s a crisis?” she asks as she pulls up almost muzzle-to-muzzle with me.

  I quickly catch her up on everything I’d heard a little earlier. “So it looks like you and I are both being sold on the open market! And from the sound of my master’s voice, I might even wind up in some restaurant down in Chinatown!”

  “Oh, don’t talk like that,” Bella cautions me, her ears already starting to do that funny little dance of theirs that happens every time she’s trying to sort through a problem. And if ever there was a problem to sort through, this one is epic!

  I sit patiently, like I do when I’m waiting for a treat, my butt only wiggling just a tiny bit. Okay, a lot, actually, but I’m really nervous, here. Well above my head, up in the oak tree, I can see Sammy sitting quietly by himself on one of the lower branches, keeping a sharp eye on us. But thankfully he seems to understand this is not the time for playing the old
bark-at-the-fence bit. If that’s even a thing between us anymore.

  Finally, Bella seems to have come to some kind of conclusion. “Okay, what you heard fits in pretty much with everything that’s been happening at my house lately. My mistress Susan has been pressing hard to dump me off to the slavers sooner rather than later, while my master has been arguing that they should just wait until their new human puppy gets here and see how it all works out. But I think she’s starting to win that argument. From my experience, she almost always wins any arguments she has with my master. She’s pretty dogged that way, if you’ll excuse my language. Doesn’t budge an inch until she gets her way. So that means you and I have very little time left to figure out a Plan B.”

  “And remember,” I add, in full fidget mode by now. “The four of them are evidently getting together for a din-din party tonight. So there’s a good chance that might just be a good excuse for finalizing whatever it is they’ve got in mind. We could be heading off to the slavers as soon as tomorrow morning!”

  Bella looks even more worried, if that’s even possible for a Corgi. They’ve pretty much patented that whole worried look thing. “Hmm. I think you may be right about that, Moose. Which leaves us very little time to come up with an alternative solution.” She stares over my shoulder for a long moment in the direction of downtown Chicago. “Okay, you’re planning on getting together with Fat Tony later today, right?”