Stu the Stealthy

Stu the Stealthy

Myron Rosenbaum had always wanted a dog, while his wife Rachel eschewed all pets as a matter of hygiene.

“Cats are clean, sure,” she said. “But the smell of the litter box, Ugh. Makes me want to gag! Dogs can be such a nuisance. They want out. They want in. They want out. They want in. Always licking their privates. My God, Myron. And, do not get me started on birds or rodents. If I wanted to sleep with animals, I’d move into the forest.”

However, a recent string of robberies in town tilted the scales in Myron’s favor.

“A dog, a nice watchdog. That would keep out the riffraff,” Myron argued. “A Doberman Pinscher, quiet, loyal, sleek. That’s the ticket. We won’t have to worry about your jewelry with a Doberman around. The security service we use has several. I’m told we could even borrow one for a trial run.”

The seed was planted. Three days passed.

Then, while reading the paper, Rachel relented. “Another robbery,” she said, looking at Myron over her reading glasses. “All right,” she said, “borrow the dog. But if he starts licking his…”

Rufus, one of the dogs in the employ of Smith Security, was selected for the Rosenbaum’s trial. He was quiet, well-behaved, and house trained. Perhaps, too well.

“He wants out, he wants in; he wants out, he wants in,” Rachel reminded her husband, but Myron never complained.

“Just settling in,” he told Rachel. “He’s just settling in. Give him a chance.”  

Stu the Stealthy, as he liked to call himself, laid out his work tools on a clean linen towel; a boxcutter, small prybar, Zeiss Carl Victory FL8X32 binoculars, a Fenix 900 lumen LED tactical flashlight, duct tape, bear spray (to incapacitate large dogs), three pairs of nitrile gloves, a black, lightweight, polyester balaclava, a Leatherman Surge multitool and finally, for emergency use only, two sets of Tuff Tie disposable nylon-braided wrist ties. He inserted everything into his black heavy-duty 600 denier nylon, 40L day pack.

Clothing was laid out next, all black, consisting of lightweight spandex pants, turtleneck shirt, polyester socks, and soft-soled Adidas running shoes. He never scrimped on clothing. Underwear, optional. “If one wants to act commando, one should go commando,” was a Stu stealth slogan.

Again, he consulted the evening weather forecast. It was perfect. Light winds (to cover incidental noise), overcast, no precipitation, sixty degrees and most important, no moon. He’d targeted three potential homes, McMansions all, which tended to indicate ostentatious, jewelry wearing, art collecting, liberal leaning, NPR listening, anti-gun crusading residents, who spent their weekends in their upcountry lakeside “cottages.” Pets, when they had them, generally consisted of pampered, fluffy small snoozers. Pit bulls and German shepherds were not the dog of choice among his clientele. Too noisy, anxious and unpredictable.

Promptly at 12:30AM, Stu set out for the first home on his prospect list, the Humphreys’ enormous, faux-Tudor, single family residence, an insult to traditional architecture. Capable of housing a single family of twenty-five, he thought smugly. He had thoroughly cased the property. These were perennial weekend lake dwellers. They could be relied upon to load the family of three (and their white Bolognese dust-bunny of a dog) into their 2020 Platinum Edition Land Rover for a weekend adventure at their 6,000 square foot getaway.

Stu parked his late-model Subaru Outback two blocks away, in a parking lot which backed against the Humphrey’s property. He easily scaled the cedar lattice fence and crept carefully to the corner of the house. He cut the exposed wire for the pool’s auxiliary, motion-sensor lighting which illuminated the yard. Never pick the low bid contractor on security lighting, Stu thought, smiling. He sidled to the glass slider and peered into the house.

To his surprise, Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey were lounging in their living room, framed in the bluish glow of their 65-inch television screen from eight feet away. Stu pulled the compact binoculars from his pack for a closer look. Mr. Humphrey was splayed out on the couch in a terry cloth bathrobe, boxer shorts and wife-beater t-shirt which bore a large food stain under his chin, like a bib. Two beer cans lay at his feet, another was perched in his crotch wrapped in a PBS logoed beverage koozie. Mrs. Humphrey sat on the other end of the couch; head wrapped in a towel. She wore a brightly colored, flannel nightgown and flip flops, alternating quick glimpses at the television with careless stabs at her toenails with nail polish. The dog lay between them legs spread wide for a belly rub.

Stu pulled himself away from the window with his back against the wall. What gives? This is Friday night, right? He was startled by the kitchen light. Mr. Humphrey was peering out of the window into the backyard, inches above Stu’s head. Stu tilted the binoculars in front of his chest, watching the homeowner’s reflection in the Zeiss lens. After a few minutes, the light switched off. Humphries returned to the couch. Stu stole back to the fence and returned to his car, swearing quietly under his breath.

At the Maretti’s, Stu found the couple making love on the living room floor, bathed in the eerie aura of the television. Mr. Maretti’s large, hairy rump rose and fell with the gentle, steady rhythm of an Oklahoma oilfield pump. Mrs. Maretti lay stationary beneath him with her knees spread wide, corralling her affectionate spouse in place. No need for binoculars here, Stu thought, shuddering. The last image of the coital pair Stu carried away, was the Netflix logo, casting a Valentine hued patina over Mr. Maretti’s pale buttocks.

The Rosenbaum’s looked more promising. There was no sign of life in the house. All lights were out, and no television glow emanated from the windows. Finally. Stu pulled the boxcutter from his pack and cut away the screen. He inserted the prybar beneath the window and with great care and deliberation leaned downward upon it until he heard a slight snap, as the plastic latch gave way. He returned his tools to the pack, donned his nitrile gloves and slid the window up, poking his head within.

Suddenly, Stu heard a toilet flush. The lights flashed on the stairway leading from upstairs as Mr. Rosenbaum descended. What concerned Stu, more than the sight of Rosenbaum, was the large, sleek Doberman which bound alongside. What the heck! When did they get a dog?! With no time to rummage in his pack for bear spray, Stu sprinted across the Rosenbaum’s expansive backyard. The slider opened. Rufus sensed the intruder immediately, silently racing after him with the intensity and focus of a laser beam. Stu and the dog reached the stockade fence simultaneously. However, Stu had fortuitously placed a bench against it to facilitate his egress. At full speed, Stu leapt onto the bench diving headfirst over the fence as if competing at an Olympic event. Rufus hurled himself at the fleeing burglar, jaws snapping and mouth frothing, missing Stu by inches, before slamming full force into the fence. There it barked and yelped in helpless fury as Stu made good his escape.

At his car, Stu sat at the wheel perspiring heavily. His hands shook as he steadied them on the steering wheel. The dawn cast a faintly pink glow as Stu started the car for home. “My God,” he said to himself, “how long will this pandemic last? A guy has got to make a living.”