Bobby D. Lux - Dog Duty Read online

  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 not 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 tail
gate 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 was 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 while 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.

  Making 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.

  Officer Hart and Mrs. Hart sat up front. Simon, the Hart’s ten-year-old boy with hair and freckles in every direction, rode in the backseat. He sat sideways with his back to the window, the seatbelt somehow wrapped around both of his arms & waist, and his shoes up on the seat. When prisoners pulled that nonsense with the shoes up on the seat, Officer Hart put an end to it quick.

  “High side left!” he’d call out, and then slam on the brakes, making the prisoner tumble over in the back. This worked especially well on the overly inebriated. On occasion, we could high side them until they puked all over the back and would make them clean out the car when we returned to the station.

  “Honey,” Mrs. Hart said. “Please take your shoes off the seat.”

  “Fine,” Simon said, as he used his toes to peel off the heels of his crisscrossed, superhero-movie tie-in Velcro shoes. He shook his ankles until the shoes, and an inch of sand, flopped onto the floor of the Intimidator. He kept his feet and wet socks up on the seat. I smelled those feet immediately. You want to know what human feet smell like once and for all? Just plain unnatural. A smell that you wouldn’t expect to exist on the same planet that’s home to barbecue sauce. A smell that hits you with the same force as when someone who (wisely) doesn’t live with cats enters the dwelling of someone with several feline roommates. The smell isn’t going to kill anyone and it goes away as you get used to it, but that first whiff is like sprinting into a fence.

  “Your mom told you to take your shoes off the seat.”

  “I did, dad.”

  “Honey, stop,” Mrs. Hart said. “Aren’t you excited about Fritz, Simon?”

  “I like Nipper.”

  “Don’t you like Fritz?”

  “I like Ernie.”

  “Ernie is fine too, but let’s focus on Fritz, okay?”

  “I even like Missy.”

  Nipper? Ernie? Missy? Fine names on their own, but I didn’t know where this kid got off thinking he was going to start changing my name. You’d run into a guy in cuffs on the curb and he’d start in with the same one-liners: here poochie pooch; hey, Fido; c’mere, Lassie. If no one was looking and I caught some scumbag saying that to me, I’d bite ‘em just a little. But you can’t even take just a little nibble on a kid, not that I’d want to. I got up and put my head over the seat to see what Simon was talking about.

  “Move, Fritz,” he said, as he pushed my head back. “Jeez.”

  “Honey, you can’t push Fritz like that,” Mrs. Hart said. “We talked about how he’s different.”

  “What’s going on?” Officer Hart said, as he looked back at while he kept the Intimidator straight. Mrs. Hart put her arm up as to grab the wheel with a “honey” that rang more critical than the “honey” Simon received. Hasn’t she seen him drive before? We’ve gone triple digits off road through the rain on chases and she’s worried about him turning his head?

  “Fritz’ shadow is blocking the TV, dad. I’m trying to watch this, so I made him move.”

  “You can’t do that with Fritz,” Officer Hart said.

  “I do it to the other dogs.”

  “Fritz isn’t like other dogs-” I didn’t even care what he said after that. Those five words were the only bright spot I’d had in days. That’s right; I wasn’t like other dogs. I’d run twelve miles without as much as a pant, even in the sun. I sniffed out the best hidden contraband; try hiding it in a baggie in your rewrapped plastic shampoo bottle, I dare you. I ran in after they threw the tear gas and yanked the hijacker out by his arm. I pulled an all-nighter in the cold chasing someone through a forest and I still looked good on no sleep for the PR gig in the morning. I dodged bullets when I had to. I bet you couldn’t name another dog who’d done all that and was still standing. “-so you can’t treat him the way you treat other dogs, you understand?”

  I understood perfe
ctly.

  “Fine,” Simon said, reaching over to scratch my head. “Sorry, Fritz. Just don’t get in the way of my TV again, okay?”

  By this time, we were somewhere between the third and fourth levels of suburbia, beyond the supermarket and hair salons and just getting to the churches and parks. The deeper you got into this place, the bigger everything became. The houses were all painted from the same palette of light hues. The boats were all the same color of blood. The sports cars were painted like the moon. The flowers smelled like poisons. The Intimidators and their kin were dark and shiny. And somehow there I was riding in the back of the Hart family Intimidator on my way to the rest of my life in the suburbs. My leg was still bandaged, but I kept myself occupied trying to pull that thing off before we got home. Home. There’s a concept.

  Then it hit me. I hadn’t had a clean place to mark in years. I couldn’t remember the last time when I was the first to claim a spot for my own territory. It might have been that time out behind the Atlantic Octo-Plex movie theater when I wanted to cover some unsightly graffiti. They discouraged us from marking on the job. It didn’t look professional and I agreed. Maybe somewhere else that’s no biggie, but that’s not how we did things in Grand City. I’d been everywhere and now there was nothing left for me. Just high end track homes with too many pesticides in the yards. There was nowhere left for me. To mark or otherwise.

  The streets were as flat as the lawns. The driveways were inclined. Pigeons didn’t sit on the streetlights. The mailboxes were all cemented into the sidewalk. The fences were all the same height, just too high to peek over without a ladder. The trees lining the sidewalks were all decades older than the homes and did an excellent job of keeping the power lines out of sight.

  One thing distinguished the Hart residence from the other: a carved rustic-looking wooden trinket that hung below the address numbers and said “Home is where the Harts are!” with a silhouette of a mom, dad, son, and a dog carved into it. One of those things you got at the swap meet for the same price as the bag of organic coffee being sold the next booth over. In the academy, they tell you to never give away your position when you’re in the field. There was no need for a strategic advantage out in that neighborhood.