Sam Spayed, Dog Detective

The "murderer" always returns to the scene of the crime.
Photo: Teece Aronin

It was a dark and stormy night in a city of secrets and lies. I hovered over my desk - a hot stove with nothing cooking - and prayed for a scream in the dark, a wailing siren, a ringing telephone - anything, anything to end the boredom, the uneasy sense of uselessness from sitting around doing nothing. Who am I, you ask?

I'm Sam Spayed, dog defective - I mean detective.

I'm a mutt with a nose for crime and no case of mine has ever gone unsolved. But right then I didn't even have a case. And I needed a case. I needed a case like an unscrupulous dame needs an unsuspecting dupe. Yeah, I needed a case that bad.

Just when I thought I couldn't stand it anymore, the phone rang, its jagged brrrriiiinnng-brrrriiiinnng beating out a hellish tattoo in the dim and dingy office.

I snatched up that phone on the third brrrriiiinnng.

"Spayed here."

The call was from a dame, and a hysterical one at that. It seemed that the cunning jewel thief known simply as the Cat Burglar had struck again - this time in the vicinity of Dogwood and 34th. But unlike the Cat Burglar's other conquests, this was a murder too. I dove into my trench coat, grabbed my faithful fedora and disappeared into the night.

I reappeared ten minutes later at the posh and pricey penthouse doghouse of one Kitty Marmaduke. I was met at the door by the dame who'd called me, the cute little chickie who'd been doing all that yelling. Her name was Furniece Marmaduke and she was Kitty Marmaduke's daughter. 

I'd never met Furniece, but I recognized her from the society pages. She knew me by reputation. I expressed my condolences and we got down to business. She led me across a the foyer to the darkened study where her mother was stretched out on the floor, one ankle daintily crossing the other. Dawn was beginning to break and there was enough light in the room to see that on the floor near Kitty's head was a collar, a collar with a diamond-shaped tag engraved with the initials, C.B. 

Hmm . . . Cat Burglar? 

One look at Kitty proved she wasn't posing for a spread in Dog Fancy Magazine; in fact, she was a little long in the tooth to be posing naked, and besides, she wasn't naked. But she did look to be one dead dog, and none of her diamond-studded collars and her lifetime membership to the American Kennel Club could help her now.

"Miss Marmaduke, have you touched anything in here?" I asked.

"No," Mr. Spayed. "I remembered I wasn't supposed to. The lamp was off, too. I haven't touched that either. Oh Mr. Spayed," Furniece cried, all breathy and fragile-sounding, "Why did he have to murder Mumsy? She would have handed over her jewels without a fight."

"He murdered Mumsy - I mean your mother - because he knew she could identify him," I said, my eyes skirting the room for evidence. Loose pearls littered the floor and the chaise. Maybe the Cat Burglar had yanked the pearls right off Kitty Marmaduke's neck. Or maybe Furniece was wrong and her mother had put up a fight.

Suddenly someone growled and Furniece's wide eyes locked with mine. 

"Hey, don't look at me," I told her. 

"Well it certainly wasn't me," Furniece snipped. 

That growl was followed by another and Furniece and I turned to see Kitty Marmaduke's ankles uncross. Furniece's eyes were bigger than milk saucers, and she gasped as her mother moved again. 

"Mumsy!" she yelled, high-tailing it to where her mother lay. It seemed that reports of Kitty Marmaduke's death had been greatly exaggerated.

"Oh, my head," Mrs. Marmaduke muttered, slowly sitting up. "Someone hit me on the back of my head."

"That was the Cat Burglar," Furniece explained. Then sobbing into her mother's neck: "Oh, Mumsy, thank goodness you're alright!"

"Oh, Furniece, for heaven's sake, get your paws off me!" barked Kitty Marmaduke. Furniece looked wounded and came back to huddle against me. 

It seemed that Kitty Marmaduke also knew me by reputation because she snarled: "Get away from my daughter, Mr. Spayed." Then she shot me another order: "And come over here and help me up!"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, strolling to her in my own sweet time. No broad like Kitty Marmaduke was going to order me around. I started wondering how a doll like Furniece could have a mother who was such a b . . . well, you know. 

I helped Mrs. Marmaduke into a chair. Furniece was at her side again in a flash.

"So, ladies," I said, "You've both had quite a night. Whatta ya make of this?"

Furniece Marmaduke looked at me while dabbing her eyes with a hankie. She appeared innocent and vulnerable. Kitty Marmaduke looked at me while rubbing the back of her head. She appeared disgusted and insulted.                

"I would think, Mr. Spayed, that you're the one who should be making something of all this," she snapped. I had the feeling that staying clear of Kitty Marmaduke's teeth was a very good idea.                    
                                                                                                             
"Sorry, ma'am, and you're right," I said. "And I think I have an idea. But it means staying put, the three of us, right here. Nobody goes anywhere. Nothing personal, Miss Marmaduke," I said to Furniece, "but you're a little upset, and I can't risk you saying or doing anything that might spook the Cat Burglar. He'll likely be watching for you." 

Something I'd said had all the color draining from Furniece's spots. Would I have been that nervous in Furniece's place, thrown into a plot to trap a jewel thief? I wondered. Her mother, on the other paw, didn't bat an eye. 

"Miss Marmaduke, have you talked to the police?"

"No, Mr. Spayed. I was frightened, had heard about you and just phoned. I'm not sure why I didn't call the police."

"That's alright," I reassured her. The police and I don't often agree on methods and since there was no real murder here, I think we can work around them for now. You know what I'm thinking?"

"Of course we don't know what you're thinking," snapped Kitty Marmaduke. "Suppose you tell us?"

Her barb stung a little but I let it go.

"I'm thinking that the Cat Burglar will be missing that collar, the one with C.B. engraved on the tag. I also think he'll be desperate to get it back in his possession. So we're just going to hunker down for the night and wait him out. 

Hearing these words, Furniece was one scared puppy - even more than before - but Mrs. Marmaduke was one ticked off old dog. And the tick who'd had the misfortune of annoying her at that moment hit the Aubusson rug after a quick but merciless death. 

"What? On the butler's night off? I should think not, Mr. Spayed! The very idea is preposterous! Kitty and I would have to fend for ourselves under very stressful circumstances! Why I never!" 

"You did at least once, ma'am," I smirked, my eyes cutting toward Furniece. I enjoyed having Mrs. Marmaduke by the short hairs. "And besides, if you want me to catch the Cat Burglar, it's best you play along."

I hustled Furniece, who was simpering about the butler, into an adjacent room. Of course, the pup doesn't fall far from the pooch, so I had to bring her a bottle of Purrier on ice before I could shut her in. If marrying rich meant busting my tail for a dame as spoiled as she was, I'd rather stay single and poor. 

After I got Furniece settled, I rejoined Mrs. Marmaduke in the study and turned the lights back off. There was nothing for either of us to do but wait. Before I knew it, there came the distinctive clicking sounds of someone picking a lock. I then had the pleasure of shoving Mrs. Marmaduke to the floor where I quickly re-positioned her the way the Cat Burglar had left her. Then I slipped behind a curtain and froze. 

It was darker in that room than the inside of a doberman's heart. I held my breath and imagined the Cat Burglar pussy-footing across the floor. Then I sprang from behind the curtain counting on the element of surprise. 

It worked. The Cat Burglar let out a hiss and then a yowl as I grabbed him and took him down. We struggled for a minute, but cats aren't as strong as dogs, so it was only a matter of time before I had him cuffed. Then I tied his hind legs together to keep him from running. 

When I turned on the light, there he was, a panting, raging little pussycat with his hair standing on end. Then I opened the door to the room where I'd stashed Furniece and hauled her out of there. To be on the safe side, I took my heat out and pointed the gun's muzzle straight at her.

The Cat Burglar took one look at Furniece and hissed, "It's her fault! She's the one who's behind all this!" 

"Just as I suspected," I said.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Furniece.

"Well, sugar," I said, "the first nail in your coffin came when you said you 'remembered' that you weren't supposed to touch anything. 'course that's not proof of anything, but it did get me wondering if someone might have coached you on a few things. Then you nearly fainted when I said we'd all be playing it cozy for the night and waiting for a visit from Puss-In-Boots over there. It wasn't much of a deduction to figure out the rest."

"But why, Furniece?" asked Kitty Marmaduke, and I have to admit, I felt sorry for her - but only for a second.

"Oh, please!" shouted Furniece. "You and I both know that I'm not even your daughter; I'm your niece! My father ran with that horrible pack and one day he just never came home. Then my mother found out she was expecting me, and you undermined her confidence until I was born and she begged you to adopt me. You even named me Furniece as a constant reminder that you would never see me as your own daughter. I hate you! 

"Then, when we argued one night and you threatened to cut me off without a cent, I put feelers out through the criminal grapevine that I wanted to talk to the Cat Burglar. When he got in touch, we made our plan and part of that plan was that I'd give him one third of my inheritance plus whatever jewelry he could nab if he killed you during the break-in. I hate you!" 

Furniece threw that second I hate you in there just in case her mother or her aunt or whoever Kitty was, had missed the first one.

But there was something I hadn't figured out yet. "But doll-face, why did you call me in?" I asked.

"It was a calculated risk," Furniece explained. "Calling you in made me look more innocent. And it did, didn't it, Mr. Spayed? You have to admit that it did. What doomed me came later when I gave myself away."

"And you, pussnick," I said, gesturing toward the cat. "I presume you came back for your tag. Do the initials stand for Cat Burglar?"

"No - my name - Cecil Butterbottom," the Cat Burglar muttered, too embarrassed to say that name to my face.

He had reason to be. I burst out laughing then picked up the phone. I tucked the receiver between my shoulder and ear so that I could call the police with one hand and hold the gun on Furniece with the other. I had to admit, it was pretty sweet knowing I'd bagged two criminals with one trap. 

I guess you could say I'd collared them. 

Juny, We Hardly Knew Ye

Juniper was a Christmas present from me to my daughter, Syd, who joyously picked her out from among all the other guinea pigs at the pet shop. She was still a baby guinea pig and quite small, even as guinea pigs go. She was a funny-looking, short-haired, furry piece of patchwork with white, black, and tan splotches and shiny, beady little eyes.

Juniper

As far as Syd was concerned, nothing was too good for Juny, and with her own money, she bought Juny a roomy cage with a ramp, plenty of toys, and nutritious little treats. Juny, who was no dope, quickly learned on which side her bread was buttered and whistled merrily whenever Syd walked in the room.

But I don't think Juny saw merely a meal ticket in Syd. She seemed to genuinely like Syd, who took a hands-on approach in caring for Juny, including plenty of time exploring the apartment, snuggling in Syd's lap, or nestled in Syd's gentle hands. 

The other day, I was at work and got the kind of call parents dread, the kind where you know it's one of your kids. All you hear is sobbing on the other end, and you can't understand what they're saying. It was Syd, who finally managed to tell me that Juny was dying. 

In the car, my mind flashed back three years to when Syd and her brother, Jon were in the park with their pet rabbit, and a dog snatched it off Syd's lap and killed it right there in front of both kids. It took all of us days to even begin to move past that, and even now it's upsetting to think about. I wondered if Syd was flashing back, too.

At a red light, I consulted my phone and got the address for the closest emergency animal hospital. I called Syd en route and told her to wrap Juny in a towel and get ready to come to the car. When I saw Syd, my heart broke. She was chalk white, her eyes were swollen, and she was holding a tiny bundle close to her heart.

As soon as Syd was in the car and buckled in, I peeled out of there, and once I felt I could avert my eyes from traffic, I looked at Juny lying in the towel, face poking out, nose pale. I reached over and brushed my finger along her cheek.

"What is going on with you, Juny? What are you trying to prove?" As I spoke these words to this so sick guinea pig, I kept my voice very soft because I had this idiotic feeling that she could understand and would think I really was blaming her for putting us to all this trouble and making us feel so awful. And then, of course, I started to bawl.

"Mom, please don't cry," Syd said, her huge, teary, saucer eyes staring hard at me. "I'll lose it if you cry. Please stop." So, I focused on the road and tried to do as she asked. I didn't do it very well.

"I wonder what happened," I said, reaching over again to stroke the little face.

"Maybe I didn't clean her cage often enough," my daughter said, and shame at the very idea hung in her voice. "When I saw her, I took her out of the cage and held her and kept saying, 'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.'"

"No, Syd. You took very good care of her. It wasn't anything like that."

And then, as it usually does when one comforts children with dead or dying pets, the question of an afterlife came up. But I was the one who needed reassurance.

"I think Juny's headed someplace nice, don't you?" I asked.

Syd's answer was emphatic. "The Rainbow Bridge." She said this as if God Himself consulted her before commissioning it.

"The what?"

"The Rainbow Bridge," she repeated. "It's a bridge where pets go when they die to wait for their owners. When their owners die, they meet at the bridge and cross over together into Heaven."

"Oh, Syd, that sounds like a really great place," I said. "I'm sure that's where Juny's headed."

We arrived at the hospital, rushed Juny in, and were immediately whisked to a room. I was handed a form to fill out while Syd sat, distraught in a chair and Juny lay motionless on the exam table, still wrapped in the towel.

The vet scooted into the room, bent over Juny, and laid a stethoscope against the tiny rib cage. "What happened?" she asked, and since she seemed to be asking Juny, neither Syd nor I answered. We didn't know what happened anyway, so we wouldn't have been much help. The vet straightened up and said, "I think she's gone."

"You don't need to fill out the rest of that form," the vet tech said, relieving me of the form and the clipboard. Suddenly, and more than anything, I, who hate forms, wanted to fill it out because filling out a form implied that Juny still had a chance.

"Would you like us to dispose of her?" asked the tech.

"I don't know. What do people usually do?" I asked.

"Well, some people take them home and bury them," she replied. "Or we can have her cremated and give you back the ashes."

"How much would that cost?" I asked the tech who went away to look up the price. While she was out of the room, I walked to Juny and gently pulled back the towel. 

'How could a newly dead guinea pig look so different from her living self?' I pondered. A spark was gone, some spark beyond motion and breath. Even her fur seemed duller and her body flatter.

I'm sure there are dozens of physiological reasons for all of that and that one would have to be a giant optimist or a pure idiot to find reassurance in Juny's new corporeal state. I'm hoping that it was optimism, but know that at times, I have been a pure idiot.

So, I'm not saying I took Juny's physical transformation as proof that a spirit once inhabited that little form, but I still felt reassured. I stroked the little face some more as if stroking it could give Juny comfort. But Juny was probably already hightailing it to the Rainbow Bridge and couldn't care less if I was stroking her face.

The tech came back, consulting a paper on her clipboard. She was searching for the price category covering Junies weighing less than 12 ounces.

"That would be $100," she said, glancing up at me.

One-hundred dollars? The sum rang in my head. One-hundred dollars to cremate one little guinea pig, a guinea pig that was small even as guinea pigs go? A guinea pig that only cost $40 when she was alive?

"Okay, that's what we'll do," I said, handing her my debit card. But really, one-hundred dollars?

"Mom," Syd whispered, "that's too expensive. I don't mind burying her." But I couldn't expect her to bury Juny, and I sure didn't want to do it. And we'd have to get permission from the apartment managers and then buy or borrow a shovel. I just didn't have it in me to do all that.

"It's okay, Syd. This way you'll always have her with you." The tech left the room then came back, loaded down with little boxes.

"These are your choices for storing the ashes," she said. 

With the exception of a little coffin-shaped box, each tiny container looked suspiciously like a cookie tin from our local dollar store. It crossed my mind to offer up my own cookie tin if it would cut down on the cost, but I chose the high ground and kept my mouth shut.

"Which one do you want, Syd?" I asked.

"That one," said my daughter, pointing to one I had somehow overlooked. It was actually a lovely little metal box and Syd did well to have chosen it.

"Oh, that's a nice one," commented the tech. "That's the Rainbow Bridge design. I like that one, too." 

If the Rainbow Bridge was famous enough that there was even an "urn" named after it, maybe God really had commissioned it.

"The cremation people will come here for her on Monday and you can pick her up again on Thursday." 

Pick her up again on Thursday. The tech said it as though we were just sending Juny out to be groomed, and she'd be back on Thursday all spruced up.

"Syd, if it would help, I'll buy you another guinea pig tonight," I offered.

"I don't know, Mom," she said. "I think I need to wait a while; not just for myself but out of respect for Juny."

And so it was that we came to wait for . . . three . . . whole . . . days. When you're used to having something in your life that you can scoop up and love on a whim, there's a hole left when it's gone. Syd picked out a Netherland dwarf rabbit. So far, she has yet to name him officially, but his working moniker is Prince Charming. He is rather dashing, especially when we try to catch him and put him in his cage. So maybe that's the name she'll keep.

So, as Prince Charming settles in, we still remember Juny. If I'd thought she felt well enough to listen on the way to the vet, I'd have given her a heads up about our other "pals with paws" who'd gone before her, and some advice for when she met them at the Rainbow Bridge.

I'd have said, "Bill and Clawdia are good cats, but Bill will think himself too cool to show any interest in you at first, and Clawdia gets lost easily, so don't let her wander far from the bridge. Thumper is the rabbit who had that unfortunate run-in with a husky, so I doubt he'll be hanging out near the dogs. Then again, he probably has some kind of double jeopardy protection in the afterlife and can't get hurt again, but who could blame him if he steers clear? And please tell him we're sorry he got stuck with such an unoriginal name, but he already had that name when we adopted him."

Some might think it silly to take the death of a guinea pig so seriously, or to write about it with such gravity. To those people I say it's probably been too long since you last held such a tiny creature in your hands, or heard it whistle when you walked into the room.

Kitt's Corner - Just Like Pussy Pasta

Sometimes Kitt throws herself at the wall just to see if she'll stick.

Hope's Corner - Hope Dishes the Dirt

             

This is a rather blurry picture (because it was an action shot) of my dog, Hope dishing the dirt about her stay at a doggie resort (a.k.a. a kennel). 

She made "backbiting" comments about some of the WITCHES (not her word) that she met that weekend. 

You know, for a dog, Hope can be pretty catty.