Bobby D. Lux - Dog Duty (19 page)

“I think it was possum actually,” Ernie said. “It was dark, I couldn’t tell. It stunk in there. Nice guy though.”

As we walked, I imagined it was Scamper whom Ernie was talking to in that dumpster. I pictured his mangled teeth biting into some raw meat that would hopefully make him sick. I imagined the fear he would’ve felt when he realized that it was me just on the other side of that dumpster. Ernie wouldn’t know what was going on, just another derelict mutt scrounging for food.

“You want us, eh? Well, we’re not hard to find,” I imagined
Scamper said, once we were out of earshot. I heard him laugh like a buffoon. I fantasized that he’d run to the docks to find Clay lurking in the shadows.

“I saw them,” I imagined he told Clay. “They were right there. He’s coming for you, Clay. They were at Henry’s looking for you. He’s not scared of you.”

As we continued out of South Side, I felt Clay’s eyes watching me, hovering in the air above me without a body. I felt him stalking me, planning his attack, where he’d bite me, how he’d pin me down, whether it’d be quick or if he’d let it linger. That wasn’t imaginary. 

“So, now what?” Nipper said.

“You guys like to gamble?” I said.

I spent the third Friday of every month of my rookie year, except for the summer, at Chester A. Arthur High School. Officer Hart and I took part in the Junior Officers’ Club from 12:00 until 14:00 hours. We took the kids out and made them run for a half hour and do an assortment of exercises. Officer Hart then answered questions and would cover basic law enforcement techniques. Their favorite questions were how many times Officer Hart had to shoot somebody, and how many times I got to bite people.

“He likes biting people, right? I mean, dogs like to bite living stuff, right?”

“What’s it like to hit someone, like, with your nightstick? Are you afraid, like, you’ll break your stick on someone’s head?”

“Are you allowed to, like, run red lights and, like, not get in trouble? I’d totally do that!”

“How come they only let you have a moustache? I would think, like, a rad Fu Manchu or Lemmy chops would be scarier. Could you imagine if, like, a dude with, like, a full on psycho mountain man beard pulled you over? Dude, that would be so scary!”

“Have they ever thought about purposely giving the dogs rabies because, no, listen you idiots, think about it. What’s crazier than a rabid dog? Plus, maybe, like, enough spreading of rabies would, like, create some zombie things. I don’t know.”

For the better part of the twentieth century, Grand City was among the elite of the state’s many educational standouts. We boasted a high school graduation rate in the 99
th
percentile of the country. But then too many schools were built in areas that required too many good paying jobs to live in. A few too many stock market crashes forced enough “daddy’s bosses” to make difficult cuts which forced many of Grand City’s growing population to find refuge in neighboring cities. Suddenly, those good schools didn’t have enough good kids to populate them. A couple years of this domino effect and they had to board up a school or two.

Chester A. Arthur was the first to get the wood panel on the windows and deadbolt treatment. It was a popular decision with the mutts of Grand City who always needed a large abandoned place within the city limits to throw their bones away at the cat races.

Fortunes were won and lost, mostly lost, by daily betting on the cats at Arthur High School. The three of us entered the school through a vent in the old music building. We passed by the trophy display case, which now charted the history of the cat races at Arthur High Racetrack. The first official race was held four years ago (though dogs have organized underground races across the city for decades), and was won by Minty Fresh, a three-year old American Shorthair.

At one time, Cat Racing was the largest sport in the canine world, having topped even ball-chasing and wrestling. Some races, such as the Annual Labor Day Stakes, drew
thousands of dogs who’d escape for a day to toss their bones to Lady Luck at the track. Prior to going with Nipper and Ernie, my only time at the track was on a day off I had from work. I was able to sneak out to make it over to catch the inaugural Four Tails Cup to see what the big deal was. Maybe it was because I didn’t bet, but I failed to comprehend how these hounds could get so riled up over something so trivial. Then again, I ran races where first prize determined who went to jail.

The trophy case was lined with photos of purebred cats with wreaths around their necks. There were clods of dirt from famous races and other various race-related trinkets scattered about. Ernie stopped to examine every item along the cat racing history timeline.

“Whoa, Nipper! Did you know that the record time for the mile has dropped more than twenty seconds over the past two years? Before that, it took twenty years for the record time to drop even four seconds. Man, these cats are getting faster and faster. You think you could beat them? I mean, I think I could. Oh man, check this out. The actual claw clipper used by Snarlgauge the night he won the Triple Claw.” Nipper didn’t stop to look. “Aw, come on, doesn’t this stuff interest you? It’s history.”

“I don’t know about that,” Nipper said. “There’s no way to prove that’s the actual nail clip or that they didn’t just get dirt from outside and say it was from the finish line of some race. You know, guys like your friends back at that club used to run this place. Probably still do.”

“Well, I don’t care what you guys think,” Ernie said. “I think it’s cool.”

At the end of the music building there was a double doorway that took you outside to a patio area at the edge of the football stadium. From there, you went around the corner to the main ticket booth. There were a few dogs, all non-ticket holders, who hung around outside the entrance to the stadium, trying to hit dogs up for spare bones as they left the stadium. A collection of permanent down on your luck types who’d just as soon rob you than see if they could talk you out of a few bones.

“How are we going to get in?” Nipper said. “None of us have any bones.”

“I got this,” Ernie said. “Watch and learn, old pal.”
He approached the ticket booth and stuck his nose under the glass, looking up at the ticket seller, an older Mastiff, who stood up and stretched her back. “Long day? How are we doing so far?”

“How can I help you sir?” she said.

“Oh, I don’t need any help,” Ernie said. “Just stopping by to see if we’re on track to top last month’s figures. Last month was a strong month for us. You look tired in there. You need a break?”

“No sir,” she said
, suddenly straightening up. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s okay. Are you new here? I’ve never seen you before.”

“I… Well, I’ve been here a few months now,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we-”

“I’m Ernie. Remember? We met three weeks ago. Normally, I run the museum up front. I’m a walking encyclopedia on the history of the races. I still remember when Fly Swatter made that epic comeback in the third all those years ago. What a race. Anyway, the boys upstairs like
d me so much, they’ve got me overseeing the ticket booth now, so I just wanted to stop by and check in. Crowd looks really good today.”

“
Oh, I think I remember now. Okay. Yeah. It’s been a good day so far.”

“Very good,” Ernie said. “Keep up the good work. Who’s your supervisor now? Is it still Elmore?”

“It’s Maxy.”

“That’s right. Maxy. I’m gonna put in a good word to Maxy for you. See if maybe I can swing you a raise down here.
I can tell you’re working hard. Can I get you anything? You need water, some snacks, anything?”

“Wow,” she said. “Thank you, Ernie. And no, I’m doing good in here.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ernie said, as started to walk away, but stopped and turned back to her. “Oh, hey, one last thing before I forget. I got a couple of boys here with me. They’re from out of town and they’re, ahem,
connected
with the fellas upstairs, if you know what I mean. How about we take care of their tickets for them, on the house, if you catch my drift? By the looks of it in there, we’re having a good day in there, so don’t worry, I’ll smooth it out on our end with Maxy.”

“Of course,” she said. “How many do we need?”

“I think we can manage with three,” Ernie said, as she gave him the three passes. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“How did you do that?” Nipper said, clearly impressed
and a little spooked by how well Ernie, who rejoined us, pulled that off. “What if you get caught?”

“
Getting caught? What are you talking about?” Ernie said, looking back and winking at her. “Obviously, I work here. Just ask her. Come on, let’s go.”

“I have to admit,” I said
, as we gave our tickets to the attendant and were officially at the races. “That was good, Ernie. That was solid, professional undercover work.”

“And here they come speeding around the third and final turn,” the Public Address Announcer said
, through speakers with far too much squeak to them. “It looks like a swirling tornado of feline fury folks as they come down to the wire where it’s King’s Surprise out in front. Oh! Now it’s Turnip’s Treat ahead by a whisker. No, it’s Catman making a late run trying to pull everything he can out of his utility belt of tricks. It’s a three cat race as they approach the finish line. It looks like it’s going to be a photo finish. Here they come. At the finish, it’s… It’s… It’s… Hold on to your tickets folks… By Joe, it’s Turnip’s Treat by a whisker, followed by Catman and King’s Surprise. Whew! What an exciting race, ladies and mutts. Win pays two-and-a-half-to-one, the trifecta pays thirty-two-to-one. The tenth race is up next in ten minutes. The ten in ten. Place your bets.”

A typical losing dog’s post-race reaction flowed in the following manner: they cried primal screams of dejection as the unthinkable happened yet again. The screams subsided and ended in an extended sigh, punctuated by a series of deep breaths and exhales as their head and shoulders dropped to the ground. But then, just as all hope was nearly lost for good, a renewed sense of determination fell before their eyes because there was still another race to be run. A chance to win it all back and then some with a bigger bet that would make up for the loss. All they needed was a moment of clarity to turn that daily race program to right page and pick the cat destined to win the very next race. They slapped their paw on the winner’s name and floated to nearest pay window to lay a fresh bet.
Got ‘um this time
, they thought.

“I love it!” Ernie said. “Can’t you just feel the excitement? It just reaches in and grabs you as you watch those little cats run. You want to chase them, you want to bite ‘em, but most of all, you want your cat to win. Then you just want to hug it. Where do you get all this emotion in one shot?”

“We’re here to work,” I said. “Keep your eyes open.”

“How will we know when we see him?” Nipper said.

“Big, black, mean, ugly, and with a sidekick,” I said. “You see that, you give me a holler.”

“Hey partner,” Ernie said
, to a Bassett Hound with bloodshot eyes and his nose deep into a hooch-stained program, “who do you like in the tenth?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve been cold all day. I’m down three hundred and fifty bones. My wife is gonna kill me.”

“I hate those days,” Ernie said. “But hey, all you need is one winner, right?”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“Hey, this Willow cat looks good,” Ernie said, to the hound. “Year-and-a-half Tabby. Good odds and is on a streak. What do you think?”

“Looks okay. Besides, my name is Winston and I share the first two letters of my name with this Willow, so yeah, it’s makes as much sense as any other bet I’ve made so far. Thanks, buddy.”

“Ernie,” Nipper said.

“What?” Ernie said. “Me and my buddy here are looking at the tenth. He needs an extra eye on the lineup. That’s the race we’re supposed to care about, right?”
Nipper went over to the two of them and yanked Ernie by the collar away from Winston and the program. Ernie pulled back and showed his teeth for a split second and didn’t retreat. “Back off, Nipper. I love you like a brother, but don’t you ever put your teeth on me again. What’s your problem?”

“I’m sorry,” Nipper said. “I’m not comfortable here. I don’t like this place and I don’t like why we’re here.”

“Nipper,” Ernie said. “Look around you. There’s tons of dogs here. No one cares about us here because no one knows we’re here except us, so relax.”

“The sooner we get done,” Nipper said, “the sooner we can go home is all I mean.”

“I know,” Ernie said. “That’s why I was trying to have just a little bit of fun first. I’m not stupid. I know this probably my last time ever coming here, so I’m not in a huge hurry to leave.”

There was no sign of Clay by the betting windows. If what we were
told was true and Clay only bet the tenth, then he must have already made his bet and was off watching the events unfold somewhere else.

“Guys,” I said. “That’s enough. Follow me. I want to see something.”

The pre-staging area was thirty yards from the betting windows. All the cats were in individual pens and were in the open so that the gamblers could get a closer look at who was racing and what their demeanor was like a few minutes prior to race time. A particularly well-groomed Collie was interviewing Willow, the front-runner in the tenth, from the first pen.

“Sadie-Jane here with KCFG news,” she said
, into a microphone tucked neatly into her collar, “and I’m standing here with Willow, perhaps the biggest name in all of cat racing at the moment, a Tabby who has rattled off seven straight wins and is everyone’s favorite to take home the Triple Claw this year. Willow, what are your thoughts heading into this next race?”

“Complete and utter domination,” Willow said
, like it was a chore. “When I race, it’s as if there are no other cats on the track. A lot of cats will hiss and raise their tails to try and intimidate me, but when you have the tools that I have there’s nothing they can do to take me off my game.”

“Sounds like winning has given you an expanded ego. How do you keep up your training if you-”

“Let me stop you right there,” Willow said. “Here’s the thing. You say it’s ego, but it’s just confidence. I know I can run faster than any other cat they put up next to me in that starting gate.”