“Dog Gone”

By Pepper Ckua

 

“So, tell me again why we’re making a stop at the Bay City Animal Shelter.” Starsky stuffed the last piece of his lunch into his mouth. He was about to toss the wrapper out the window, when Hutch grabbed his arm.

 

“You know, you gotta stop doing that littering thing. It’s not good for the ecology, and it’s not good for our image. We’re supposed to be enforcing the law, not breaking it, buddy.”

 

“What are you gonna do? Sic Woodsy Owl on me?” Starsky tossed the wax paper into the back seat. “Besides, my image is already ruined by riding around with you in this junk heap.”

 

Hutch ignored that remark. He parked the car near the back door of a red-bricked municipal building and cut the engine. “You know why we’re here. You were with me when Huggy asked us to check around for Merle’s lost dog. And you were also the one to suggest driving this so-called junk heap as I quote, ‘if we find that pooch, then I don’t want a lot of black and white fur stuck to the Torino’s upholstery’.”

 

Starsky grinned as he got out and slammed the door shut. “I was there, wasn’t I? Then again, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of time when I’m not there.”

 

“There? Or all there?”

 

It was Starsky’s turn to ignore a remark.

 

XXXXXXXX

 

Even in the lobby, they could hear dogs barking.

 

Hutch showed the woman at the front desk his badge. “We’re here to ascertain the whereabouts of a certain canine by the name of ‘Banjo’. A metal tag on his collar will suffice as positive ID.”

 

Starsky snorted softly at Hutch’s official language and thwacked the back of his partner’s head as they followed the worker through a hallway.

 

The attendant opened the door to the back kennels, and the baying came close to deafening. “

 

“Geez, I feel like an extra on ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Starsky said, as they entered the large back area.

 

The attendant kept her hand on the door and gestured towards the row of pens. Each one had a cement floor, a tin roof and was surrounded by metal fencing. “The dogs associate the door opening with food. Once they realize you don’t have any, they’ll calm down,” she explained, shouting over the din.

 

Hutch noticed his partner’s hesitation. “Hey, Pavlov. You can calm down, too. They’re all in cages.”

 

“Did you hear what she said? Associate us with food? Just so they don’t associate us as food,” Starsky said, nervously looking around. “You know how I feel about dogs, Hutch. Maybe I should wait in the car?”

 

“You’ll be fine,” Hutch said, putting his hand on Starsky’s arm.

 

 “Take your time. And let me know if you make a positive ID, Officers,” the worker said with a tight smile. The door shut behind her.

 

XXXXXXXX

 

The first kennel contained a very large dog. He was wearing some sort of a raincoat.

 

“Hey, Hutch!” Starsky said. “Isn’t that Tiger, that dog that peed on me when we were on that drug stakeout during the Tallman-Talbert case? That time we were got soaked in and by the pool?”

 

“Right. Tiger had that owner with that Betty Booplike voice. Wonder why the poor pooch ended up at the animal shelter?”

 

“The paper here says his owner got tired of walking him in the rain. That anyone who adopts Tiger needs to be prepared to get up at all hours of the night, or suffer the consequences,” Hutch replied, reading off the clipboard hanging on the front of the Tiger’s kennel. “Sounds like this whole thing is not Tiger’s fault, but a training issue.”

 

Starsky shuddered. “And these consequences are most likely mountain-sized piles of doggie dookie in the living room.”

 

“Doggie dookie? What are you, four years old?”

 

“What would you prefer I call it? Fecal waste?” Starsky shook his head. “I have a harder time saying that with a straight face.”

 

They passed Tiger’s pen and moved to the next one. It was home to a small beagle.

 

Starsky read off the information on the posted papers. “Hey, Hutch. This dog’s name is Max. His owner, Marcy Bower dropped him off a few days ago. According to Joey Carston, this is the dog that was hit by a car driven by the Bower’s neighbor, Mr. Polanski. Says here that Polanski’s wife had a vision that if Max remained at the Bower’s house, the next thing to hit him wouldn’t be Volkswagen, but Mr. Polanski’s six-ton truck.”

 

Hutch looked thoughtful. “Polanski? Polanski? Now where have I heard that name before?”

 

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “Does the name ‘Madame Yram’ ring any bells with you?”

 

Hutch stared down at the dog. “It sure does. And psychic or not, it sounds like Mary Polanski is looking out for this little guy. Maybe she knows something about her husband’s supposed accidents with four-wheeled vehicles and four-legged canines.”

 

“They say the best psychics simply use the information they got and add it to a good gut feeling.”

 

“So you’re saying Max is here for his own good?”

 

“Damn straight I am.”

 

“Sounds like Mary Polanski ought to get out of that situation for her own good.” Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose. “She seemed to have a lot more sense than to stick in a marriage with an animal abuser.” He took out his little black book and wrote, “Check B.C.A.S.’s records against police reports with the name Polanski.”

 

Max’s kennel was separated from the next one in the row by a storage shed.  Just as Starsky and Hutch passed its corner, a dog started to ferociously bark.

 

The dog turned out to be a full-grown Doberman. As Starsky and Hutch passed the cage, the animal went wild, snapping and snarling, his ears pinned back against his head.

 

Starsky jumped back with a startled noise.

 

“Easy, buddy,” Hutch said, touching the small of his partner’s back.

 

“I know that dog, Hutch. That’s Annie Oates’s dog, the one that she taught to smell guns.”

 

“You sure? Maybe he just smells the recent hamburger on your breath. It’s pretty gamey.”

 

Starsky blew into his palm and smelled the pocket of air there. “It’s not that bad,” he said over the Doberman’s frantic baying.

 

Hutch shifted his jacket a bit, revealing his gun and holster. The dog’s barking became higher pitched and bits of froth dropped off his mouth.

 

Hutch inched forward and tentatively grabbed for the paperwork on the front of the cage.

 

“It’s Duvcha all right. Says here his owner had to give him up after being committed to Cabrillo State. The vet has made a note that, given the proper training, this dog could be used to sniff out weapons at the airport.”

 

Starsky shuddered. “Knowing Duvcha was at the airport would make me take the bus.”

 

“No kidding,” Hutch said, hooking the clipboard back up and then jumped back when the big dog lunged against the fence.

 

Duvcha quieted as the two quickly passed over to the next kennel. A group of identical dogs were lounging in a corner. One dog lazily lifted his head and then laid it down again.

 

“That’s what I like, nice calm dogs,” Starsky said, smiling.

 

“What you like is a dog that isn’t going to rip your legs off,” Hutch replied.

“There’s that, too,” Starsky laughed. “You wanna know something, blondie? Those dogs in there are Weinemeiers. And coincidently, there are four of them!”

 

“Why am I not surprised?” Hutch replied as he rolled his eyes. “I guess it beats forty buffalo and a gaggle of geese.”

 

The fifth kennel was home to a lumbering basset hound.

 

“Hey,” Hutch said. “I know that dog. That’s Fosdick, Melinda Roger’s dog.”

 

“How can you tell?”

 

“Trust me, Starsk. Not only was that dog all over me on the couch, drinking out of my glass, but Melinda also had a second kink.”

 

“You mean, not just being a cop groupie?”

 

“That’s exactly what I mean. Seems Fosdick had a special seat in the bedroom, a chair where he could… ah… watch.”

 

“So what you’re saying is Melinda and I aren’t the only mammals who know about that scar on your lower back.”

 

Hutch blushed.

 

Starsky read Fosdick’s paperwork. “Says here this dog has been put up for adoption because the owner married someone who’s allergic to him. The vet also says Fosdick needs a couple of weeks  to ‘dry out.’ Apparently, your booze wasn’t the only alcohol he managed to get his hands on.”

 

Starsky peered at the sad-looking dog. “Poor pup. I hope some Mother Cabrini takes him home and gives him nothing but coffee, eggs and cigarettes. I know it worked for Sharman.”

 

“Oh, it worked like a charm, Starsk. That’s why she’s on all the covers of the tabloids.”

 

“She’s on those rags because she keeps getting married to the wrong guy,” Starsky pointed out, exhaling noisily.

 

Fosdick looked up, shook his jowls and made a desultory trip over to his blue, plastic water dish.

 

Hutch had already moved on to the next kennel.

 

“Good God, Starsk! Isn’t that Friendly, Steve Hanson’s dog?”

 

“It sure looks like him,” Starsky tilted his head to one side and then to the other. “But, Hutch, that dog was supposed to be dead. You were even the one who called Animal Control to come pick him up.”

 

The two men looked at each other and then down at Friendly. The little gray dog wagged his tail and drooled.

 

“Apparently, he wasn’t dead; he was just resting,” Hutch said, looking confused.

 

“That’s what they said about Wally Stone, too, pal.” Starsky grabbed Friendly’s paperwork. “It says here Friendly was brought here supposedly DOA but was revived in the truck on the way over.” Starsky made a face. “That must have included some mouth-to-mouth shit. Yuck.”

 

Hutch shrugged. “You know what they say about a dog’s mouth, that’s it’s cleaner than a human’s.”

 

“I’ve seen only a few humans drinking out of toilets, Hutch.”

 

Hutch raised his eyebrows.

 

“Army. Hazing. No picnic, pal.”

 

Hutch wisely changed the subject. “We should give Hanson a call, tell him Friendly’s here. He probably doesn’t even know it.”

 

There were two kennels left. Hutch stood by the one next to the maintenance shed.

 

“Starsk, you’re not gonna believe this?”

 

Starsky shook his head. “C’mon, Hutch. If you think I can’t imagine a trip to this surreal dog pound getting stranger, than think again. So tell me, what Felliniesque dog is the next one?"

 

“Felliniesque? So you have been paying attention at the Bijou Theater after all,” Hutch said, blocking his partner’s way.

 

“Not so much paying attention as testing out the theory that a person can learn while asleep, because really, that last movie, Giulietta degli Spiriti, was only good for a nap.” He tried to get past Hutch and was thwarted.

 

“Wait a minute. I thought you liked that film,” Hutch said, grabbing his shoulder.

 

“Hutch, you told me it was going to be about this Italian housewife and her sexy, lady neighbor. You even said the neighbor had a mirror over her bed.”

 

“So, those things weren’t true? You don’t trust me?”

 

“With my life, yes. With your idea of a good flick, no. Now, let me at that stupid dog.”

 

Hutch stepped aside. “It’s not Merle’s dog, Starsk.”

 

Starsky looked at the largish, medium-haired gray dog. He started to laugh. “Why, that’s Orange’s dog. That’s Sandy.”

 

“It certainly looks that way.”

 

“She loves that dog, Hutch. Why’s he here?”

 

Hutch unhooked the clipboard on the front of Sandy’s cage. He read a bit and shook his head. “Looks like Orange loved that dog a little too much. The woman’s been in the slams since December serving a two-year term for prostitution and, well… bestiality.”

 

Starsky rolled his eyes and looked up. “Oh, Sandy.”

 

“Oh, Sandy is right. It says here this dog’s gonna need some major counseling.”

 

Starsky bent down and, put his fingers through the bar and stroked Sandy’s nose. “He looks really depressed, Hutch. Poor thing.”

 

Hutch replaced the clipboard. “That he does. And I don’t think a little dog food under the collar’s gonna make him feel a whole lot better.”

 

Starsky straightened and checked his wallet. “Speaking of dog food, I’m gonna drop some cash off before we go, telling them to ear mark it for some doggie treats for all these guys. It’s the least we can do.”

 

“Yeah,” replied Hutch.

 

They walked to the last cage.

 

There, standing in a shady place in the far corner, was a black and white dog, a spotted dog.  Hutch checked the papers on the gate. The dog’s name was listed as “Banjo.”

 

“Thank goodness we found him,” Starsky sighed gratefully. “I didn’t want to think of what Sunday dinner with my Uncle Al would have been like if we hadn’t. Al’s a good guy, but he can really hold a grudge. I don’t need the aggravation.”

 

“You don’t need the aggravation? Hell, Starsk. Whatever your Uncle Al dishes out to you, and I don’t just mean at a meal, I gotta deal with, too.”

 

Starsky grabbed the paperwork off of the spotted dog’s kennel. “We’ll bring this up with us. Maybe it’ll expedite the paperwork.” Starsky gave the dog a little wave. “Be right back, Banjo. We’ll have you sprung in a moment.”

 

Banjo just looked bored.

 

Hutch took the clipboard from Starsky as they walked to the lobby. As they passed Duvcha’s run, the dog exploded in a frenzy of barks. Hutch dropped the papers in alarm.

 

“What did you tell me, buddy?” Starsky said, scooping them up. “He’s in a cage. He can’t get at you.”

 

Hutch looked flustered. Then he made an all over body shiver. “It’s just that…”

 

“I know, Hutch,” Starsky said softly.

 

Starsky looked down at the Dalmatian’s paperwork. “It says here that Banjo was picked up hanging out around the Sea Side Amusement Park. That’s a long way for a dog to roam. Hell, that’s gotta be ten miles. Wonder what he was doing out there?”

 

“Maybe Banjo was on some sort of mission?” Hutch held the door for his partner. They entered the lobby and approached the desk.

 

“We’ve established the whereabouts of our suspect,” Hutch said, smiling. He handed the woman the clipboard.

 

She reached for the phone and briefly spoke to someone. Putting down the receiver, she said, “Tony will bring the dog in Kennel Number Eight up in just a moment. When he gets here, we can settle the bill for the ticket.”

 

Starsky pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.  “Certainly. But in the meantime, use this for some doggie treats, especially for that poor pooch in Number Seven.”

 

She took it just as the phone rang.

 

“Hello? Tony? What do you mean? Empty?”

 

She put the receiver back down in the cradle.

 

“Seems like there’s been some kind of mix-up. Either that, or you two are playing some sort of joke.” Her voice was tired and not a little bit angry.

 

“What do you mean?” Hutch asked, looking puzzled.

 

“What I mean is Tony says there’s no dog there. The pen is empty.”

 

Starsky and Hutch turned and looked at each other.

 

“You’re sure about that?”

 

“Listen, I think Tony knows an empty cage when he sees one. Now why don’t you two go leave and stop wasting our time. We’ve got better things to do than be a butt of someone’s idea of a practical joke. Does this have something to do with that K-9 mix-up last month?”

 

XXXXXXXX

 

The walk across the parking lot was a long one. March was nippy enough for Starsky to pull the zipper on his leather jacket all the way up. “So, what do you make of that, blondie?”

 

Hutch shook his head. “Beats me. I mean, I guess if you hadn’t seen that dog, and I had, you’d be ribbing me about it. But we both saw it, right?”

 

“Yeah. Guess I’m gonna get shit from my Uncle Al after all.” Starsk stood by the door of the LTD. Hutch unlocked his own door then reached over and flicked up the passenger door’s lock.

 

Starsky slid in. Hutch was just about to start the engine when they stopped, turned towards each other and then looked into the back seat.

 

There was the spotted dog, stretched out, his tongue lolling and a bright look in his eyes.

 

XXXXXXXX

 

The soft clink of dishes being washed by hand reminded Al of the first thirty-four years he and Rosie were married. The familiar sound of flatware being put in the basket, the chime of glasses put too close together, and the metallic scraping of a table knife on a burned sauce pan felt very comforting.

 

When Rosie had asked for an automatic dishwasher two years ago, Al had nosily complained, then quietly acquiesced, just like he did with everything else.

 

But while the portable Maytag saved Rosie time, it was clumsy, took up a lot of room, squandered the kitchen faucet for its noisy run and seemed to alter the whole mood of the kitchen.

 

Al was secretly pleased when the damn machine refused to run two weeks ago. Rosie was back to using a sponge and dishpan.

 

Listening to the domestic noises from the kitchen, Al felt like the planets were in some sort of alignment.

 

Of course, he didn’t say anything like that to his nephew. Davy was probably all about fast food joints and pizza. His youth and his job probably had seen to that. The comforting sounds from a kitchen probably meant nothing to him.

 

“I gotta say, Davy, I’m pleased you got Merle’s dog back. That old fool does quite a bit of work for me at with the car lot. I don’t want to jeopardize my working relationship with him.”

 

“That old fool is one of your best friends, Alvan!” Rosie’s voice from the kitchen was loud and brassy. “He’s saved your tuchis on more occasion than you’d like to admit. Ata shakran. That’s more than a working relationship.”

 

Al looked at Davy and saw that the man was smiling. “You know what she meant, don’t you? Because your partner’s a friend like that.”

 

Starsky shrugged. He took another piece of halva off the white china plate and popped it in his mouth.

 

“They say my father and his best friend were holed up in a foxhole during the First World War. They were soaking wet, freezing and doubting they’d make it to morning,” Al began.

 

Al watched his nephew check his watch. He understood how a young man might not want to linger too long on a Friday night with a couple of old, musty relatives. He felt the same thing when he’d been trapped in a seemingly endless meal with his own Uncle Solomon and the droning of countless elderly aunts. The Shabbat candles cast a long shadow over the dining room wall then, not unlike the long tapers’ light right now.

 

He continued his story. “So, Hudson and Solomon were shivering in that water-filled mud hole, doubting they’d see the light of morning.”

 

“It must have had a happy enough ending or you wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, be here,” his nephew asked.

 

Al nodded. “You’re pretty smart for a cop. What happened was a dog. Or that’s the way the story goes anyway. Some old mutt came down into that hellhole. And between the three of them, huddled there in the dark, they were able to keep warm enough to make it to the next morning. The dog was gone by dawn. Solomon always referred to it as his second miracle.”

 

“What was his first?”

 

“My Uncle Solomon always said the first miracle granted to him was the friendship of Christopher Hudson.” Al smiled. “Perhaps it was not unlike the one I have with Merle.”

 

He could hear the slam of the refrigerator door. Then Rosie chimed in from the kitchen, “Old man, it’s about time you said that.”

 

Al tilted his head to one side. “You got time to stay a while, Davy, and listen to some more old stories?”

 

Davy did.

 

XXXXXXXX

 

Hutch tossed his partner a hot, paper sack. It landed in Starsky’s lap.

 

Starsky yelped. “Hey, watch it”

 

“What? I’ll have you know, I woke up at 5:45, skipped my morning run in order to get a bag of the staff of life for you.” Hutch didn’t look at Starsky as he started the LTD’s engine and pulled into traffic. “Hey, how did last night’s dinner with Al and Rosie go?”

 

Starsky opened the sack and pulled out a bagel. “It was acceptable, acceptable. Rosie’s brisket was pretty good, and the fire department didn’t get called after she cooked the latkes this time.”

 

Hutch laughed. “I know. I had the scanner on until midnight and didn’t hear any calls to that address this time.”

 

“That’s Officer Hutchinson, always on the job,” Starsky said, taking a nibble from his bagel. “I know I sleep better at night.”

 

“Maybe I wasn’t doing it for the job but for the entertainment value? After all, there’s nothing like the antics of a bunch of Starskys hopped up on brisket to keep an evening moving along, ” Hutch said.

 

Without pausing, Hutch added, “Hey, I called Steve Hanson. He’s gonna stop by the shelter to pick up Friendly. I also found out that Fosdick and Sandy got a six-month extension, that Max went to a family with six kids, and that some New York artist named William Wegman adopted the Weinemeiers. Unfortunately, the jury’s still out on Tiger and Duvcha.”

 

“Hutch, you’re such a white knight. You can’t save them all. I mean, you’re not even that fond of dogs.”

 

Hutch looked in the side view mirror. He didn’t say anything.

 

“And you know what, blondie? You were the same way about Molly Edwards; kids aren’t your thing, but you wanted to help her. And Sweet Alice, she…”

 

“What are you gonna say? Whore’s aren’t my thing but I…” Hutch said the rest under his breath.

 

“I’m not sayin’. I’m just observin’.” Starsky opened the glove compartment. “Got any napkins in here?”

 

“Napkins? You must be joking.”

 

Starsky snapped the box shut. “No, not joking.” His hand found the thermos on the seat between them. “You remembered coffee!”

 

“Wouldn’t be much of a stakeout without it. And buddy, this one’s gonna be tedious. How we pulled this shift keeping an eye on Plucky’s Henhouse is beyond me. I mean, how much action’s gonna be going down on a cathouse on an early Saturday morning? I’d guess the cats, and the dogs, are all sleeping it off.”

 

“Knowing Plucky’s, you’re probably right. But this shift’ll give you the opportunity to listen to some of the stories my Uncle Al told me last night.”

 

Starsky finished his bagel and tossed the empty bag into the back seat. “One of ‘em’s even got a dog in it.”