Bobby D. Lux - Dog Duty (16 page)

If we can hear that whistle that people can’t, something out there could’ve heard Nipper. Who knows, they might have been able to do something about it if they saw fit. All Nipper could do was put it out there and see if anyone was listening to him.

I figured out what was getting to Nipper. He’d been a dog park dog his entire life. Even when he was free at the park, there were still fences around him. They were just farther away from the fences he was used to. There was comfort in that. He knew exactly what his world was and where his world ended. If you got comfortable within those parameters, then all of a sudden, when there were no more fences, it made sense Nipper felt that way. I was scared too.

“You’re one of those ‘the bowl is always half-empty’ kind of dogs, aren’t you?” Ernie said. “We gotta change that.”

Once the sun had sufficiently set low enough, the three of us split from the park. The only people who saw us leave were a few joggers who couldn’t be bothered by a few dogs sneaking alongside the running path. I led the way out of the park and through the side streets of Grand City.

“How mad do you thi
nk he’ll be at her?” Ernie said, lagging behind, weighed down by his sugar consumption at the park. It seemed like a good idea at the time, right Ernie?

“Very,” Nipper said.

“She’s gonna catch the blame for our escape. I don’t feel bad. I don’t think I do. It’s not like they ever expressly told us that we couldn’t jump over the fence. Should we feel bad?”

“I don’t,” I said.

“Missy’s probably going to get some heat,” Ernie said. “I’m proud of her. Good for her though. That’s torture, what they do to her. Hey, I got an idea. I think when we go home, I’m going to fake a limp for a few days. I bet they don’t yell at us if they think we got hurt. What do you think?”

“I think I wish I could be inside your brain, Ernie,” Nipper said. “I’d always be amused. I don’t know where you get this stuff.”

“I don’t know either,” Ernie said. “I just start talking. Ugh, my stomach. But yeah, he’s going to yell at her.”

“There was nothing she could h
ave done to stop us,” I said, crouching behind a mailbox. “We’re here, boys.”

South Side, Grand City. Every big city has their version of “South Side.” Whether it’s called Downtown, The West End, or Northern Heights, it’s all the same. Other times, the area has a nickname based on whoever lives there
, like Chihuahua-ville, Daschund-place, or Shih-Tzu Town. Point is, it’s where you found the dirt bags.

In Grand City, it’s South Side. It’s the part of town not on the same vitamin regiment that the suburban tracks were on. It’s where the city planner hid a
trash dump the size of a high school in the middle of a maze of low rent apartments and parks within a square mile city block. From sun up until a few hours after sun down, swarms of dumpsters converged on South Side with fresh (figuratively speaking) deliveries for the dump. The outlining streets have your typical strip mall fare of comic book shops, video stores with four-for-a-dollar deals, a boxing gym, a few rub and tug parlors, and an upstart church that took over a vacant trio of stores that included a sandwich joint, an outdoor garden supply shop, and a family-owned computer fixit place.    

Other than being a majority of dirt bags, t
he people weren’t any different in South Side. The back seat of a squad car didn’t care if you’re from South Side, Industry Park, the suburbs, or Grand City Harbor. The calls from South Side were the same as anywhere else in town: domestic squabbles, auto thefts, assaults, and burglaries.

South Side was never a part of anyone’s regular patrol. There was a great Thai food place a block away from the unofficial South Side border, the intersection of Warrington and Parker. That was about as close as we’d get unless there was a call for service. Even a block away at Rudy’s Thai Palace, the smell from that dump curled your nose with even a slight breeze from the west.

“Finally,” Ernie said. “I don’t know what happened to me. Sheesh. Why does it hurt more when you stop?”

“See that house,” I said. “That’s where we’re going.”

The house was across the street from us and still halfway down the block. It was surrounded an empty lot on either side and a drainage ditch adjacent to the backyard. A boarded up two-story home right out of one of those TV shows where the little boy gets lost and the dog runs back to get help. Give me a break. And I’m supposed to believe that a Collie does this? A Collie? I haven’t known a Collie yet who would take two steps out of their way for anyone else, canine or otherwise. Have you? Exactly.

“Are we in South Side?” Ernie said. “Smells like South Side.”

“That’s the garbage dump,” I said.

“Is that what that is? I always wondered. I haven’t been here in forever.”

“What’s South Side?” Nipper said.

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Ernie said.

An iron rod fence, a few inches higher than me, stretched around the house’s perimeter. The front gate was padlocked shut. The second story of the home was overcrowded by a large oak tree in the front yard that caked most of the home in an unnatural shadow that magnified the night’s darkness. The moon shined off the top of the tree, but none of that light made it to the house. The place looked empty, which was the point, of course. The first step to any successful hideout, and make no mistake, this place was a hideout, is that it couldn’t look like anyone was there.

“This is where the investigation begins,” I said.

“Investigation?” Nipper said. “I thought we were going to the docks and I don’t see any ships around here.”

“We need to investigate first,” I said. “
We need to gather some intel. Now look, they probably have squirrels up in the tree watching out, but they can’t see this far, so just stay low next to the cars on this side of the street. Let’s go slow.”

“Squirrels?” Nipper said.

“Yes,” I said. “Hopefully they haven’t seen us.”

“How do you know?” Ernie said.

“Take a listen. What do you hear from that tree?”

“Nothing,” Ernie said, as h
e lurched forward, his head parallel to the chewed up asphalt. “It’s quiet.”

“Wouldn’t you expect to hear birds, bugs, cats, and rabbits?”

Ernie sniffed, keeping his head still, and then he snapped back to a wide-eyed realization. “I don’t smell a thing on that tree.”

“Exactly. W
hat does that tell you?”

“There’s no reason why that tree shouldn’t be covered with freeloaders,” Ernie said.

“Which tells you what?” I said.

“That someone wants it empty… Ah, I get it. You know what though, I could probably leave a pretty good claim on that tree. There’s a spot right over there that’s begging to be marked.”

“Why are they watching an empty house?” Nipper said.

“They’re not watching the house. It’s the basement they’re guard-”

I stopped and took an embarrassing gasp of breath.

“What?” Ernie said. “Your leg?”

I shushed them both as two pit bulls with skulls the size of small televisions and the requisite neck muscles required to swivel those heads rounded the corner from Downston Ave. They walked down the middle of the street in our direction with their tongues out and their matching rusted chain collars scratching the air. One stopped with his nose up in the air and bewilderment hanging from his gaunt mouth.

“You smell that, Knox?” he said.

The other one, the wider of the two, stopped and scratched himself. They were a few yards away from us on the other side of the cars.

“What am I supposed to smell?” Knox said.

“
That
. You smell it?”

“I don’t know, Gash. Just tell me what it is.”

“It’s a cop,” Gash said. “The way his fur secretes that odor of
I’m put here for the sole sake of giving you a rough time
. I’d know that-”

“Oh, there it is,” Knox said. “You’re right. Unmistakable.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

“Were we followed?”

“I think I’d know if we were followed,” Gash said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Well, yeah. Gimmie a break.”

“So, was a cop following us?

“I don’t know. Stop pressuring me.”

Ernie sat totally still. Nipper looked at me with eyes screaming at me to fix this. I quietly pried open the flap above the rear wheel that covered the gas tank with my paw. I bit the end of the gas cap and twisted it off as both pit bulls were directly on the other side of the car. As soon as the gas cap was off they both sniffed in rapid succession.

“That’s gasoline,” Knox said. “You idiot.”

“There was a cop too,” Gash said. “You smelled it, right?”

“I only smelled it because you said it was there. Not my fault you have the nose of a Chow.”

“Not cool,” Gash said.

Their footsteps moved away from the car and down the street towards the abandoned house. Nipper took his first exhale in two minutes and Ernie… Ernie was gone.

“Knox? Gash?” I heard Ernie say.

“What’s he doing?” Nipper mumbled.

“Who’s that?” Knox said. They both turned back to face him.

“It’s me,” Ernie said.

“It’s me, who?” Gash said.

“C’mon guys. Me. Ernie. From back in the day.”

“I don’t know no Ernie,” Gash said, puffing his chest out.

“Get ready,” I told Nipper.

“For what?” he said, turning
what
into a three syllable word.

“Sure you
do,” Ernie said, taking a few steps closer to the pit bulls. “Ernest Tubbs. Ernest T, Muscle Machine-”

“He’s big, bad-” Knox said, like he was singing an ad jingle.

“-bad, dirty, and mean!” Gash said, joining in an extremely off-tune chorus with Knox.

“Yeah,” Ernie said
, in relief.

“Of course we remember you,” Knox said. “We thought you were a goner. Didn’t we, Gash?”

They surrounded Ernie and the three spent a moment inhaling the scents of reminiscence with each other. When these two dogs stood next to cars in the dark, they didn’t look so big, but under a street light next to Ernie, they looked like they might have been part horse.

“What happened to you, Ernie? Everyone misses ya,” Gash said.

“I got locked up. The pound.” Both pits cringed in agony. “Did a six-month stretch.” The cringing evolved into low groans as Knox and Gash contorted their faces into mush pots. “Then, I finally got paroled, but ended up in the suburbs.”

“Oh, that’s even worse!” Gash said.

“The suburbs? Just gimmie the needle now, you know what I’m saying?”

“It’s not
that
bad,” Ernie said.

“Not that bad? Not that bad! Listen to this guy, Knox. Does he sound like the same Ernie we knew?”

“No way,” Knox said. “They brainwashed you out there.”

“No, really, it’s not too bad.” Ernie said.

“Oh yeah?” Gash said, looking down at Ernie. “Tell us then, if it’s so bad, whatcha doing out here?”

“I don’t know. Looking for one last adventure, I guess. Had that itch again.”

“Well, look no further,” Knox said. “Come with us. We can get the itch scratched again. No doubt.”

“Where are we going?” Ernie said.

“The house,” Gash said. “It’s where it’s at.”

“But it’s empty,” Ernie said.

“Ernie,” Gash said, “you have been away far too long. Welcome back, Mr. Tubbs. Our dog, Ernie T., is back. Time to celebrate.”

They flanked Ernie and led him towards the house. I couldn’t tell if they sounded like old friends Ernie hadn’t seen in years who wanted to catch up or if they pegged him for a mark. I hoped Ernie could tell.

“We have to do something,” Nipper said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Calm down.”

“Are you crazy? He’s with them. Who knows what they’re going to do to him. They’re pit bulls.”

“He seems to know them,” I said. 

“What are we going to do, Fritz?”

We watched Ernie follow Knox and Gash beyond the padlocked gate to an area of the fence where the bars were broken. Ernie hopped through while Knox had to help shove Gash and his muffler sized legs through the opening. I lost sight of them as they went around the front of the house. One of them threw a hushed bark up towards the tree. They disappeared around the back of the house and I lost their scent.

“We’re going after them,” I said. “Our turn, Nipper.”

We emerged from behind the car and crossed the street to the house. We finagled our way through the mangled bars in the fence and through the alternately soggy mud and dried hard dirt that masqueraded as a front lawn. A slab of concrete along the side of the house was inscribed with an expanding list of names, dates, and handprints in concrete from “Madam Lucille 6/4/29” all the way up to “D-Bone$Man PLAYA AUG ‘98”. As we rounded the corner of the joint, Nipper looked up at the oak tree that hung over us like a hovering spaceship.

“Eyes forward,” I said. “Don’t worry about the lookouts.”

“Hold it!” a voice
said, booming from the narrows ahead of us to our left. A large shadow grew along the ground as it approached us, absorbing any remnants of the visible walkway. “Not another step. What are you doing here?”

“No trouble,” I said. “Just looking for a good time.”

“You came to the wrong place,” the voice said.

“We both know that’s not true,” I said. “We just got out of the pound.”

“Oh yeah?” the voice said. As quickly as the shadow expanded to a grotesque size and shape, it descended back to normal as a Miniature Pinscher appeared in front of us. He showed us his collection of teeth, most of which were unnaturally sharp. “How you hear about this place?”