Bobby D. Lux - Dog Duty (3 page)

There was plenty of room for me up there with the other heads. They wouldn’t have to rearrange the other fellas for me to fit. I could fit snugly between any two of them or off to either side. A trip to the vet, a quick shot in the arm, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. I
’d fall asleep and they’d pull out the sheers, or saw, or sword, and when my eyes awoke, I’d have the best seat in the hall, next to my new friends: Okie, Salmon, Mickey, and Reginald. I’d be all head with no body to worry about anymore. My leg wouldn’t hurt and I wouldn’t feel bad about resting. Aesthetically, the best place for me would be right in the center of the four, placed a foot or two higher than the rest so that we’d come to a slight point; a pyramid of mounted heads.

Of course, these were the thoughts of a fool. They only succeeded in drowning out the cheers from my former co-workers. Of course there’s no place for a German Shepherd on a wall full of Elk heads. That’s a damn shame.

“And because Article Twelve, Section Forty-Seven of the Grand City Charter says so, we are forbidden from giving away city property,” Chief Lennox said,
“
so
we will now perform the informal ceremonial auctioning off of the dog.”
Property?
With a showman’s twirl of the arm, which revealed conclusive evidence of massive armpit stains, The Chief turned to me and gave a bow. The Elk heads looked down on me across their big stupid fat noses. Even their lips snickered in amusement. “On behalf of Grand City, I’m proud to offer a fine specimen up for grabs. A canine crime fighter the likes of which Grand City has never seen before.”

“And one soon to be forgotten by canine crime fighter two point zero,” Nitro said. “That’s a computer reference. You know, for those of us that don’t count our kibble on our paws.”

“And we’re going to start the bidding at one dollar,” Chief Lennox said. “Are there any takers in the house?”

One hand went up.

“Going once?”

No other hands.

“Going twice?”

Still just one.

“Three times?”

Now this was insulting.

“Sold. To Officer Peter Hart for one dollar. That’s quite a bargain you got for yourself.”

“A dollar?” I said.

“Would you give it a break?” Nitro said. “It’s the tradition and you know it. We all get sold off for a buck at the end. I mean, I figure I’ll net three or four myself, but that’s me. When you factor in inflation, I bet I pull in double digits, but that’s not gonna be for many, many years. But you Fritz, a dollar is about all the market can bear.”

Nitro was right. They squeezed every cent out of me they could. We don’t earn a salary, but dogs on the force live better than just about every dog imaginable. Don’t waste my time with those pampered mutts who go to salons; that’s not being a dog. We were fed perfectly portioned meals at ten hundred, eighteen hundred, and ten hundred hours again the following morning on the dot (on holidays they gave us warm turkey and ham); all the fresh water we’d ever need; we were groomed often; our kennel was never anything but flea-less; and we were provided with every tool necessary to do our job to the best of our ability.

I’ve been shot at. I’ve sniffed out bombs, drug paraphernalia, and crime scenes. I’ve chased killers and gang members in the rain. I’ve been punched and had my fur ripped out. I’ve rescued people from collapsed buildings. I’ve been attacked with all sorts of weapons, both blunt and sharp, and I’ve had to bite an incalculable amount of people who’d been who knows where. At the end of all that, I’m worth a dollar. It takes Officer Hart approximately seventy seconds to make that amount.

Officer Hart stood up from the crowd and approached the stage. Like any police officer worth putting into a story, Officer Hart was taller than most and skinnier than nearly all of our fellow cops. He chose not to wear a mustache, which informally forever disqualified him from being a motorcycle officer. The stress of the job was starting to take its initial hold on Officer Hart. It gets to everyone sooner or later. If you’re not careful it clings to you. At first you think it makes you stronger. You’re carrying the load. Someday, it’s that load that’s going to make you buckle when you’re most vulnerable.

Officer Hart’s hair was thinning, but not to the point where you’d say he was going bald. He kept up the last time we jogged together. I did have to slow my pace. Nothing noticeable to him. I didn’t want him to think I was taking it easy. If anything, he might have thought it was me who had lost a step. Confidence is very important for a police officer. Call me melodramatic all you want, but when it’s a matter of going back to your kennel at the end of the night or not, confidence in your abilities is all you have. I won’t take that away from anyone. Not anyone I cared about. Officer Hart reached into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet.

“Do you take cash or credit?” Officer Hart said. More humor that fell deaf on my lone ears.

“Cash only, Hart,” Chief Lennox said. “We’re old fashioned around here.”

I
nearly expected Officer Hart to appear with one of those giant checks they ambush unsuspecting senior citizens with at their front door. A few years ago we busted a ring of burglars who’d duped seniors with those checks. That was a fun operation. Our detectives found the website the crooks hooked their victims with. A crude design that promised the elderly a chance at millions and a comfy retirement. All that was required was a name, address, phone number, and an optional social security number. We supplied the information for one of our safe houses.

They called a week later and told us that our entry was a finalist and gave us a date and time to be home at the address we provided. We hired an actress from the local playhouse to appear in the front window of the house when the nondescript unmarked van with no plates pulled up out front. The actress got cold feet at the last second and we made Norton, a baby face right out of the academy, dress up in a wig and
a muumuu.

The three crooks got out of the van with their prop check and cameras while Norton waved and welcomed them with a phony high
-pitched voice. As soon as Norton opened the door, he pulled his gun and yelled “Freeze!” still using his granny voice. The rest of us swarmed on them from around the side of the house. One tried to make a run to the van, but I had him down before he was two steps off the porch. He split his jaw when his face slapped into the cement. Oh well, next time don’t be a scumbag. 

“Come here, Fritz,” Chief Lennox said,
as he held Officer Hart’s limp dollar bill high like it was an unearthed chunk of gold.

I popped up to my feet. My hip buckled, then my leg flinched, but it was nothing. Cops like it cold and the air conditioning was cranked up too high. I stood between Chief Lennox and Officer Hart for one final photo op for the department photographer and a guy with a hole in his pants from the local free paper, The Grand City Metro Review.

The uninformed will tell you that dogs don’t smile. I didn’t when cameras were around because it was usually at a crime scene or a standoff situation. Neither is appropriate for mugging at the lens. But when our mouths are open and our tongues are draped out to the side, what do you think that is other than a smile? Next time you see a picture of a dog, look at the ears. Are they straight up, or out to the side? Check the eyes. Wide open or just regular open? Is the head tilted up? These things matter. I tried to work a smile, I really did.

I saw the picture from the department photographer a few days later. The C
hief and Officer Hart held the dollar up over my head, oblivious to how disrespectful it was.

“And on a final note,” Chief Lennox said, “I also don’t want to forget to mention the work of Nitro, our newest K-9, who played an integral role of getting us closer to our suspect, a known dog fight operator.”

“That’s my cue, old man,” Nitro said.

I could do a lot of things, but I wasn’t going to stand around like a sucker while they paraded my replacement in front of my face. I left through the back door and no one noticed, not even Officer Hart, who already had returned to his seat. My tail wasn’t tucked completely between my legs, but it was too close for comfort. If anyone had seen me, they wouldn’t have noticed a tail drooping a few inches lower; it was just another tail to them. But not me. That was my tail.

The
Grand City Police Department Kennel
was my home for eight years. It was modest and that suited me fine. I’ve always stood firmly alongside the notion that a coddled officer was an ineffective officer. Some argue that having nice things to come home to is the motivation you need to get you through your shift. They’re wrong. That comfort makes you soft. My sole luxury was my bed. I could rest my chin on the side and my body would float on a cloud of cotton padding until the next thing I knew, Officer Hart was there with a treat and we were ready to go out on patrol again.

My kennel was where I decompressed after a long night. It was a place to spend a quiet evening with my thoughts. I analyzed what worked
out there and what didn’t; how the criminals reacted and how I reacted to them. Did something surprise me? Could I have been more effective in the same scenario?

As you pulled into the department parking garage, I was off in the back on the bottom floor through a door marked “The Ears and
Knows
of the Department.” I shared a wall with the holding cell and the drunk tank. You might think that would’ve been a problem, your place of rest and wonder being in such close proximity to the nightly derelicts. One thing about cops is that we look out for one another. If a prisoner was too inebriated, we’d play a little game with them. Red Johnny.

When a drunk was too loud for their own good and if they looked gullible enough or were under the influence of the right concoction
of illicit substances, the jailer would issue them a stern warning.

“You may think this is a load of garbage,” a typical Red Johnny warning
began, “but if you don’t pipe down, you’re messing with some powerful stuff.”

“Oh yeah,” began a typical response. “What are you guys gonna do? Get ten of you in there to come kick my ass? Huh?”

“No. That would be easy. We don’t go into Red Johnny’s jurisdiction. He’s gonna handle you.”

“I don’t see no Red Johnny. What’re you talking about?”

Depending on the jailer or the booking officer, some details changed with the storyteller, but the by-the-book story is as follows: The jail was haunted by the ghost of, guess who, Red Johnny. Johnny was an old Grand City bootlegger who was finally done in by the law back in 1927. They only caught him because he was marching around the town square stark-raving mad as a result of rabies which had eaten away at his brain. Hours later, while waiting for transport which was delayed in a terrible storm, Red Johnny succumbed in that cell. He was clawing away at the wall and growling and barking at the ceiling. From that moment on, that cell became the unofficial property of Red Johnny. To this day, he haunts the cell where his last breath was taken from him. There was only one thing Red Johnny hated more than spending eternity in that cell. It was when someone else was there who wouldn’t let him rest.

“I don’t believe in that stuff,” was the typical response to a Red Johnny tale, regardless of any appended details.   

When I heard “Red Johnny,” I waited for a few minutes and then I barked as loud as I could and scratched at the wall. The jailers would pretend not to hear anything when the drunk complained about the noise. After all, Red Johnny’s powers were of another world and it wasn’t the jailers who were bothering him. The longest it took me to shut someone up was just over four minutes. When it was over, the boys would reward me with some extra treats, usually a day old doughnut.

Most of my peers from other cities lived with their partner, but not me. I was fine with that. Officer Hart visited me every day, even on his days off. Sometimes he brought his family with him so they could get to know me better. His wife would let me smell her palm and scratched my cheek. There was one time in particular when she brought a new visitor with her and Officer Hart. At the time she was pregnant, smelled like a hospital room, and otherwise kept her distance from me. The unexpected guest was another dog with them on a leash.

My initial reaction was
unremarkable
. That’s not fair.
Normal
is a better choice of words. Very normal. A regular dog for a regular family. Maybe with a touch of German Shepherd in him, but the ears sagged too much for me to respect him.

“This is Fritz,” Officer Hart said
, as he walked the leashed dog closer. “You want to say hi?”

Officer Hart led him over to me for a sniff through the chain link. From nowhere, this guy gets the nerve to raise his lip and show me some teeth. In my own kennel. I snarled and showed this guy what real teeth looked like; teeth that were capable of snapping more than milk bones. Out of respect for Officer Hart and his wife, I didn’t make a bigger deal out it. I rose up and stared him down until he lowered his underdeveloped head. Officer Hart got between us and passed the leash back to his wife who said something about rescuing that other dog like she wanted to do in the first place. 

You don’t do that to a dog in his home, showing your teeth like that, unless you’re ready to take that home and make it your own. And nobody was taking my home from me that day.

“Who do you think you are?” Nitro said, having been led into the kennel by his partner.

“Leave it alone,” I said.

“You got to upstage me one last time, huh?”

“I wasn’t upstaging anyone. I just wanted to leave.”

“Oh, I see. Whining and yelping to anyone who’ll listen that even with a bum wheel he can still work, but now you just want to up and leave. Look, I took your spot whether you like it or not. You want to say I’m playing politics, old man, fine. For them to remember me they have to forget about you. That’s how it works. By you making your little escape back there, you know what the first thing everyone said was?”

“Really? They asked for me?”

“You should have heard them,” Nitro said, “‘Where’s Fritz?’ ‘Is he okay?’ ‘Hey, do you think this whole thing is a mistake?’ ‘Let’s take a vote. Who here thinks Fritz still has that
it
that he always had, huh, whadda ya say?’”

“Wow,” I said. “What was the vote?”

“No. I’m kidding. No one noticed you vanished except me. Fritz, you should be happy-”

“Happy?”

“Let me finish,” Nitro said, as he circled around me. “Listen, you made it out. You have a hobble, so what? It’ll probably heal. If not, it’s a reminder of, you know, all your battles.”

“I don’t need a reminder.”

“No more chases. No more late nights. No more stress. No more putting on a happy face for the press. You can finally relax. You know, plenty of dogs in our field don’t get to enjoy this. Are you listening to me? I’m giving you some solid advice here.”

“Fine. You want to trade places with me then?”

“Seriously? You trying to be a comedian? Trade with you? No way.”

“There’s cops on this force who can barely zip their pants up and I’m being forced out
. You don’t get it, Nitro.”

“I don’t get what? Let me take a guess what the big mystery is. Someday I’m going to be in your place and some younger, faster, stronger, quicker, smarter, sharper facial structure, buffer, leaner, and just better overall dog is going to take my spot? Okay, fine. But you know what? That’s not happening today and it’s not going to happen tomorrow, so I’m no
t losing any sleep over it tonight.”

With that final salvo, Nitro went over to my bed, the only bed I ever remembered sleeping in. He unceremoniously dragged it to the other end of the kennel, next to the shared wall with the holding cell.

“No, you don’t get it,” I said. “There’s a reason why they don’t bring the old-timers around to say hi. A very real reason.”

“Blah, blah, blah. I have a big day tomorrow. It’s time to start the rest of my life. So yeah, just uh, get all your stuff because if it’s here tomorrow, I’m chewing it.”

I don’t know what hurt more: the knowledge that it was all over, or knowing that I didn’t even fight back. I stayed up as long as I could that night because I knew when I closed my eyes and fell asleep that as soon as I opened them again it would be over. It would be time to go for good. Perhaps, I expected a stay of execution, hoping that Chief Lennox would burst in during the night to tell me that Officer Hart’s dollar was no good because he changed his mind. I wanted to take in every last moment I had in there. It wasn’t long before I gave up on giving myself moments. They decided I’d had enough.

“Can’t even leave on your own four feet,” Nitro said, a few hours later between bites of his breakfast.

I hobbled out of the kennel for the final time to Officer Hart’s waiting Intimidator (last year’s model). Mrs. Hart waited for me with the trunk open and the tailgate down. When humans are discharged from a hospital, they roll them out in a wheelchair just to be safe. If they’re not healthy enough to walk out, why send them home?

I got a few steps away from the kennel with Officer Hart when he put me on a leash. A new one from the smell of it. A few of the guys came up to scratch my ears on our way out. The morning shift already had their briefing and was dismissed so there weren’t too many around to say bye. Actually, that was a good thing. I didn’t want them to see me being walked out. You don’t put a professional on a leash.

Maybe they were worried I’d tried to go back. Maybe they thought that I didn’t know where I was going or what was going on. That’s probably the biggest mistake people make with us. We know.

I put my paws up on the tailgate and was ready to hop up when Mrs. Hart pulled me back by my collar.

“No, no,” she said. “Peter. I need help getting him in. Can you help please?”

“One, two, three,” Officer Hart said, as he grabbed me around the ribs and hoisted me into the Intimidator. I shrugged him off and shook myself. When people seize you like that it messes up the fur and makes taking a breath tougher than nature wanted it to be. “He couldn’t jump in on his own?”

“He looked like he wa
s struggling. I didn’t want him to get hurt.”

“Awww, well we don’t want our Fritz-o here getting hurt now, do we?”
Officer Hart said, in a tone I’d never heard before and never wanted to hear again. It was sloppy, goofy, and high-pitched.
Frtiz-o?
Who was this guy, and what had he done with my partner of eight years? “Now you just go lie down, buddy. We’ll get a treat for you once we get going.”

Leaving the force was one thing, actually, it was more than
one
thing, it was
the
thing, but for this very moment, it was just one thing. You can’t yank a dog from all he knows, then, as a last kick in the teeth, his partner, his buddy, the guy who watched his back and vice versa, his fellow cop, was now acting like a civilian?

And for the record, I could’ve gotten myself up there on that tailgate just fine. I think.

Officially, they’re called suburbs. We, and I’m talking cops, have a few other names. Night off patrol. Real crime not allowed-ville (a good idea, but far too wordy). The call of the mild. Yawn shift. Feel free to invent your own.

On the contrary, dogs only need one word for them in their vernacular: jackpot. For every dog with a weekly-gardened lawn to grow old in, there are a thousand other hounds chasing their tails in apartments, condos, or worst of all, mobile homes. Others choose to travel solo down the road looking for scraps and a dry patch of dirt to curl up in for the night.

I’d encountered a handful of suburban dogs in my career, and whi
le they seemed nice enough, I was never impressed. A bit too well-fed. Too relaxed. Too comfortable for my liking. For a dog to be a dog, he’s got to still have that itch. No, not fleas. Through no fault of his own, a dog is naturally drawn towards laziness. Even I am not immune towards a want to indulge in some quality laziness. You must resist that urge and stay lean and hungry. Lean and suburbs only have a passing relationship.

Mak
ing it to the suburbs guaranteed a dog a life of laziness. There was nothing left to worry about anymore. Food and water? Taken care of. Shelter? Covered (literally). Affection? As long you didn’t bite the little ones, you’re golden. Some people even bought gifts for the dogs. Gifts. And you don’t have to do anything for them other than sit down when they ask you to. Some will demand that you lay down, but for a dog, that’s never going to be a problem. It’s what we do. Not
me
, of course. You could even bark and yell at the sirens when they bothered you. Just don’t take advantage by keeping at it after they’re out of human earshot.

So when I tell you that making it to the suburbs is akin to getting six balls out of six on the lottery, I am in no way exaggerating.

Me? I’ve never be a gambler.

The Intimidator pulled away from the department with me in the back next to a bag of soccer balls. Officer Hart honked at Cary, the crossing guard, as we rolled through the intersection between the department and Fair Oaks Blvd. We were out of eye shot before I had a chance to poke my head up to say goodbye.