Detective Dog

Detective Dog was reading his new case. Another dead sheep. This one in Canton, about 100 miles north. Canton, a town where no sheep lives. No doubt, it was the work of the Mutton gang. They'd been killing members of the Bellwether gang all month. Finding them alone walking down the road, shoving them in their van, beating them to death, then driving to some far away town and dumping the body in the middle of the road. So of course Detective Dog knew who was doing the killing, but what could he do about it? If he went to interrogate them, they'd never say a word to him. And, to be honest, even going into that area made Detective Dog a little nervous. That Mutton gang was psychotic.

"Sir?"

It was Deputy Duck, standing in the doorway to his office. His fur was a mess. Maybe since his wife moved out, he stopped bothering to comb it.

"It's Dierdre. She's back in the hospital again".

Detective Dog furrowed his brow. Dierdre the Deer had been having a rough month, alright.

"How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad", said Deputy Duck. "Two of her antlers are broken, as well as her hind leg. She's saying she fell down the stairs."

"Jesus. When did she get in?"

"Oh, about an hour ago I'd say. Up at Montclair hospital." Detective Dog looked up at the deputy, and noticed his eyes were a little glazey. Just a little. He wondered if the deputy had started drinking again. He'd been on the wagon for the past year (supposedly, at least). But his wife had moved out a week ago. Detective Dog noticed too that the deputy's stomach was bulging a little. It had been getting larger month by month. Too much birdseed, he thought.

"Well alright, Denny. Thanks for letting me know. I'll take a look into it after I finish this case." He pointed at the brief for the dead sheep in Canton.

Deputy Duck stood for a moment in the doorway, as if he was about to say something. But instead said "Of course, sir", and left the detective alone.

Detective Dog looked down at the report of the dead sheep again. And thought about Deirdre the deer. Poor Deirdre, she was the sweetest deer. Always strutting around in her sweet summer dresses. Married to that piece of crap, Dave. Detective Dog thought about giving Dave a visit. Having a nice, long talk with him. He considered what he might say, what evidence he might present. But what was the point? He'd need the testimony of Deirdre, and she always stood by Dave. Always said she fell down the stairs, or lost her balance while running in a forest, or whatever pathetic excuse they came up with. Detective Dog tried before, and nothing ever came of it. So what's the point?

Detective Dog opened the drawer under his desk and pulled out a bottle of absinthe. He took a swig, and saw it was nearly empty. Jesus, he thought, I bought this just two days ago. The alcohol worked its way down his stomach like a hot piece of cloth. He thought about his father, who died of stomach cancer in 1987. He died alone. When Detective Dog was a little puppy, still in dog school, he came home early one day and found his mother laying on the kitchen table with Fredrick the Fox. Fredrick, who had been repairing their roof. Detective Dog never told his father, but as he got older he suspected he always knew. His mother always sought the "male animal's gaze", sometimes even when her husband was standing right next to her. Six years after Detective Dog saw her laying with Fredrick, his mother left his father. His father never remarried. He spent the last 5 doggy years of his life sitting on the couch alone, drinking beer and watching TV.

Detective Dog picked up his fountain pen and started drawing in his notebook. Nothing in particular - just some half-circles, with dots in them. And lines with crosses, and some random swirls. He had a pen that really bled a lot of ink. He liked the weight of it in his paw. 

His thoughts turned back to Deirdre. A year ago she had been pregnant. She lost the baby when she supposedly was hit by a car. Dave said she had went out to the forest to get some water. At 11 o'clock on a winter night. And Deirdre said it was true. Dave, that piece of garbage. But what could he do about it? And to be fair, it had been for the best for Dave the Deer to not become a father. Maybe that was why he did it to her. Detective Dog tossed Dave in jail that night, evidence be damned.

He stood up. It was the end of the day. Time to go back home. He could deal with Deirdre and the dead sheep another day. He put on his hat and walked towards the door - his footing was sure, despite the absinthe. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass next to the door and was reminded that there was grey in his fur. He had a date with Lucy later in the night. She was a sweet little dog, but well past the age of birthing. He'd need to find a younger dog, if he was ever going to have a family. But an old dog like him, with grey in his fur, and a bit of a gut too if he was to be honest, what young dog would go with him? Lately he'd been wondering often, where did my youth go? His mother had always told him how handsome he was; maybe it took him too long to realize that had just been a mother's lie.

He shook all those thoughts away - such thoughts lead to nothing good - and walked outside. As soon as he took his first step out the door he realized he'd forgotten his overcoat. The cold wind blasted him in the face. It was mid-April. God damn it, he thought. Shouldn't the winter be over by now? This is about the coldest day in the entire year. He looked towards where his old Nissan was parked; it was in the courthouse parking lot, down a cobbled pathway lined with trees. The tree branches hung over the path like an oval. It was really a beautiful view, especially this time of year, when the tree branches were cold and bare. He stood there for a long time, and his face softened. Shouldn't he go back already, and get his overcoat? The wind was really blowing hard, right in his face. But he just kept standing there, looking down the pathway lined with trees. And after a little while, the cold stopped bothering him. It even started to feel refreshing, in a strange way. And so he just stood there. He did not go back to get his coat, and he did not walk to his car. He just stood there, in the cold.