LuLu's Desperate House Dogs (formerly the Bow Wow Blog)

LuLu's Desperate House Dogs is a blog about an eccentric little Beagle named LuLu, who, along with her sister Sadie (a Whippet/Terrier/Beagle blend), writes the lurid Puppies in Lust series, and absorbs local color in an idyllic, off-the-leash, canine-centered village known as Lincoln Park~

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Our current mystery is The Maltese Chew Toy, based on the book, The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett, and featuring Sam Spencer, private eye~

28 Comments:

Anonymous said...: This is our new story board. Please do not post messages~; 12:02 AM
Anonymous said...: THE MALTESE CHEW TOY

(Based on a dream of LuLu's and dear Mr. Hammett's~)

Sam Spencer's jaw was long and bony, his chin thrust forward at an almost belligerent angle, his black nose twitched constantly, and his chocolate-brown, bedroom eyes gleamed with a combination of good humor and cunning. Born a King Charles spaniel, he had, not long thereafter, been taken by ship across an ocean, and transported via truck to San Francisco, where he was earmarked for an upscale pet shop. But Sam Spencer managed to escape. He managed to escape and hit the streets, and it was on those streets, in the rich and varied world of San Francisco, that he was able to obtain a most unrefined but useful education.

As he sauntered down Geary Street, Sam occasionally paused to sniff around a fire hydrant. Satisfied that no strangers were loose in the neighborhood, he then casually relieved himself before going on to the next one.

"Psst! Spencer!" Old Grunt, a three-legged mutt who looked like a cross between a prairie dog and a fox, stuck his head out from behind a high wooden fence. "The dogcatcher's gonna nab you fer sure, man. Yer just plain brazen."

Sam barked a laugh. "So how come you're still around? You're nine years old if you're a day. I'm only three."

"Careful," rejoined the mutt. "I'm careful. So careful, Sam, I mostly come out after dark."

Sam sat down and scratched at a flea. "So do cockroaches and bats."

"Always crackin' wise, huh?" said Old Grunt. "Well, enjoy yer freedom, Sam, 'cause I'm here to tell ya that it ain't gonna last." And with the thwack of a board, the prognosticating old mutt vanished.

Sam Spencer continued his amble down Geary. The dogcatcher! Maybe there was a fat guy with ropes and clubs in his future, but the matter wasn't one which worried him overmuch. A dog could get an ulcer, he thought, and it wasn't as if he didn't have plenty of other problems. But so what? Life was a maze, and if you started worrying about things, you'd get lost in it.

Sam made it to Post Street without getting lost in any mazes. He paused for a moment at a spot where a couple of badly treated juniper bushes all but concealed the entrance to a small vacant area between two apartment houses. Sam looked about, sniffed the air, and content that all was well, slipped inside.

A beat-up doghouse was propped up against a fence with loose boards. Next to the doghouse was an unused toolshed with a broken, unlatched door, and lying inside of it was Effie the beagle, a pert bitch with almond-shaped eyes. She rose as Sam entered, shook herself off, and nudged a container filled with water in his direction.

"Fresh," she said, "and I've saved some food for you." She wagged her tail, twitched her ears, and batted her lashes at him.

"You're a good girl, Effie," complimented Sam, who lapped some water from the bowl, but declined the Red Heart. "It's getting hot. Summer's coming."

She winked at him. "And with it -- puppies!"

Sam winced slightly. "You're sure about that?"

She looked down her long, slender snout at him. "Sam!"

"Okay, okay." He backed off. "I just hope Mrs. Petoma won't blow her stack and stop feeding us."

Mrs. Petoma was the landlady at 891 Post Street. She was also Effie's mistress, and to some extent, Sam Spencer's. Which is to say, she put up with Sam.

"Is that what Miss Caruthers did when you got Iva in the family way?" Effie's beautiful eyes momentarily clouded. Iva the spaniel was their next-door neighbor, and Sam had known her long before Effie arrived on the scene.

He growled a sigh. Bitches -- human and canine! What on earth did they expect of him? He was only a dog, after all.

"Anybody stop by?" he asked. "It's been a while between clients."

"Iva came out to see Archer while he was here," Effie replied, emphasizing his partner's name. "Their relationship is getting serious. Iva thinks she's going to have puppies not long after I whelp."

Sam grunted.

"And some fluffy little thing who looked like a show dog crawled under the fence about an hour ago. She was wearing pink polish on her nails and smelled like a bottle of perfume."

Sam slowly wagged his tail. "No kidding? What'd she want?"

Effie settled herself back in the toolshed and resumed gnawing on a day-old bone. "Dunno. She asked if you were around, it was obvious you weren't, so she left."

"Did you get her name?" Sam asked hopefully.

"Brigid," Effie told him. "Looked like a Maltese. Not your type, Sam. Way too hoity-toity."

"All potential clients are my type," Sam insisted, turning to leave. "If she stops by again, set up an appointment, sweetheart. With any luck, this one won't pay us in mere bones."

"Where are you going and when will you be back?" she inquired.

"Those aren't questions you should ask a dog," he informed her somewhat coldly, "mainly as it's unlikely that you'll ever get a straight answer."

(Story to be continued...); 12:38 AM
LuLu said...: The Maltese Chew Toy...TM...LuLu's Desperate House Dogs (formerly the Bow Wow Blog); 2:26 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd)

Sam headed down Post Street, pausing at his favorite lamppost to pick up scents. Hmmm. Something rather sweet down near the base. Sweet and different. The leavings of a bitch named Brigid, perhaps? But Effie said she'd come in the back way. Ah, well. Who knew?

Sam retraced his paw prints over to Geary Street, and paused for a moment before entering an alleyway. He was on his guard, but all seemed well. He went to the backdoor of a restaurant he knew and began to bark. It took a minute, but finally the door opened a crack. "Eet eez the dog," said a skinny waiter with a phony French accent.

"Give him some sausage," commanded a rotund individual with a drooping mustache.

"You err ze boss," said the waiter and placed a plate of sausages outside the door for Spencer. "Ici. Ici. Eat, good dog."
And he closed the door.

Spencer wolfed down the food and licked his chops. He'd fogged a few rats for the restaurant owner a couple of months before, and the grateful chef had a long memory.

Effie was going to have puppies soon, thought Sam. He couldn't just desert them -- or could he? He also thought about Iva, his former lover, who was now his partner's girlfriend. She was going to whelp right after Effie?
He sincerely hoped the puppies were Archer's -- but he doubted it.

Sam toyed with the idea of looking up Ricardo the cat, a mean mouser who had cut into his rat-fogging business a few times, but it was already past noon, and the skies were looking cloudy. Instead, he turned around and made his way back up Geary Street, faking a limp as he passed by a butcher's shop. As he'd hoped, the butcher's kid came out of the shop and handed him a bone. A lamb bone, no less. Sam licked the kid's ear, clenched the bone between his teeth, and hobbled off.

He got back to his own patch of earth, and dropped the lamb bone in front of a delighted Effie, just as Archer arrived with a much smaller bone for Iva.

Archer was a six-year-old terrier mix. He was of medium size, solidly built, wide in the shoulders, thick in the neck. He had a jovial, heavy-jawed red face and he was getting a little gray around the jowls. Archer had been born on the streets, adopted by urchins a few times, and given shelter by hobos and bums. By and large, he had alway been on his own. He and Sam had teamed up two years before -- fogged some rats together, and once they even found a missing puppy, whose grateful owner rewarded them with a place to spend a rather hard winter. That was before Sam discovered the patch of earth on Post Street -- and Iva.

Sam was not particularly fond of Archer. He'd never been an especially friendly dog, and he was slowing down and fast becoming a detriment in middle age. Cats could easily outrun him these days, and twice in recent weeks he'd almost been nabbed by the dogcatcher. Sam let Archer hang out on his patch because he'd once taught him the ropes, and because he'd taken Iva off his paws. But Sam knew you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks, and he was afraid that it was only a matter of time before Archer led the dogcatcher straight to their sanctuary, and the good times would be over fast.

Iva sashayed out of the back door of 893, and barked once at Archer. She scowled at Sam, and wagged her tail at Effie. Sam tried, and failed, to hide a smile. Iva was a blonde cocker bitch who was about the same age that he was. Her puppy prettiness was long gone, but her body was finely modeled and exquisite. She wore a black leather collar, with a silver heart for an ID tag, and she was, thought Sam, way too good for his partner. Her mistress, Sophie Caruthers, who owned number 893, agreed with this assessment. She had mistakenly blamed Archer for Iva's first litter of puppies, and no doubt he would get the blame for the second batch as well. Iva really needed to get spayed, Sam concluded, although if she did, it would take a small measure of joy out of both his life and Archer's.

Sam watched as Iva accepted Archer's ham bone with the barest of nods. She had seen the size of the bone he had given to Effie and was patently envious. Poor Archer, thought Sam. He was a dog who just couldn't win for losing.

A sweet aroma like a lost load from a florist's truck suddenly assailed Sam's nostrils, and he followed Archer's glazed stare to the fence that blocked off the alleyway. There, next to a dug-out hole in the ground, stood a veritable little Maltese bombshell. She looked to be about two years old, which meant she had been around the block, but not all over it. She was tiny, as became her breed, and her thick, silky hair was as white as the petals of an Easter lily. Her dark, liquid eyes were large, round and smoldering. She had a petite black nose, and when she moved, she appeared to float. Sharp white teeth glistened in a tiny bow of a mouth, and a blue bow was gracefully perched on her topknot.

Spencer and Archer both stood at the ready, chins raised, tongues dangling. Iva bristled a bit, while Effie merely looked concerned.

"I'm Brigid," said the little Maltese. She turned her head slightly and the rhinestones on her collar flashed. "I'm looking for a mutt goes by the name of Sam Spencer."

(Story to be continued...); 12:44 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd)

"Rein in your tongue, Sam. There's a pool of saliva by your front paws," Effie observed.

Sam responded with an amused grimace, slowly wagged his tail, and then spoke to Brigid. "You just found your mutt of choice, sugar. What can I do to help you?"

"Or me," put in Archer, whose ragged tail, which had been caught in far too many slammed screen doors, was rotating faster than the speed of light.

"My partner," explained Sam. "The flea-bitten one."

"Like you've had a bath in the past six months!" Archer growled.

Brigid sat down and arranged her neat little paws in front of her. "When you dogs get tired of playing around, just let me know. You'd best clue me in before it starts to rain, though, or I'm taking my business elsewhere."

"And just what sort of business would a sleek bitch like you have with two street dogs like Sam and Archer?" asked Iva. "You're not from around here. From the looks of you, you're straight off the Hill."

Brigid shook, rather than wagged, her tail. She carried it over her back, like a rich woman's evening wrap. "At least you know quality when you see it," she said.

"Get off it, honey," Iva retorted.
"I'm as much of a pure breed as you are."

Brigid looked down at her heavily lacquered nails. "Well, yes, but ever so much more common."

Archer blocked Iva's path before she could lunge. Sam said to Brigid, "Let's step out into the alley for a minute, sister. Effie, make sure Iva stays here."

Effie opened her mouth, and closed it just as quickly. She watched as Sam and Brigid crawled under the fence, and then checked to make sure that Archer had Iva under control, which he did. Effie went back inside the toolshed, flopped down, and began gnawing on her fresh lamb bone. Brigid was obviously trouble, but there wasn't much she could do about it. Fresh lamb bones were few and far between, and Effie prided herself on being practical.

Sam kept his eye on Brigid as she exited his somewhat less than spectacular patch of earth, crawled under the fence, and emerged in a littered alleyway without so much as disturbing the blue silk bow on her topknot. Quite a dame, he decided. She could probably walk through Great Dane droppings with all the aplomb of a princess.

She settled herself gracefully and looked up at him.

"Now, what can I do for you?" Sam asked her.

"It's complicated," she told him.

He nodded. "In my business most things are."

"It's like this," she began, her gaze firmly holding his own, "I've got a kid sister named Lola. She's run off with one of the guard dogs from our digs on Nob Hill, and she's taken a fortune in jewels with her."

Sam spied an old leather slipper that had fallen out of one of the trash cans which lined the alleyway. "Excuse me," he said, while he retrieved the item from a nearby bush. He stretched out contentedly and began chewing on the slipper.

Brigid waited patiently.

Finally he glanced up. "Lola look like you?"

She nodded. "We're almost identical. She's only a few minutes younger."

"Tell me something about this guard dog," Sam prompted.

"His name is Thor," said Brigid. "He's big, mean. Never been neutered, of course."

Sam ripped the heel off the slipper. "Oh, of course not. What's his breed?"

"He's part Doberman and part bull-mastiff," she replied. "Sort of dark brown. Very powerful jaws."

"And he's keeping company with a Maltese?" Sam shook his head. "Talk about your odd couple."

Brigid looked down at her paws. "Lola is very innocent and has no idea about..." she raised her expressive eyes to his, batting her lashes in the process ... "about certain things. She's highly romantic, you see, and I'm frightfully concerned. She's been gone for more than a week."

Sam spat out part of the heel. "I've got a feeling the bloom is off the rose by now," he said. "Tell me about this fortune in jewels."

"The jewels are inside a chew toy," Brigid confided. "The toy is a small bird. The head comes off, and the jewels are tucked down inside, under layers of cotton."

Sam tore apart the back end of the slipper. "Is this story for real, sweetheart?"

Brigid allowed herself a small groan of exasperation. "I suppose I should have mentioned that Lola and I belong to Florinda Gatthamer. Does the name ring a bell?"

"Yeah," said Sam, "and not a sweet sounding one. Is she any relation to Bugsy Gatthamer, the mobster?"

Brigid's eyes flashed along with the rhinestones on her collar. "She's his wife, and whatever you've heard isn't true.
Daddy Gatthamer tries to help people, but his efforts are misunderstood."

"I guess that explains," said Sam, "why he's currently serving time in Alcatraz for murder."

(Story to be continued...); 2:09 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd)

Brigid stared at Sam and he stared back at her. "I don't suppose you've ever made a mistake in your life?" she asked.

"I've made plenty," he told her, "but I've never murdered anybody."

"Neither has Daddy Gatthamer," she insisted. "Now he's sick, and Florinda needs those jewels in order to hire a new mouthpiece for him. She has to get Daddy out of Alcatraz!"

Sam stood up and shook himself off. A lot about Brigid's tale seemed concocted, but that didn't mean he wasn't interested in making the most of whatever she had to offer.

"Any idea where this mutt Thor might have taken your sister?" he asked her.

Eyes bright, she nodded emphatically. "There's a man -- he used to be our chauffeur. His name's Floyd Munsday, and he absolutely adored Thor. He has a house over on Bush Street, not far from where it roofs Stockton, and then slips downhill to Chinatown. You can't miss the place. There are weeds in the yard, and a dead tree that once got struck by lightning is right outside the front door."

"How do you know all this?" asked Sam. "Are you telling me you strolled over there one fine day just for the fresh air?"

She never missed a beat. "I went there once with Daddy Gatthamer. He and Floyd were more than employer and employee. They've always been good friends."

I'll bet, thought Sam. From what he'd heard, Bugsy Gatthamer didn't have good friends. "And if I find your sister and her boyfriend living with this two-footer Munsday, just what is it you expect me to do about it?"

Brigid looked surprised. "Why, I expect you to get the bird from them. Naturally, I'm worried sick about my sister -- but I really want that chew toy!"

Sam hid a smile. So much for sisterly devotion. He flopped back down and picked up his slipper. A drop of rain smacked him lightly on the nose.

"Are you going to take my case or not?" asked Brigid, and it pleased Sam to note that the self-possessed little bitch was getting fidgety.

Not bothering to reply, he bit through the toe of the slipper. When he finally looked up, he saw that Brigid's eyes were as hot as lead. She was angry and she was nervous. "I haven't said no, sugar, but exactly what's in this for me?"

She opened her rosebud of a mouth and let out a sharp bark. A few moments later Sam watched, bemused, as a tiny pug came prancing down the alleyway. He was carrying a large pink box held together by two brightly colored strings which he had clenched between his teeth. He was dignity personified.

Brigid acknowledged the pug with the barest quiver of her elegant tail. "Show him the goodies, Cairo."

The pug daintily placed the box in front of Sam, who saw from the fancy label on the lid that whatever was inside came from Cole's, one of the city's finest and most expensive food emporiums. Sam's nose began to dance.

"Voila!" said the pug, as he lifted the lid with his paws. Inside, Sam saw a fully cooked turkey wrapped in paper so fine it looked like silk.

"And this is just the beginning," he heard Brigid say. "Have you ever tasted liver pate, Sam -- or fresh lake trout? Or how about steaks so tender you barely have to chew them?"

"Cut it out, you're killing me," Sam protested. Meanwhile, his nose was twitching like a junkie's nervous system, as he inhaled the delicious aroma of the fowl before him.

"There are some tasty greens beneath the bird," the tiny pug informed him in a voice so cultivated, Sam wondered why he wasn't wearing spats on his paws.

"Who in the kennel are you?" he asked.

Brigid took it upon herself to answer. "Meet my friend Cairo. Florinda named him for her hometown of Cairo, Illinois. She pronounces it KAY-RO, but I prefer the classier Egyptian pronunciation.

The pug gave Brigid a look of naked adoration, which made Sam pity him. Poor mutt! He thought. Cairo had obviously been neutered, meaning his relationship with the bitch he idolized had to remain platonic -- forever.

A few drops of rain struck the back of the fence, and Brigid said, "All right, what's it going to be, Sam -- a bird for the bird? I'm tired of playing games."

So was Sam, but he let a rumble in the pit of his stomach override his better judgment. "The bird will do for starters. Where can I get in touch with you?" he asked.

Brigid shook her extravagant tail. "Oh, Cairo will be your contact," she replied loftily.

"It will indeed be my very deep pleasure," said the little pug, wagging his curlicue of a tail in evident anticipation.

"Well, it may not be mine," said Sam, ignoring the pug and addressing Brigid instead.

There was a flash of lightning, and the rain began to come down in earnest. Sam stuck his head inside the box from Cole's, and sank his teeth into the turkey. When he looked up again, he saw Brigid and Cairo turning the corner at the end of the alleyway.

The pug turned his head and offered Sam what looked like a smile.

Brigid never bothered to look back.

(Story to be continued...); 12:58 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd) TM

Effie gave a sigh of pure pleasure. "I've never eaten anything so delicious in my entire life," she said, as she happily licked her chops. Sam wagged his tail at her, while considering that her entire life thus far consisted of slightly more than three-hundred and sixty-five days. And he wondered -- did that most salient fact make him a complete cur?

The four dogs -- Effie, Sam, Iva, and Archer, were crowded inside Effie's shed, polishing off the remnants of the fat, well-cooked turkey from Cole's, while outside a light spring rain made the city smell almost clean.

"Watch the bones," Iva cautioned Archer. "You can choke on those things." But her concern didn't stop her from crunching down hard on a juicy wing.

"So what do you know," Sam asked Archer, "about Bugsy Gatthamer, aside from the fact he's a mean two-footer who's serving time in Alcatraz for snuffing a fellow gunsel?"

Archer sniffed cautiously at a puddle of peas. "He snuffed his own business partner, Sam, meaning he is truly no gentleman. Otherwise, all I know about him is that he likes purebred dogs and hot, impure dames. He used to be married to a woman from somewhere back east. Old human blood, blue as a chow's tongue, but no money. Gatthamer thought he could use her to break into San Francisco society, but our fair city slammed its doors in his mug and refused to open them. I understand there was a son who's grown by now. I've no idea what happened to him."

Sam grunted, while helping himself to what was left of the bird's neck.

Archer continued. "Gatthamer's unhappy wife died a few years ago."

"Was it unexpected?" asked Effie, who had a sympathetic side to her nature.

"She was fished out of San Francisco Bay with a bullet hole between her eyes," said Archer.

Iva dropped a giblet. "How ghastly!"

The older dog shrugged. "Her death was ruled a suicide. Six months later Gatthamer married his mistress, a former Tenderloin floozie with tender loins. Name of Florinda. Next thing you know, he snuffs his business partner and winds up on the Rock."

Iva shuddered. "What dreadful creatures humans can be. With the exception of Miss Caruthers, I can easily do without them."

For a moment no one spoke. The supercilious Sophie Caruthers, whose feelings for Iva did not extend to her friends, was not a two-footer the other dogs admired.

Sam winked at Effie before nudging Iva with his nose. "I see Miss Caruthers has a new boyfriend. He wears expensive leather shoes and very strong cologne. I've smelled him leaving in the mornings."

Iva tossed her curly ears. "Yes, he wears very nice shoes, and he gave her a huge advance on the apartment he's renting."

"All the same, I'm surprised she's willing to keep company with yet another tenant," said Sam. "Remember her phony suicide attempt after that last two-footer she got involved with turned out to be a bank-robbing bigamist?"

Iva snarled, and Effie nudged Sam with her paw. "It's stopped raining," she said. "Come on, Iva, let's go bury some bones while Sam and Archer finish the turkey."

"Sweet bitch, your Effie," observed Archer, once the females were out of earshot.

"A sweet bitch also delivered this dinner," Sam pointed out.

Archer sighed. "No, Sam. That was a hot bitch. There's a difference, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam conceded, "but my sweet bitch is going to whelp soon, and I'm relying on the hot bitch to keep us eating for a while." He refrained from mentioning Iva's own delicate condition.

"Brigid," murmured Archer, making her name sound almost as succulent as the turkey leg he had recently devoured. "I'd like to see that sister of hers, Sam."

"Oh, yes, Lola," said Sam. "She sounds like a sweet piece of meat indeed, but Thor the guard dog? I don't relish the thought of being chased by a slobbering mongrel like him."

"He may not be so bad," ventured Archer. "You know how bitches tend to exaggerate things, and I honestly would like to see the sister, Sam."

There was something in Archer's tone of voice. Sam looked up. "I was planning to catch a ride on a running board a little later on, head off in that direction, scout things out, and devise a plan of action," he informed his partner.

"Any reason why I can't do the exact same thing?" Archer asked him.

Sam wanted to say, YES. Yes, Archer, because you're much too old. But he saw the look in the other dog's eyes, and reconsidered.
"Well, no, I suppose there isn't," he answered. "You might have to switch running boards a couple of times, and you're likely to pull an all-nighter."

Archer stretched a bit, and then shifted his body weight. "Hip's a little sore," he admitted, "but I'm up for this case, Sam. I don't want you to think there's any possible way I'm not up for it."

"I don't think that, Archer," Sam lied. "I think you're a smart dog and a good detective."

The unexpected praise settled well with his partner, who looked grateful and wagged his tail. Slightly embarrassed, Sam covered the fact with a wolfish grin, which showed the edges of his teeth far back in his jaw. "Besides, if I know you, you've got plans for this Lola, you daring old dog."

Archer grinned in return, stood up
and shook himself off. "Well, so far it's been a pretty fine day, what with us getting a meal from ultra-exclusive Cole's of San Francisco, so maybe it will prove to be an equally fine night. Destiny is a strange thing, isn't it, Sam?"

"I guess it is," Sam agreed. "I guess it is, Archer."

As he watched the older dog leave the shed, Sam felt uneasy. He had never been fond of Archer, but neither had he ever actively disliked him. There was something about his partner's current mood that made Sam nervous. He hoped Archer wasn't planning on dumping Iva and running out on him. The thought of being left with two pregnant bitches on his paws was too much for him to handle.

Sam decided to go back out into the alleyway and chew on the ruined slipper he'd found. There were times when a dog just had to be by himself in order to make sure his ears were screwed on straight.

(Story to be cont'd...); 2:49 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd)

Sam awakened in the middle of the night curled up next to Effie in the shed. He felt tense and uncomfortable, and he couldn't get a grasp on why. He liked Effie's warm female smell, and he was grateful for the fact she had yet to start filling out with puppies, although it was only a matter of time. The faint odor of wet newsprint and damp straw also assailed his busy nose, along with the salty scent of the misty rain, which struck Sam as being like warm fog. He could see a light in a second-floor window at 891, and it occurred to him that Mrs. Petoma might be having trouble with her arthritis again. Her son was forever telling her that the weather in San Francisco only exacerbated her condition, and he wished she would give up her job as a landlady and move to Arizona with him. So far she had staunchly refused, but she was getting older, and she didn't have a lot of money. By contrast, the much younger Sophie Caruthers had inherited the title to 893 shortly after her bachelor uncle conveniently got whacked by a bus. There really was no justice in the world, Sam decided. Mrs. Petoma finally turned off her light, but in the flash of an instant before she did so, he saw that the doghouse was still empty, which meant Archer had not yet returned home.

Sam stood up, licked Effie's ear, and left the shed, his nose busily at work. He'd warned his partner earlier on that he might have to pull an all-nighter while hunting down Brigid's sister Lola, but Sam couldn't dismiss an uncomfortable feeling that had been gnawing at his innards like a tapeworm all night. Something wasn't right.

There was no recent sign of Archer anywhere, but there was a faint male-dog odor, which Sam thought he recognized in spite of the rain, coming from behind the fence.

"Who's there?" Sam barked, and when he didn't get an answer, he began to growl.

"Keep it down!" said a familiar voice. "Holy hydrants, Spencer! You wanna wake up every mutt in the neighborhood?"

Sam slipped under the fence, and came nose to nose with Old Grunt from over on Geary Street. "What the kennel are you doing here?"

The elderly dog was panting heavily. "Had ta come, Spencer. Had ta come, now didn't I?"

Sam cocked his head. "What in the bichon frise are you talking about?"

"It's like this," said Old Grunt. "You know I'm a main link on the leash line, doncha? I mean, somethin' goes down with an Airedale over on McAllister, I get the news."

Sam nodded, wondering how long it would take for Old Grunt to make his point.

"An' there's trouble with a couple
a stray police dogs over South of Market," his visitor went on, "I'm gonna find out, for sure."

"Okay," said Sam, "I get the picture."

"There's a death in the family, like maybe caused by bullets flyin' over towards Chinatown, I get the word."

Sam's ears drooped. "What's your point, Grunt? I'd like to get my tail out of the rain sometime before morning."

Old Grunt sat down and began to paw at the dirt in the alleyway with his one front paw. "It's yer partner Archer," he said at last. "He's dead, Spencer. Got plugged along with a two-footer and a big mutt over on Bush Street late lasnight."

It was Sam's turn to pant, but he quickly checked his emotions. "You're absolutely sure about this?" he asked Old Grunt.

The other dog nodded. "And maybe, like in a way, it was a blessing. I mean, poor Archer bein' like he was an' all."

Sam peered through the darkness at the ancient canine. "What's that? There was nothing wrong with Archer!"

It was too dark to see Old Grunt's expression, but Sam heard the surprise in his voice. "C'mon, Spencer, he was sick. Not too old, but he'd lived a hard life, him. Grew up on the streets from a pup. A few of us get lucky, but not many. His stomach and bones was botherin' him, an' he had a bad smell."

"I never noticed it," Sam argued.

"You never noticed yer partner," responded Old Grunt. "It's all about you, Spencer. Yer not a dog what shares."

Sam felt an odd sensation in his throat, like a bone had broken off and lodged there. "I'll leave in a few minutes," he said tersely.

"I'm real sorry fer yer loss," murmured the older dog. "I knew Archer fer years, and I remember him as a young mutt. I'm gonna miss him." He turned to go.

Sam hesitated a second and then said, "Hold on, Grunt! I want to thank you for coming all the way over here. It was a very decent thing for you to do. Now be careful getting home."

The older dog barked a laugh. "Home? In case you hadn't noticed, I ain't egg-zactly got one, Spencer." And he limped off into the night.

Sam crawled back under the fence, glanced at the empty doghouse, and quickly averted his eyes.

"Is something wrong?" asked Effie, yawning and stretching as she wriggled her way to the door of the shed.

"I don't know how to say this gently," Sam bit off the words. "Archer's dead."

His blunt remark was met with a soft silence, and finally Effie said, "I'm not surprised. At least Iva's upstairs with Sophie Caruthers tonight. She won't have to find out until late tomorrow morning."

"I was never very fond of him, you know?" Sam confessed.

"I know," Effie replied, "but I doubt he ever realized it, and he was extremely fond of you."

Sam felt lower than a Dachshund in a basement.

"It looks to be around three a.m.," he said. "I think I know where I can catch a tomato truck headed toward Chinatown."

"You'll be careful, Sam?"

"Yeah," he answered her. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be careful."

As Sam walked down the alleyway, through the misty darkness, it struck him that one of his worst fears had been realized. He now had two pregnant bitches on his paws. With any luck, Sophie Caruthers would finally get Iva spayed, but there would still be the puppies to consider. As for how Mrs. Petoma would react when she discovered he had knocked up Effie, well, that was another matter.

Maybe, thought Sam, his partner had cashed in his bones at just the right time.

(Story to be cont'd...); 2:16 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy TM LuLu's Desperate House Dogs AKA The Bow Wow Blog; 2:29 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd) TM

Sam hopped off the back of Emilio Santamaria's tomato truck just before it entered the Stockton Tunnel, and climbed the stairs at the tunnel's south portal in order to reach Bush Street just above. There he began to look for Floyd Munsday's house, as described by Brigid. Despite the late (or early) hour, there were still a few cars and trucks moving along Bush Street, and Sam had to be careful as he crossed back and forth, looking for a place with weeds in the yard and a dead tree right outside the front door. Not far from the entrance to a small street that looked like an alleyway, Sam caught the ripe scent of a nearby cat, and a moment later he heard the sound of a loud hiss. His body tensed, as he backed against the side of a tall eucalyptus tree and bared his teeth.

"Yo, Sam! Up here!" called out a voice as melodious as a rasp being scraped against a set of iron bars.

Sam looked up. "Ricardo, is that you?" A few seconds passed before the glow from the headlights of a passing car provided him with the answer. He caught a brief glimpse of an orange cat with the ruined face of a prizefighter high above him on a tree branch.

Ricardo was a large feline of around five years of age, meaning he was still relatively young in cat years, but he'd been in so many fights, he looked at least ten. He was missing parts of both ears, had a large scar running from his right eye directly across to the whiskers on the left side of his mouth, and a couple of his teeth were history. The cat and Sam had long been congenial enemies, and on this springtime night, Ricardo was a long way from home.

"What are you doing over in this neck of the woods?" Sam asked him. "You wouldn't be tailing me, would you?"

"HA!" shouted the cat. "What an ego. For your information, Sammy the dick, I've been hanging free and loose in this part of town for days now, and it is not your tail that interests me. There's a kitty queen named Fluffy whose time has come, if you get my meaning, dog boy. She's got every tomcat in the city set to pluck her harp strings, but I, the top cat of the Barbary Coast, finally arranged an assignation for earlier this evening -- and guess who had to go and louse it up? Oh, my sincere condolences on the loss of your partner, Sammy. Archer was a nice enough old dog, but he lacked your deliciously playful attitude when it came to competing with me over fogging rats."

"I almost bit your leg off last summer," said Sam.

"And I almost ripped your eyes out
last autumn," the cat reminded him.

Sam remembered. "So you saw the hit, I take it?"

"Watched the whole thing from my treetop perch, baby. Cast your bad-boy bedroom eyes to the right, Sammy, and you'll be able to see the scene of the crime," Ricardo told him.

The cat, thought Sam, was enjoying himself way too much.

He turned to the right and crept carefully down the alleyway, which jutted off the main street like a broken toenail. There was a small, beat-up looking cottage set close to the road. He could barely discern the outline of a ruined tree by the front door, but he could clearly see the ropes put up by the police, and he could smell the blended odors of bullets and blood.

It was the ugly smell of death.

Sam turned around and went back to the end of the streeet, where he again looked up into the branches of the eucalyptus tree. He couldn't see the cat, but he knew he was there. "So tell me what happened, Ricardo," he said. "Start at the beginning and don't leave anything out."

The cat hopped down onto a lower branch and stretched out, allowing his tail to dangle less than a foot above Sam's head. Had he been so inclined, the dog could have jumped up and made a grab for it, but Sam was not so inclined. Not tonight. And Ricardo knew it.

"My time is worth something," purred the cat, "meaning this tale of awful murder is going to cost you, Sammy."

Sam was not surprised. "What is it that you want?"

"For the next six months I get the rat fogging concession at the fish market over on Geary next to the hotel," said Ricardo.

Sam winced. Ricardo was asking a lot, but he quickly agreed before the cat could sweeten the deal even further in his favor. "All right, you've got it. Six months from this morning. Now start meowing!"

Ricardo purred contentedly, and without further preamble, settled down and began to tell his tale. "It was just before dark last night when I looked down from my tree and saw Fluffy's gently curved little tail moving in my direction through the weeds in front of the cottage. I was all set to pounce when I spied Archer coming up the street with his nose to the ground."

"He was alone?" asked Sam. "There was nobody on his tail?"

"He was alone, and alas, so was I," the cat continued. "But I motioned for Fluffy to stay where she was, and next I hailed Archer, who limped over to my tree to ask me if I'd seen a little white dog along with a big bruiser of a guard dog hanging around the neighborhood lately."

Sam felt a chill in his bones. "Archer was limping?"

"Are you going to let me tell this story or not, baby?" the cat demanded, before plunging ahead without waiting for a reply. "As I was about to answer Archer, this brute of a guard dog came charging out of the cottage and gave your late partner the evil eye. Archer got into the subservient position, trying to play nice, but the bruiser wasn't buying. 'Help me out,' pleaded Archer, and since I figured he'd be dog food otherwise, I yowled at the beast, who unthinkingly lunged at my tree, which gave Archer a chance to escape. Of course, it was just my luck that Fluffy took off like she'd been scalded with hot water, and when the bruiser realized he'd been conned, he charged off down the street with blood in his eye. Archer was heading for the tunnel stairs, and he almost made it, Sam. He almost made it."

"Was he still limping?" Sam asked.

"Oh, badly," replied the cat. "He never really had a chance. Meanwhile, who should show up next but this gorgeous little white dog who looked like a stuffed toy out there walking around on the porch, acting like she was getting ready to do the Charleston. Back and forth she went, and I found myself so deeply intrigued, I almost didn't see Fluffy approaching again. She was practically under my tree, and purring like a happy tigress, when out of nowhere this roadster came roaring up the street and screeched to a halt in front of the cottage. A beefy two-footer got out, aimed a pistol in the direction of the cute little dog, and she vanished like a pound of fish dropped in an alley. He was screaming something loud and senseless, and about that time a skinny two-footer with hair on his chin and food on his shirt unwisely decided to come to the door, and the beefy character plugged him. Fluffy took off like a streak, and I realized that our romance was over."

"My heart aches for you," said Sam. "Go on."

"The skinny fellow wasn't dead," Ricardo related. "He was begging for mercy while screaming in pain, and all of a sudden his dog came back -- came back with Archer clutched between his mammoth jaws, and bleeding badly, Sam."

Sam felt cold all over.

The cat continued."The dog dropped Archer like a used-up chew toy and charged the shooter, who plugged him twice in midair. Then for no reason at all, he fired a pill into Archer, who was barely twitching. Maybe it was a mercy killing, but this shooter didn't act merciful. He dragged the skinny two-footer back into the house and let him have it right there in the doorway with a pill through the brain. Afterward, he walked all the way through the cottage, ripping down curtains and smashing things. Then he came outside and went around the house, poking here and there with that pistol of his, and whistling. I figured he was looking for the little white dog, but he certainly didn't find her. A few minutes later, cursing like a parrot with chewing gum stuck on its tail feathers, he got back in his car and drove off."

Sam was quiet for a moment, before asking, "Do you have any idea what might have happened to the little white dog?"

"Nothing happened to her," Ricardo assured him. "Evidently she found a good hiding place for herself while the beefy two-footer was blasting anything that could move. As soon as it was dark, she was out there in front of the cottage again, sniffing around and checking things out. She was long gone before the police arrived, though. She just pranced off down the street, like she'd been to a party or on a nice walk by the bay."

"She sounds a lot like her sister," said Sam, and he slowly began to wag his tail. "You planning to hang out?"

The cat swiped his tail close to Sam's nose. "Not likely. Fluffy's a lost cause. Truth is, I was just waiting around for you to show, Sammy the dick. I knew you'd hear about your partner and hightail it over to this part of town soon enough."

"Very clever of you," said Sam. "You're headed home, then?"

The cat made a chuckling sound. "Not exactly. It's still an hour or so until dawn. Hence, I believe I'll help myself to a sweet little black-and-white kitty who hangs out in Chinatown and goes by the name of Chopsticks.
She's already had two of my litters, and it's been a while since we last had a good romp together."

"You're bad," said Sam, "bad to the last hair-ball, Ricardo."

"I'll admit it," the cat replied amiably, "but I'm also smart. I don't clutter up my patch with my paramours, dog boy."

"Yeah," said Sam, "but how many kittens have you sired by now?"

Ricardo was nonchalant. "Who knows? Who cares?"

"They might," Sam told him. "So let's hope their mamas have all said good and praiseworthy things about you. Otherwise, a few of those kittens might one day decide to look you up with their claws unsheathed."

Thus leaving Ricardo to ponder his fate alone, Sam walked down the alleyway toward the cottage, his nose to the ground, searching for clues.

(Story to be cont'd); 2:09 AM
Anonymous said...: While in purusit of imaginary "gunsels," our head writer suffered a bad spill and wound up with a compound fracture of her left elbow. Our wishes for a speedy recovery, ago. Now it's on with our tale!

The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd...)

Sam found few useful clues outside the cottage. He inhaled the stench of blood along with sn odor very similar to that of Mrs. Petoma's tea bags, an undefinable metal scent which made Sam's nostrils burn.

He slipped easily into the dark house through an open side window. (The police were so careless.) A small niight light plugged into a hallway outlet made it possible for him to make out jumbled shapes. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he realized that the inside of the cottage was a littered mess. Sam guessed the place hadn't looked like much to begin with, but now it made his own patch of earth back on Post Street seem uncluttered, which was saying a great deal, indeed.

Blinds and curtains had been ripped fro windows, furniture overturned, and clothing strewn throughout. Most of it was men's apparel, but a few items obviously belonged to a woman - to one specific woman. Each dainty item of her clothing smelled strongly of peach soap. Certain odors lingered just outside his range of definition, so overpowered were they by other, stronger, smells. There was a light perfume, oddly familiar, but too faint for him to recognize, and there was the barest scent of leather and polish.

Sam kept an eye out for the chew toy Brigid wanted, but he didn't really expect to find it; nothing was ever that easy, but if the gunsel had been looking for the toy, Sam guessed he hadn't found it either - not if he left the scene angry and cursing.

Sam checked abd rechecked, sniffing and pawing. He slipped back through the side window just as dawn was breaking. Sam sat down and contemplatively scratched at a flea. He needed to talk to a hot little Maltese named Brigid, who lived semewhere over on Nob Hill.

(Story to be cont'd...); 12:56 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (con't...)

Sam was hungry -- too hungry, he realized, to make it over to Nob Hill without first finding a garbage can. He walked down Bush Street, his nose twitching purposefully, as streaks of coral sunlight licked at the morning sky like puppies' tongues. He spotted a dingy alleyway and his nose told him exactly what to expect there. Sam poked his head around the corner and caught sight of two overturned garbage cans. He also caught sight of a scrawny tail extending from one of them.

"Move over, Moe," he said. "I'm coming inside."

The cat startled and arched its skinny, striped back, all the while hissing with a ferocity born of desperation.

"Relax," said Sam,dropping into the play position and slowly wagging his tail. "I've just come from a massacre, gooseberry, and I don't need any trouble from you. Something smells fishy around here, and I haven't had breakfast yet."

The cat held his ground, but the height of his hair lessened. "Who in the dog pile are you?" he asked.
"I thought I knew every worthless piece of cur meat in the neighborhood."

Sam's brown eyes hardened. "Let's say I'm not worthless," he suggested. "Let's also say I'm not from this neighborhood. Make you feel better?"

"Not hardly," replied the cat. "Then again, you don't look like somebody likely to stay. You ain't no mutt, that's for sure -- not with them curly ears and well-turned hocks."

"I am what I am," Sam replied, pushing past the cat and poking his nose into the garbage can. "While we're on the subject, where are all those other worthless pieces of cur meat that you mentioned? I haven't run into another dog since I left the scene of the crime."

The cat's yellow eyes glittered with malice. "Dogs around here need their beauty sleep."

"And cats around here are not very creative liars," said Sam, as he hauled the remains of a large mackerel from the can onto the cracked pavement.

"You planning on eating it all?" asked the cat. "I'm meaning to tell you, I haven't had my breakfast either."

Sam decided to play fair, but not too fair. "You can have the leavings," he said, "but only if you'll leave me alone."

The cat did not take the hint. "Nobles oblige, eh? You know, I'd say you're some fancy kind of spaniel. Your hair needs groomed like a jungle needs mowed, but you're the real thing. What'd you do -- run away from home?"

Sam ignored him.

The cat tried again. "Okay, so who got killed at the massacre? Me, I hate blood and guts, unless it's part of a snack, but I wouldn't mind seeing a ba-a-a-d pussy name of Ricardo get his. Run over, mauled by dogs. Don't matter none to me. Another stranger. Been around here eating our birds ans serenading our ladies. You know what I'm saying?"

"Ricardo's gone," said Sam. "Left early this morning to do a slow waltz with a kitty by the name of Chopsticks over in Chinatown, so you can relax pal."

Sam got the opposite reaction. The cat's hair stood on end again, and he meowed two words, the second of which was "you."

"Now that's not nice at all," Sam told him, "and here we were about to become friends."

"Chopsticks is my very personal lap of cream!" the feline exploded.
"You're a liar and a mutt."

"And you're a cat who isn't going to get any breakfast," said Sam. "Now get out of here before I forget my nice dog manners."

The cat scooted to the entrance of the alleyway, his eyes hot with rage. "You'll soon find out where all them other bits of cur meat around here have gone," he hissed
and left, taking his rank odor and bad grammar with him.

Sam wolfed down the rest of the fish while trying to figure out cats. It was a wasted effort; they were as inexplicable as bitches and a whole lot less fun.

His hunger slaked, Sam left the alleyway and headed back to Bush Street.

"What do we have here?" boomed the voice of a heavy two-footer, and Sam looked up into the cold, cold eyes of the local dogcatcher.

(story to be cont'd...); 4:02 PM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd)

Sam Spencer was decidedly an expert when it came to fogging rats, and he was equally adept at outfoxing the dogcatcher. As the hefty two-footer standing in front of him prepared to hurl his nets, Sam charged him, darted between his two meaty thighs, and took off across Bush Street, dodging past cars and trucks, and finally hopping onto the wide running board of a regal Duesenberg Convertible Sedan on its way toward cable car
heaven. The dogcatcher was still trying to get his engine to turn over when Sam disappeared from view.

One day, thought Sam, as a salty breeze whipped at his curly ears. One day, perhaps. But he was a young dog at the top of his game, and today would not be that day.

Ten minutes later he was walking up Powell Street in the heart of the city's legendary Nob Hill, his nose twitching industriously -- when Sam spied a patch of earth that looked oddly familiar.

There was a high fence surrounded by bushes -- very graceful rhododendron shrubs, in this case, and next to a loose wooden slat was a telltale hole, which appeared to be well used.

Sam lifted his head and sniffed the air: Perfume mingled with the blended scents of posies and dog urine. He ducked under the fence and resurfaced into a different world.

There, in the side court of a massive apartment house, was a neatly laid out semiformal garden. Seated within it were two dogs and a bitch, waiting it would seem, to have their picture taken.

"I say!" remarked a youngish Old English sheep dog, who then said nothing further; while a studly looking, fawn-colored young boxer rose with his hackles.

"Hold it, boys," cooed the bitch, a voluptuous little Pekingese whose sleek coat was almost as white as Brigid's. "Handsome visitors are always welcome, providing they know how to behave."

"But this mutt's not someone we know," the boxer protested. "Look at that untrimmed coat. I've seen better groomed bales of hay."

The Pekingese ignored the jibe and wagged her silky tail at Sam, who responded in kind, while relishing the tangy aroma of her perfume.

"What's up, honey?" she asked him. "And don't you dare say, the sun."

"Nice joint," Sam temporized, indicating the connecting Victorian-style mansion. "You dogs must belong to some pretty fancy two-footers."

The Pekingese stuck out her dainty purple tongue while her black eyes did a merry dance. "This is Madame Volusia's place. My mistress runs a very exclusive private hotel for rich gentlemen," she explained. "By the way, I'm Dollybelle, and the two clowns with me are Gladstone and Donnybrook."

"And exactly whom are youm?" demanded the boxer -- Donnybrook? while the sheep dog stood idly by, attempting to look menacing. It was a pathetic effort, and Dollybelle was having none of it.

"You both seem to forget that I am Madame Volusia's guardian and companion animal," she scolded. "You two are merely guests of the establishment."

"B-but,Dollybelle," sputtered the boxer, "that cur is not our kind. He charged in here without an invitation and needs to be taught some manners."

The little Pekingese held her ground. "Donny, we do not have altercations at Madame Volusia's. Not two-footed ones and certainly not dogfights. If you won't abide by our rules, go somewhere else to wait for your master."

She turned back to Sam. "So why are you here, handsome?" she asked.
"Something tells me that more than my bitch scent drew you to our little refuge."

"I need some information," said Sam. "I need to find the mobster Bugsy Gatthamer's house."

"I know where it is!" declared Gladstone, finally coming out of his coma. "He has a big, spooky old house over on Pine Street -- one that managed to survive the '06 earthquake. There's a big iron fence around it, and some seriously mean dogs live there."

"He's not a two-footer anyone wants in the neighborhood," Donnybrook interjected, with a meaningful glance at Sam. "He doesn't fit in."

Sam sat down and scratched at a flea. "You wouldn't fit into my neighborhood for that matter, pal. Real dogs live there, not overbred fops."

The boxer rolled his eyes and snorted pugnaciously.

"Can it, Donny," warned Dollybelle, and he backed down.

"Be careful if you're going to the Gatthamer place," she cautioned Sam. "If you get in trouble, ask to see a dog named Murray and mention my name."

Sam was surprised. "You mean to tell me that Bugsy Gatthamer used to hang out here?"

"Sand fleas, no!" Dollybelle replied. "We cater only to the ultra elite: Captains of industry, visiting royalty, and top-dog politicians who call themselves statesmen. Gentlemen all. Tout a fait!" Bugsy Gatthamer couldn't make it past the front door." She lowered her lashes. "But his dog Murray can."

Sam thanked Dollybelle for her help, accepted the dog biscuit she offered from a glistening china bowl, winked at Gladstone and Donnybrook, then scooted under the fence again. He raised his leg and left his mark on a nearby fire hydrant, simply to annoy Dollybelle's two snotty guests, and padded his way over to Pine Street, where he hoped to find a Maltese named Brigid...and some answers.

(Story to be cont'd...)

TM LULU'S DESPERATE HOUSEDOGS; 2:53 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd...)

At first glance Sam thought the Edwardian style Gatthamer mansion looked like a jumble of garbage cans that had been placed upright and welded together. There were no flat surfaces anywhere and the large bay windows reminded him of evil, prying eyes. The house was painted an unbecoming shade of oxblood, and the fence which tightly surrounded the property was a solid, foreboding black. Inside all the blinds and curtains were drawn. There was no sign of life whatsoever, save for a hooded oriole hopping about on an Acacia tree.

Sam went around to the back of the property and peered through staves that looked like prison bars onto what appeared to be a courtyard, but there were too many trees and bushes for him to tell. He sniffed the air and sensed the presence of a canine, but it wasn't close. Sam cut his eyes to the nearby street and was pleased to see that nobody was paying the slightest attention to him. To be on the safe side he slipped behind a bush -- and then he went to work.

Sam sank his paws into the wet soil with genuine relish. He truly loved to dig, as did Effie. Their mutual lust for slinging mud was one of the first things which had attracted him to her -- that and the fact she was about to go into heat.

Effie was a true beagle, thought Sam, and he was proud of his girl. She could dig her way under a fence almost as fast as he could. A shame she wasn't around to help him now, he concluded, when he came up against a cement block.

Cement. Sam snarled and moved his operation further down the fence line. Evidently Bugsy Gatthamer was a two-footer who didn't like unexpected guests, of just about any species.

Finally Sam caught sight of a small back gate. Of course, he reasoned. Why hadn't he thought of that before? He commenced digging directly beneath it, and in no time he was able to shimmy beneath the gate and bellyhaul himself onto a narrow path which led up to the house. As he was shaking mud from his coat, he heard a low growl and whirled about.

It was too late; the other dog was already on his back, drawing blood from his curly right ear. Sam sank his teeth into his opponent's left leg, just below the stifle. The dog yelped and let go of his ear, but a second later he lunged again and tried to grab Sam by the throat.

Sam dodged the sharp, flashing teeth and rolled beneath his foe. He attacked from the rear, ripping a piece of skin from the other dog's hip. He was not happy when he realized that his opponent was one of the largest and toughest looking German shepherds he'd ever encountered.

Sam knew he could handle himself, but he also knew a fight to the death was in order -- and it was still early in the day.

"Listen, numbnuts," he snarled, "a sweet little bitch named Dollybelle sent me here and said to ask for Murray."

The big dog's ears perked and he promptly sat down. "You want to talk to Murray, son?"

"Don't patronize me because you're bigger," Sam growled. "I can take you any barking day, worm guts. Now fetch Murray for me."

"You do have a problem, son," said the big GS.

"How's that?" asked Sam.

The other dog grinned at him. "Because I'm Murray."; 10:37 PM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy to be continued...

The Maltese Chew Toy is a TM of LDHD.; 10:39 PM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd...)

Sam's jaw went rigid and his eyes burned as red as his coat. "All right," he said, "let's get this thing over with. You know and I know that only one of us is going to walk out of here."

Murray cocked his head, stared hard at his adversary with his dark, intelligent eyes, and barked a laugh. "As my old pappy used to say: 'Es ist zu viel pfeffer.' It's too much pepper, son, and you're some spaniel."

"I have to be," Sam admitted, easing his stance slightly. "I'm a street dog, pal. You weaken once and you're dead."

"Sounds like a great life," Murray commented and licked his sore forepaw.

Sam shrugged. "It grows on you. By the way, my name's Sam -- Sam Spencer, just so you'll know."

Murray nodded. "What's going on with Dollybelle?" he asked. "The lady happens to be a good friend of mine."

"She's fine,"Sam answered. "The truth is, I'm here to see Brigid."

Murray blinked. "You do get around, don't you, son?"

"I do all right," Sam conceded, "but Brigid's not on my current list of bitch bops. She's a client."

Murray lifted a back leg in order to scratch his head, then realized that his hip hurt where Sam had jabbed him.

"Listen," he said, "how about we go up to the house, have some water, lick each other's wounds, and you can explain to me exactly what it is that you do."

Sam hesitated. Murray seemed sincere enough, but sincerity made him uncomfortable. "Are you the only vicious guard dog on the property?" he asked.

Murray grinned. "Just me, son. Thor, my coworker, left last week."

"Thor's dead," Sam told him bluntly, and Murray's jaw momentarily went slack. "How'd it happen?"

"A severe allergic reaction to lead," Sam replied.

The two dogs walked the short distance to the back porch of the Gatthamer mansion, and Sam helped himself to some water from Murray's bowl. Sam told Murray about his life as a detective, about fogging rats, and about his patch of earth on Post Street. He also told him about the recent shooting at Floyd Munsday's house and about losing his partner.

"Thor was an ugly customer," Murray admitted, "and I never much cared for him. I certainly didn't consider him a partner and was glad when he left with Floyd. Thor was devoted to Floyd."

"Floyd was the chauffeur, right?" Sam asked.

"Much more than that," said Murray.
"He and Mrs. Gatthamer had a thing going. Mrs. Gatthamer must be in heat because she's also got another guy. I heard the servants talking and according to them he's her stepson."

"That is interesting," remarked Sam, as he twitched his sore ear. "Guess it's a good thing Bugsy's in a tight kennel like Alcatraz."

Murray nodded. "Your story about the shooting may explain a lot. Mrs. G. left here before sunup, taking only her suitcase and her dog with her."

Sam's brow furrowed. "She took off with Brigid?" he asked.

"No," said Murray, "with her dog, Cairo. He's a pug and a nice little guy. Brigid is Mr. Gatthamer's pet, and she's gone missing."

Sam furrowed his brow again. "Brigid's missing? I thought it was her sister Lola who ran off with Thor."

Murray stretched and licked his sore forepaw. "Think I'll take a swim later," he said. "Nobody's here but one servant, so no two-footers will be using the pool."

"You actually like water?" Sam was amazed, but Murray nodded.

"You didn't smell me coming until it was almost too late, did you?" he asked, and Sam slowly wagged his tail; he had just learned a valuable lesson.

He was about to learn another one.

"By the way, son," said Murray, "Brigid doesn't have a sister."

(story to be cont'd...); 11:09 PM
Anonymous said...: "Bitches," said Sam, "and dog dames are as bad as the rest. You can't trust them."

"Not all bitches are like that," Murray demurred. "Brigid may be in a class by herself. I honestly don't know her well enough to say. Dollybelle is true blue, though, and your Effie sounds like a peach."

Before Sam could reply, a dark blue Chrysler Playboy Roadster came to a screeching halt in front of the house, and a hefty two-footer got out and slammed the car door with the might of a gorilla.

Murray got to his feet. "It's
Mrs. G.'s new fella," he said and winked, "the alleged stepson. Time to do my duty."

Sam flashed a quick glance at the street, which was almost void of traffic; at the same time he recalled Ricardo the cat's description of the killer.

"Murray, don't bark!" Sam commanded. "Odds are this is the trigger-happy gunsel who plugged Thor."

"But I'm a guard dog," Murray protested.

"Better a live guard dog than a dead guard dog," Sam told him. "Time to hit the boxwood hedges across the courtyard, pal."

Murray was about to protest again, when he heard the two-footer approaching the back part of the property.

"Let's scram!" urged Sam, and they quickly ducked behind a hedge that had been clipped to resemble a machine gun.

"I hate hiding behind the topiary," Murray muttered, "and if he tries to break into the house, I'll have to do something. Mr. Webley-Fosbery, our English butler, is alone in there. He's almost eighty, hard of hearing, and virtually defenseless."

"We'll worry about that when the time comes," said Sam, watching carefully as the two-footer approached the small gate he'd managed to squeeze under earlier, and gave it a fearsome shake. Fortunately the lock held.

"So far so good," said Sam, and sniffed the air as a familiar scent tickled his nostrils. He couldn't quite place it.

The two-footer moved off down the street to the garage, and tried both doors without success. Furious, he kicked hard at one of the doors, and Sam tensed when he saw him slip his hand inside the jacket pocket of his fashionable sack suit and withdraw a small handgun.

Just then a San Francisco police car passed slowly down the street and paused briefly in front of the Gatthamer mansion. The two-footer froze where he stood, and the minute the car was out of sight, he put the gun back in his pocket, got into his roadster, and sped off.

"Well," said Murray, "that was a close one."

"And he'll be back," Sam insisted. "He's looking for something he didn't find at Floyd's."

"I'll be careful," the big dog promised, as Sam studied the bush clipped to look like a machine gun.

"Droll," he observed.

"Beats last year's effort to make two of the bushes resemble parts of Mrs. G.'s anatomy," said Murray. "Floyd was both chauffeur and gardener, you see."

Sam wagged his tail. "A two-footer of considerable talent, it would seem. Tell me, Murray, have you ever seen a chew toy shaped like a small bird around here?"

Murray thought for a moment. "Nope. Not that Brigid and Cairo don't have plenty of goodies. Mrs. G. buys Cairo cartloads of toys, and Mr. G. used to spoil Brigid with all sorts of fancy stuff: expensive kidskin leashes, rhinestone collars, silk rain hats. You name it! But I've never seen a toy shaped like a bird." He paused. "Then again I'm an outside dog. The butler lets me sleep in the second kitchen, but that's only on bad nights. I've never seen the rest of the house."

Sam's brow furrowed into the shape of the letter V. "Did the same thing apply to Thor?" he asked. "Was he an outside dog as well?"

Murray nodded. "Guard dogs don't get much pampering, son. That's why I've always jumped the fence and headed over to Dollybelle's on my nights off."

Sam was impressed. "You can jump that high fence?"

The big dog wagged his tail. "I'm buff, son."

All things considered, thought Sam, it was a damn good thing he hadn't had to fight Murray to the death.

(Story to be cont'd...); 11:59 PM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd)

"Murray, is there some way I can get inside the house?" Sam asked the big German shepherd. "I want to look for that bird chew toy."

"I can't imagine how," said Murray. "This place is a fortress, son."

"No broken windows in the basement, no unlatched doors?"

Murray shook his head. "Tighter than a mean choke collar throughout."

"Is there a way to get the butler out here?"

Murray grinned. "Sure, if you're willing to wait until dark. Mr. Webley-Fosbery is so hard of hearing, a pack of yapping coyotes could charge across the property and he'd never even blink. But he feeds me and sets out fresh water twice a day -- early in the morning and right before he goes to bed."

"Doesn't sound like much of a dog lover," Sam remarked.

"Oh, he's fond enough of Cairo and Brigid," Murray related. "He was once a British soldier over in India and he's not partial to war dogs, which is how he's always referred to Thor and me. Say, what's with this bird chew toy anyway?"

Sam hesitated. He liked Murray but that didn't mean the big dog was trustworthy. "I don't exactly know," he said, "but Brigid wants me to find it. Frankly, I'm not sure it even exists."

Murray studied him for a long moment and said nothing. He's not stupid, thought Sam, and he probably knows I'm lying.

Sam stood up and shook himself off. "I ought to be going," he said "I need to get back to my own patch of earth."

"If I hear anything about Cairo or Brigid, I'll let you know through Dollybelle," Murray offered and wagged his tail. "She has an entire network of admirers who will do anything for her."

"I can believe that," said Sam. "Thanks, Murray."

The big dog shrugged. Sam hesitated.

"Supposedly there's a fortune in jewels hidden in the chew toy," he said.

"Brigid told you this, son?" Murray asked.

Sam nodded.

Murray yawned and stretched. "I think," he said, "that I'll go for my swim in the pool now. Want to come?"

"Where is this pool?" Sam asked warily.

Murray grinned again. "Why, it's in the pool house. Come on, I'll show you."

Sam was just curious enough to agree.

It turned out that the pool house was a small, narrow structure which looked like an extra garage. It sat next to the house and was obviously the extension of a porch. Murray nosed open a door and the dogs went inside.

Murray took a flying leap and landed with a loud splash in the center of what looked to Sam like an indoor pond or some kind of fountain. He considered it unnatural for a dog to like water unless he was a retriever and couldn't help himself. "You've got to be crazy," he barked.

"Come on in," called out Murray. "The water's fine."

Sam backed as far away from the pool as possible, and in doing so
spotted something out of the corner of his eye. A rat! A large
dark rat! He darted after the thing, caught it, and grabbed it firmly by the back of its neck.

The rat let out with a loud canine yelp, and Sam immediately dropped it, as Murray scrambled out of the pool.

"Great hissing cats!" Murray burst out. "It's Cairo."

Sam stared down at the little pug, who was on his back and shivering. "I didn't mean to frighten you," Sam apologized. "Let me offer you a paw up."

But the onyx-colored pug quickly regained his dignity, rose on his own and gave a disgusted growl. "I did not expect to be cur-handled in my own home," he protested in his impeccable British accent.

"But what are you doing here?" Murray asked him. "I saw you leave with Mrs. Gatthamer this morning."

Cairo hung his head. "The truth is, I ran away."

"What?" said Sam and Murray in unison.

"I had to," Cairo told them. "Brigid needs me."

"Where exactly is Brigid?" Sam asked, a harsh edge creeping into his voice. "Some dogs died last night along with a two-footer named Floyd Munsday. Ring a dog tag? I'm sure Brigid knows all about it."

"Oh, please don't blame her for anything," pleaded Cairo. "She's truly a pawn of fate and she's only doing the best that she can."

Sam rolled his bedroom eyes and Murray threw him a wink. "Cairo," he said, "I think you're besotted with that bitch."

"I may be a neutered male, but I'm still a dog," Cairo declared proudly. "Brigid and I have been friends since puppy hood and I won't desert her when she needs me."

"Exactly where is your friend now?" Sam asked the pug again. "I need to talk to her and I need to talk to her now."

"She's in trouble," said Cairo.

"That figures," commented Murray, "but what are you doing hiding in here, Cairo? More to the point, how did you get in here?"

"I was being pursued by the dogcatcher," Cairo told him, "and Brigid and I know a way to get in and out using the heating system."

"I'll be a wolf in cat's underwear," said Murray. "So that's how she disappeared."

"I thought I'd wait until dark and then go to her," Cairo went on.

"No such luck, pal," said Sam. "I know how to evade the dogcatcher, so we'll go to see Brigid now. By the way, what kind of trouble is she in?"

"I think she's coming into heat," Cairo told him.

Sam looked at Murray and Murray looked at Sam.

"Better you than me," said the big German shepherd, and jumped back into the swimming pool.

(story to be cont'd...); 1:56 PM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd...)

Sam showed Cairo how to squeeze under the gate, and the little pug responded with sheer glee once they were on the other side.

"Oh, how invigorating!" he pronounced. "I would never have come up with the idea on my own."

"I'd say your idea about the heating system was pretty ingenious," Sam complimented, "or did Brigid come up with that one?"

The pug hung his head. "Brigid's extremely bright," he allowed.

Sam nodded. "I'll say she is. Cute, clever, and sharp as a cat's claw. Now where is the manipulative Maltese hanging out these days? Got a pied-a-terre in Chinatown or some bohemian digs over on Fillmore Street? Come on, Cairo, spill the kibble -- and no dodges!"

"She's staying at the Coronet Apartments on California Street," the pug replied. "Mr. Gatthamer owns the building and keeps a private flat there. The staff are very accommodating."

"Meaning they ask no questions?" Sam guessed, and Cairo confirmed it with a brief nod.

"Brigid is perfectly safe for now."

Sam cut his eyes to the street. "Ever ride on a running board?" he asked.

"Great T-bones, no," gasped Cairo.

"Then it's time you learned," Sam informed him. "Follow me, pal."

A short time later the two dogs were walking up the twelve-hundred block of California Street, and Cairo was actually prancing.

"If only Mommy Gatthamer could see her little biscuit cruncher now," he boasted. "You know, Sam, she talks baby-talk to me all the time, and I well and truly detest it. Not that I consider myself in the same league with macho dogs like you and Murray, but I think there's a bit more to me than just being a lapdog. Powder-puff dogs do not ride on running boards, do they, Sam?"

"I guess they don't," Sam replied and seized the moment. "You knew about Floyd and the dogs being dead before I ever mentioned it, didn't you?"

"Well, yes," Cairo admitted. "At least I knew about Floyd. Mommy Gatthamer received a phone call early this morning, and she virtually went to pieces. She was sobbing hysterically, and she kept repeating: 'But you didn't have to kill Floyd; you didn't have to kill him.' The next thing I knew, we were in her car and on our way to some remote part of the world, like Sausalito. I'm glad I kept a cool head and was able to escape a mere six blocks from home."

"Do you think Mrs, G. was talking to her stepson?" Sam asked, and Cairo suddenly became wary.

"Well, as to that, I can't say. She might have been, but I'm not certain."

"You're a bad liar, Cairo," Sam told him, "but here we are -- the Coronet Apartments."

The pug looked relieved. "We'll have to go around to the back; there's an open window there," he explained. "This time you can follow me."

The outside of the Coronet Apartments was a maze of winding pathways and a monotony of stairs. The building was a relatively new one, but it had been designed to look old, like a medieval castle.

Cairo obviously knew his way around and once or twice Sam almost lost him.

"Stop trying to give me the slip, pal," he said. "I'm a pro at this game and you're not."

"But I have potential, don't you think?" asked the little pug, and he looked so hopeful that Sam almost barked a laugh.

"Yeah, Cairo," he said, "you've definitely got potential." Or something approaching it, he thought.

The two dogs slipped into the Gatthamer apartment through the window which the pug pointed out, and wound up in a hallway with a long red carpet. Cairo led Sam past open kitchen and bedroom doors, directly into the living room, where Brigid sat on a walnut settee.

"Good afternoon," said Sam. "We meet again, my dear."

Brigid looked at Cairo, her eyes questioning. Otherwise her face was expressionless.

"He showed me how to ride on a running board," the pug declared. "It was wonderful."

Sam studied Brigid, wondering how she managed to stay so perfect.
Her snowy coat was freshly brushed, the blue bow atop her head looked recently ironed. Her rhinestone collar sparkled, and she smelled deliciously female.

"We need to talk," Sam told her.

"Why, of course," she said. "In fact, I've been expecting you, Sam," she lied.

(story to be cont'd...); 12:28 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd)

"Nice digs," said Sam, giving his surroundings an appreciative glance. "But I prefer my humble doghouse."

Brigid wagged her tail slightly, pretended to be amused. "This is nothing to bark home about," she said. "It's just a place for Daddy Gatthamer to get away from it all."

"I'd say he's pretty much away from it all now, since he's doing time in Alcatraz," Sam observed caustically.

Brigid flinched ever so slightly and turned her attention to Cairo, who stood next to the settee, gazing at her adoringly.

"Honey, why don't you go down the hall and find Ermelita?" she suggested. "I think she might be able to locate a nice bone for you."

"Ermelita is the maid," Cairo needlessly explained to Sam. "She doesn't speak English, so nobody knows we're here. This has been a wonderful place for Brigid to hide."

"Cairo!" said Brigid, her tone sharper, and with as much dignity as he could muster, the little pug meekly trotted off.

"That's a hell of a way to treat a friend from puppy hood," Sam told her.

Brigid twitched her tail again. "Sam, come up here and sit beside me," she invited.

Sam stayed put, and tried not to sniff the perfumed air. Cairo hadn't lied; Brigid was about to go into heat.

"I'm fine where I am," he told her.

"I'm sorry about Archer," she said, sounding patently insincere.

"I'm not," Sam responded. "At least I wasn't -- not really, until I got to thinking about it. You know, when a dog's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't matter what I thought of him. We were partners in the dog detective business, meaning it's up to me to bring his killer to justice. Do you understand me, Brigid? Do you know what tree I'm barking up here?"

"No," she replied. "Are you suggesting that I killed him? I didn't, Sam. Granted, I told you a few lies..."

Sam interrupted her. "A few lies? You told me more lies than a retriever has ticks."

"I'm sorry," she apologized again with an equal lack of sincerity. "You don't understand, there's a lot at stake here."

"Is that why you lied about having a sister?" he asked her.

The blue bow atop Brigid's head began to quiver. "It's too complicated to explain, Sam. I...I wanted to pretend I wasn't really involved. I had no idea things would go so wrong."

"Balls and flea dip!" he exploded.
"I will not play the sap for you. You lied about having a sister, and then you went over to Floyd's place on your own. He and Thor and my partner all wound up eating lead pills last night, and I know who the gunsel was. Now, give me an explanation, Brigid. Give me something I can sink my teeth into."

She actually panted for a second, but quickly got hold of herself. "All right," she said. "All right. First, I had to get Thor out of the house, and that's where you came in --or where you were supposed to come in.
You're a healthy young dog. I didn't expect poor old Archer to show up instead."

Sam said nothing, but he kept his eyes locked to her own.

"I tried to find the chew toy," she went on.

Sam growled. "Not that ratty tale again, angel. I know there's no chew toy, Brigid."

"But there is!" she insisted. "Thor took it when he went off to live with Floyd. They hid it somewhere. I looked but I couldn't find it."

"Neither could I," said Sam, "and I'm the mutt you hired to dig it up, remember? You saying you didn't trust me, angel?"

"No," she admitted. "In fact, I don't trust anyone. I need those jewels to help Daddy Gatthamer get out of Alcatraz, but his worthless, murdering son wants them; that selfish slut Florinda wants them...and I don't know what to do, Sam. I'm desperate."

With that, she jumped off the settee and onto the thick carpet. She crept close to Sam and laid her sleek head on his front paws.

"Sam, don't give up on me now," she pleaded. "Daddy Gatthamer's jackal of a son blew away everybody last night, and if he finds me, I'm sure he'll kill me. If only you could help me. If only you could find out where he is and do something..."

Sam barked a laugh. "Like what, angel? I wouldn't be much good against a two-footer with a gun."

"I have to find the chew toy and get the jewels to Daddy Gatthamer," she said, sounding close to hysterics.

Sam licked the top of her head, tasted powder and perfume. "How, angel? Even if you find the toy, Bugsy's stuck on the Rock."

Brigid began to whimper. "Oh, please, Sam. You've just got to help me," she begged.

Sam sighed, told himself he was squirrel-chasing mad, but capitulated. He allowed Brigid to lead him into the wild country wherein snakes and coyotes dwelt.
This is one dangerous little bitch, he thought, but the fact no longer mattered.

Cairo returned to the room a short time later with a succulent beef bone clenched between his jaws. He saw a discarded blue bow on the carpet next to the settee, dropped the bone, hung his head, and padded out of the room -- an unbayed howl in his throat and pain like ground glass beneath his paws, tormenting his broken heart.

(story to be continued...); 1:08 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd...)

Sam left the Coronet Apartments as a thick fog began wrapping its way around the city of San Francisco. He loved the fog and the mystery it possessed. He loved the insular feeling it gave him, the sense of being a creature alone in a cocooned world that was his and his alone.

He could still smell Brigid's perfume on his hair and on his skin. She was a hot, dangerous bitch and she excited him. She lacked Iva's neediness, and she certainly lacked Effie's patience and warmth, but Sam had made his mind up early on that he would never be a sit-and-stay kind of dog, and neither, he felt certain, was Brigid. If anything, he thought, she was a female version of himself, and he found that idea both stimulating and disturbing at the same time.

While rejecting the words "sit and stay" in reference to himself, Sam couldn't help but associate them with Effie -- his little beagle, with her pretty face, her velvet ears and her almond-shaped eyes; she who would soon present him with a litter of wriggling, squealing puppies. So, in all probability, would Iva, but Sam still thought of her as Archer's girl, and of the puppies as his late partner's legacy. His sentiments for Effie, ill-defined though they were, remained separate from what he felt for Iva or Brigid. Being Sam, he saw no reason to examine those feelings too closely.

The fog parted as he came to a corner, and a mass that was at first amorphous slowly emerged as one of the city's numerous large and decorative fountains. He crossed the street and lapped up some tepid water, which tasted not too surprisingly like feet and urine. Brigid's perfume clung to him like a dogcatcher's net. Sam recalled how his new friend Murray had splashed about in the swimming pool earlier in the day. He made up his mind, gritted his teeth, and climbed into the fountain. The smell of the water made him nauseous, and he was willing to withstand the experience for only a few seconds before leaping out of the fountain and shaking himself off. Not yet content with the way he smelled, Sam searched for, and finally found, a well-used fire hydrant and rubbed up against it. Then he rolled in squirrel vomit on a patch of grass. He continued walking, feeling better, and smelling, he thought contentedly, like a healthy male dog of the streets again.

Back on his own patch of earth, he found both Effie and Iva huddled in the tool shed. The yellow porch light at number 891 cast eerie shadows in their direction, making them appear vaguely unreal and disconcertingly unfamiliar.

Effie spoke first. "The fog is heavy tonight. I'm glad you made it back safely, Sam."

Iva's blonde hair was badly matted and she looked haggard and old. "I'm glad you made it back at all," she put in tartly. "Is that perfume I smell? You were supposed to be looking for Archer. You were supposed...." She broke off. "Oh, I can't believe he's dead," she wailed.

"Why aren't you inside?" Sam asked her, feeling more annoyed than compassionate, for had hoped to find Effie alone. "Has Sophie noticed your expanding girth?"

"Sam!" Effie chided. "Please. Not now."

"Miss Caruthers is upstairs with her boyfriend," Iva groaned. "They're planning to go away together tomorrow, and I'm to stay here with Mrs. Petoma until she gets back. She whimpered self-servingly. "Everything happens to me! Archer gets killed, there are puppies on the way, and my mistress dumps me. Oh, Sam, what am I going to do?"

"Now, don't worry," soothed Effie. "Sam will think of something."

Her hero slowly wagged his tail. He was fresh out of ideas.

It was Effie instead of Iva who asked, "Were you able to find Archer, Sam?"

He nodded and lied. "He died quickly."

"How?" Iva demanded. "I've got a right to know."

"Bugsy Gatthamer's son shot him," Sam told her.

Iva stared at him through bloodshot eyes. "But why? Why would anybody shoot a harmless dog?"

"He was looking for something. Some jewels. Archer...got in the way." Sam stretched out in front of the tool shed and tried not to yawn. For a dog who was only three years old, he suddenly felt very tired and used.

"Jewels?" echoed Iva. "You mean, like diamonds?"

"That sort of thing, yes," Sam replied.

"Strange what two-footers consider valuable, isn't it?" asked Effie. "Stranger still what they'll kill for," she added philosophically.

Iva said nothing for a while, but at last she turned to Sam and asked, "Did you actually see Archer's body?"

He turned his attention to a light in the window of Sophie Caruther's apartment at number 893. "No. No, I didn't."

Iva said to Effie, "Why, he might be alive then. If Sam didn't actually see him..."

Sam cut her off, stripped her of any hope. "Iva, the police were on the scene before I was. They took everything away. Archer is dead. You're going to have to accept that."

She began to whimper again, and Effie gently licked her face. "Sam," she said, "would you mind sleeping in the doghouse tonight? Iva obviously needs comforting."

Sam said nothing. He got up, shook himself off, dipped his nose into an empty food bowl, then flopped down on the torn, flea-infested bedding inside the doghouse -- the bedding smelled strongly of Archer.

Sam snapped at the fleas and tried to pretend that his stomach wasn't growling. He had shared a bowl of fresh chicken livers with Brigid before slipping out into the fog shortly after their lovemaking, but a few chicken livers hardly composed a solid meal.

He sighed, pawed around in the bedding, frightened away a mouse, and finally curled up, closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

But sleep wouldn't come, and the fog was no help. Like poking fingers, it nudged at his senses and made him nervous. He stayed awake, listened to the soft snoring of the bitches in the shed. In the wee small hours of the morning he heard a telephone jangle somewhere close by. Shortly thereafter, he heard an man's footsteps rapidly descending the stairs which led to the alleyway in back.

Sam's nose twitched and he instantly sat up. That smell! He knew it...had smelled the same blended aroma of leather polish and cologne at Floyd Munsday's cottage and while he was hiding behind the topiary with Murray.

His thoughts exploded as realization struck him. Sophie Caruther's boyfriend was Bugsy Gatthamer's son! Sam left the doghouse and crawled beneath the fence in back. He was barely in time to see the outline of the hefty two-footer as he dashed down the alleway, no doubt headed in the direction of a dark blue Chrysler Playboy Roadster.

Brigid! Thought Sam, and once more he charged out into the fog.

(story to be cont'd...); 12:22 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd...)

The fog had abated, and only a faint outline of the moon remained in the morning sky by the time Sam again made it back to his patch of earth on Post Street. He was exhausted and hungry, having kept a vigil lasting hours under Brigid's window, but at least he was satisfied that no hefty gunsel in a dark blue Chrysler Playboy Roadster had been anywhere near the Coronet Apartments the night before.

It was also apparent that the gunsel wasn't back inside 893 with Sophie Caruthers. Sam padded around the block twice upon his return; the roadster wasn't there.

Neither, Sam quickly discovered, was Effie. The tool shed was empty, as was the food bowl, and Sam guessed that Mrs. Petoma had taken his sweet beagle for a walk. Maybe she'd even taken Iva along. He shrugged, sniffed about the shed, enjoying the blended female scents of the two bitches, then flopped down and fell asleep.

But not for long.

A wet nose nudged at Sam's sore ear and he cautiously opened one eye.

Murray was standing outside the tool shed, wagging his tail furiously and grinning with apparent delight.

Sam got to his feet. "What in the kennel are you doing here?"

Murray's grin widened. "It took me a while to find the place, but I remembered everything you told me. Say, is there somewhere a dog can get a drink around here?"

Sam introduced Murray to the communal water bowl, and watched as the big German shepherd lapped it dry.

"Major do at the Gatthamer place early this morning," Murray told him. "Want to hear about it?"

"I'm all ears," Sam replied wryly. "Wait a minute. Don't tell me the gunsel showed up again?"

Murray nodded. "But Mrs. G. showed up first."

"Is this going to be a lengthy tale?" Sam asked.

"Sort of," Murray conceded.

"Then let's stretch out in the shed," Sam said with a yawn. "I got no sleep last night, so I'd prefer to take my news lying down today."

When the two dogs were reasonably comfortable, despite Murray's
large size, the big shepherd continued with his story. "Mr. Webley-Fosbery let me inside around midnight because of the heavy fog."

"Considerate of him," Sam remarked.

"Yes, and Mrs. G. showed up a short time later. I heard her tell the butler that she was leaving the country. She'd come home to pick up her passport and some extra cash before sailing for Singapore on a boat called the La Paloma."

"The La is a lousy combination," Sam pointed out.

"So was Mrs. G.'s purple blouse and pink skirt," said Murray. "Anyway, Mr. Webley-Fosbery then made a phone call from the main kitchen."

"I have a feeling," said Sam, "that he phoned the boyfriend of the two-footer who owns the building next door. It turns out he's Mrs. G.'s stepson -- our gunsel, and he charged out of here late last night, but I thought he was going somewhere else."

Murray shook his head. "It wasn't long before he showed up at the Gatthamer mansion. Mr. Webley-Fosbery let him in, and a few minutes later I heard Mrs. G. start to scream. From what I could tell, the stepson was smacking her around pretty hard. She kept screaming that she didn't know where the dog was -- meanwhile, I was trying to get out of the second kitchen, but the door was latched."

"What happened next?" asked Sam, feeling his weariness start to ebb.

"I heard a gunshot," said Murray, "and I jumped through one of the windows, which serves to explain why there are shards of glass in my coat. Then I ran around to the front of the house and tried to break in through another window."

"Murray, you are squirrel-nest nuts," Sam told him.

"I could see Mrs. G. slumped on the floor in a pool of blood," Murray went on, "and the next thing I knew, Mr. Webley-Fosbery shot his son."

"HIS son?" said Sam? "What are you talking about?"

"Evidently the first Mrs. G. had an affair with the butler many years ago," Murray revealed. "At some point Mr. G. realized the boy wasn't his, so he sent him away to a boarding school and murdered his mother."

Sam shook his head. "Go figure two-footers."

"Mr. Webley-Fosbery shouted something at the gunsel. Something to the effect that he'd turned out to be a terrible disappointment, viciously slaughtering people and all --and then he plugged him -- right between the eyes. Our butler may be old and frail and hard of hearing, but he's still quite a marksman," Murray observed with obvious admiration.

"Evidently," agreed Sam, who was no longer feeling tired. "So what did you do then?"

"I got the kennel out of there," said Murray. "I jumped the fence and headed in your direction. "I remembered what you said about it being better to be a live guard dog than a dead guard dog, and I think I might want to make a career change while I've got the chance."

"Really?" Sam asked. "What do you have in mind?"

"How about joining forces with you?" the big German shepherd suggested. "We could be partners, Sam."

(story to be cont'd....); 1:23 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd...)

Before Sam could reply to Murray's suggestion, the backdoor of 891 swung open and Effie and Iva poked their heads out. Both stopped in their tracks when they saw the big German shepherd, and their hackles rose threateningly.

"It's all right, ladies," Sam was quick to assure them. "This is Murray, formerly of Nob Hill, but now he wants to be one of us."

"He must be out of his mind," snorted Iva.

Effie, by contrast, wagged her white-tipped beagle tail in a welcoming gesture. "We don't have much to offer, but you're welcome to what we do have," she said.

Meanwhile, Iva was carefully studying the big shepherd. "How is it we've never met before?" she finally asked in a low, sexy growl that made a shiver run down Sam's spine. So much for memories of old buddy Archer, he thought.

"I've never been here before," Murray stated the obvious. "I had no idea what I was missing."

His eyes sparkled and Iva's stubby tail began to shake faster than Theda Bara's hips

"I'll bet you say that to all the bitches," she teased.

"Only the pretty ones," Murray replied smoothly, and Sam began to see definite advantages to keeping the big shepherd around as a partner.

Effie came over and sat down beside him and the two dogs rubbed noses. She smelled young and warm.

"Sophie Caruthers' boyfriend is dead," Sam told her. "He died in a shootout this morning."

"Oh, no," she said, then inadvertently took a step backward before letting out a loud bark. "Sam! Look! Look up there!"

They all looked in the direction of 893, for there, up on the rooftop, a distraught Sophie Caruthers was teetering near the edge. Above a pair of extremely high heels her ankles wobbled precariously, and her short skirt flapped about her knees.

"She can't jump!" cried Iva. "Oh, what is going on? Where's her boyfriend?" The frightened Cocker turned to Murray. "It's bad enough that she was planning to leave me here while she went off with her rich two-footer, but if she kills herself, I'll wind up in the pound for sure."

"It's all right," Murray assured her, placing a large, comforting paw across her shoulders.

Iva gazed at the big dog with a healthy blend of lust and love in her eyes, but she still clung to her pessimism. "What can you really do?" she asked. "We're dogs! We need two-footers to care for us -- otherwise it's the streets or the pound." She hung her blonde head in something approaching shame. "To make matters worse, I'm soon going to whelp a litter of puppies."

Murray licked one of her curly blonde ears. "I'll think of something," he reassured her. "You'll see."

Sirens wailed and several cars screeched to a halt outside 893. Sophie Caruthers moved a few inches closer to the edge of the roof, and Iva hid her face in Murray's heavy chest hair.

She missed seeing the spectacle of two men in white coats stealthily cross the roof behind her mistress and wrestle her to the floor. While one of the men held her down, the other forced her into an odd-looking jacket with extra-long sleeves. At first she screamed and fought, but all at once she went as limp as an empty vacuum cleaner bag, and the two men carted her off.

"You can open your eyes, Iva," said Sam. "She didn't jump."

Iva finally complied but remained huddled next to Murray, shaking like a leaf. "Why would Miss Caruthers do such a thing?" she asked, and Sam gave her the explanation.

"Poor soul," commented Murray. "I guess it's true that we are shaped and fashioned by what we love."

"What a way you have with words!" said Iva, her eyes soft with admiration.

"My father used to quote a two-footer named Goethe a lot," Murray told her. "He was a poet and philosopher."

"A two-footed poet and philosopher?" Sam looked skeptical.

"I'm sure he was much influenced by dogs like all two-footers of intellectual merit," Murray replied.

"Well, I agree with Iva," said Effie. "You have a way with words whether they're yours or not."

"Sophie Caruthers has been shaped and fashioned by a lot of male two-footers over time," Sam observed cynically. "As the old line goes, this simply may have been the bone that broke the Borzoi."

The dogs sat quietly for a moment, each in a separate world. Iva was worried about what would happen to her next, now that her two-footer had been hauled off to a sort of human pound. Who would want a dog filled with puppies?

Effie, who had long had an inkling that Miss Caruthers might have had a hand in her uncle's death -- and thus suffered a form of poetic justice, wondered how Mrs. Petoma would now manage to feed them all.

Murray was feeling noble and protective. Iva was a sweet dish in his estimation. So, for that matter, was Dollybelle, but she had too many male friends. Murray was tired of being alone and felt the urge for a long-term commitment.

As for Sam -- Sam was thinking about Brigid -- the hot, perfumed little Maltese who had set him up, let him down, and then tried to set him up again. There would be no more treats from places like Cole's and no more lovemaking. He doubted he would ever see her again.

Late that afternoon, as the dogs
snoozed in separate areas -- Effie and Sam in the tool shed, and Iva and Murray crowded into the doghouse, a newsboy shouted out the
day's top headlines. "Get ya paper!
Read all about it! Mobster dies tryin' to escape from the Rock!"

Sam's ears perked, and when he found out the mobster was Bugsy Gatthamer, he really wasn't very surprised.

(story to be cont'd...); 1:48 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (cont'd...)

Sam Spencer took it for granted that he was right about most things, but occasionally -- although he would not easily admit it, he was dead wrong.

His assumption that he would never see Brigid again certainly fell into the latter category, for less than a week after all of San Francisco heard the news about Bugsy Gatthamer's death by drowning while attempting to escape from Alcatraz, Cairo slipped under the back fence one overcast afternoon, twitched his curlicue of a tail, and announced Brigid's presence in the alleyway behind Sam's patch of earth of Post Street.

"I was expecting this," said Effie, with a somewhat insouciant toss of her head. "Go ahead and talk to her, Sam. I'll wait here for Iva and Murray to get back from their walk."

"Murray is here?" Cairo seemed as surprised to hear the news as Sam was to realize Effie had just one-upped him.

The little pug's face clouded. "If Murray's here, I guess that means Mr. Webley-Fosbery has moved out of the Gatthamer mansion."

"The last I heard," said Sam, "your formidable butler was still living up on the Nob. I'm sure you know that he blew away Mrs. G.'s stepson, who turned out to be his son instead of Bugsy Gatthamer's pup."

Cairo nodded sadly. "We know all about the deaths that took place in our former home. What a tale of intrigue and deceit," he added, his face alight with innocence.

He looked about Sam's patch of earth and abruptly changed the subject. "Is this what's known as squalor?" he asked them.

"We prefer the term bohemian," Sam told him, although Effie admitted that squalor might more aptly apply once she whelped a litter of puppies.

Cairo looked at her and swallowed hard. "Oh, dear," was all he could manage to reply.

Sam licked Effie's nose, then followed the pug out the back way, where he found Brigid sitting next to a garbage can, looking forlorn. For the first time since he'd met her she did not look as if she had just stepped out of a grooming parlor. Her blue silk bow was perched atop her head at a tipsy angle, and her lush coat looked a bit ratty -- as if it hadn't been brushed for days.

"Hello, Sam," she said.

"Hello, Brigid," he replied, slowly wagging his tail. 'What are you doing here?"

"I suppose you've heard the news about Daddy Gatthamer?" she asked him, her pretty face set in grim lines.

He nodded. "I heard, and I've got an idea you're his only mourner, angel."

She was defiant. "I don't care what you think! He was always kind and good to me. Daddy Gatthamer loved me!"

"He never should have tried to escape from The Rock," Sam responded. "As far as I'm concerned, he got what he deserved."

Brigid's eyes hardened. "He'd been in other prisons before and always got out one way or the other. But Alcatraz was different. He had to try to escape." She was shaking with barely suppressed fury, and Sam felt a surge of pity (or perhaps it was lust) for her.

"Would you like some water?" he asked her. "We only have a communal bucket instead of a delicate china dish, but the water's still fresh."

Brigid shuddered. "I'm not quite ready for that," she said, struggling to keep a grip on herself.

Cairo chose the moment to intervene. "Uh, Sam, the thing is, we're going to need a place to stay. Now that Daddy Gatthamer is out of the picture, so to speak, we're about to be homeless."

Sam's bedroom eyes widened. "Surely you're not thinking of staying here?"

"Well, the conditions really are deplorable," Cairo admitted, "but we don't know where else to go. Oh, no doubt we'll be able to camp out at the flat for a few more days, but Ermelita has left, meaning there's no one to wait on us, and we understand that the government plans to seize all of the Gatthamer properties for payment of back taxes." The little dog gave an apologetic shrug. "I'm afraid we're in a bit of a pickle."

Brigid's eyes resembled two burnt holes in a dog blanket. She stared at Sam and said, "We have no money. If you can't help us, we'll starve to death or the dogcatcher will get us."

"Excuse me, Sam," Effie interrupted, crawling under the back fence and nodding archly in Brigid's direction.

Brigid looked the other way.

"I need to talk to you, Sam," Effie insisted.

"Can't we talk later?" he asked, surprised by the way she had so neatly taken charge.

"It's important," she told him.

"Oh, we'll be happy to wait, won't we, Brigid?" And Cairo beamed a friendly smile at Effie.

Effie and Sam conferred, then without a further word to anyone, Effie crawled back under the fence.

"What was that all about?" asked Brigid. "Did she knock over the communal water bucket, or something?"

Although a little unsettled by Effie at the moment, Sam was not pleased with Brigid's attempt to diminish her. He sat down and casually scratched at a flea. "That wasn't about much, my dear, just a fortune in jewels."

"What jewels?" Brigid demanded, her long tail quivering. "You certainly can't imagine that we have any jewels! You never found the chew toy for us, if you'll recall."

Sam glanced over at Cairo, who was carefully studying his paws. Cairo definitely was not what the two-footers would call a good poker player. He turned back to Brigid. "There never was a chew toy," he told her. "You made all of that up, angel. Now it's time to dig up and bare your buried bones."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Cairo was a bark ahead of her. "How much have you figured out?" he asked.

Sam slowly wagged his tail. "Well, Cairo, old buddy," he said, "I think I've pretty much figured out everything.

"You see, I've had a lot of time to think things over during the past few days," Sam went on, while looking directly at Brigid. "I've talked to Murray, and also to Effie and Iva, who are two smart bitches. I think I can put it all together now -- how things happened and why they happened."

"Can you, Sam?" asked Brigid, her eyes never leaving his own.

"I can see why Bugsy Gatthamer
adored you," Sam said. "You were his pet all right. You were the one living thing he could completely trust."

"Brigid is as loyal as Rin Tin Tin," stated Cairo proudly.

"Oh, go bury it under a hydrant," Brigid told him. "All right, Sam, say what you have to say. I'm ready for anything."

"Then let's get comfortable," said Sam, "because I want to start at the beginning."

(story to be cont'd...); 1:21 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (con't...)

"All right, here's the skinny whippet," said Sam, keeping his eye on Brigid. "Bugsy Gatthamer was planning an escape from Alcatraz all along. With his ego, he figured he actually had a chance of making it, and if he did, he knew he'd need ready cash -- or something he could easily convert to cash, on hand. I'm guessing he wanted to get out of the country fast and start a new life in another country -- probably somewhere in Mexico or South America. How am I doing so far?"

Brigid shrugged, pretending to be bored.

"You're doing very well," Cairo said encouragingly.

Sam continued: "Bugsy no doubt figured that Mrs. G. wouldn't stick around for very long after he got sent to The Rock. I'm sure he knew all about her and Floyd -- and he didn't much care. Maybe he even instigated the romance. Evidently he liked his second wife well enough not to shoot her. Instead, he hoped she'd take what money she could get her hands on and run off with her lover. The bottom of the doghouse was, he wanted shed of her, and the feeling was mutual. She certainly never had any plans to hire a new mouthpiece for him. Then the stepson -- the gunsel -- showed up and nothing worked the way it was supposed to."

Brigid broke off her stare-down contest with Sam to snap at a pesky fly.

Cairo said, "You're right. The stepson was never part of the equation. He simply showed up and started talking about a fortune in jewels. Mommy Gatthamer had no idea the jewels even existed."

Brigid growled at the pug. "Let Sam do the talking, Cairo. You can't even tell a decent shaggy dog story, whereas he's great at fairy tales."

Sam had to admire her moxie. "The gunsel knew Bugsy had a fortune in diamonds stashed somewhere," he went on. "He just didn't know where they were, and Mrs. G. didn't have a clue -- at least not at first. She must have been smart enough to realize the guy was big trouble, though. That's why she gave Thor to Floyd -- for protection."

"I never thought of that," said Cairo, and Brigid rolled her eyes.

"Mrs. G. tried to keep things sociable by rolling over on her back and playing nice. It's what she'd always done for assertive male two-footers, and it worked for a while -- until someone, and I'm guessing it was the gunsel, realized exactly where the diamonds were."

He paused, saw Brigid fidget.

"That's a beautiful rhinestone collar," he observed. "Iva was quite taken with it the day you first showed up here. You see, she might not be off the Nob, but she can spot diamonds when she sees them, angel."

Brigid's eyes widened. "That's ridiculous," she told him, but soon her shoulders sank and she gave up the pretense. "So you've known all along?"

Sam slowly wagged his tail. "I had my suspicions. Actually, I didn't believe Iva at first, but the chew toy story was an obvious myth. This makes sense."

"Oh, dear," said Cairo, sounding disappointed. "The chew toy story was my invention. I thought it was rather clever."

Brigid scorched him with her eyes before turning back to Sam. She sighed. "The stepson mentioned the diamonds to Mr. Webley-Fosbery," she said, "and Mr. Webley-Fosbery told him about my collar. 'I'm betting that's where the old mobster put them,' he told the stepson -- his real son, as it happens. Then he said, 'Why not let things alone? You're young and you're not poor.' But his son wasn't about to listen to him. I knew I had to make a fast escape, Sam, so I got out through the pool-house heating system and went to the Coronet. Believe me, I was terrified."

Sam found it hard to imagine Brigid terrified.

"The next step was setting me up," he said. "I'm guessing you heard about Sam Spencer the dog detective while you were hanging out in the neighborhood, keeping an eye on the gunsel. You knew he was living here, I'm sure."

"Look, I had to get rid of the two-footers," Brigid told him. "I had to get rid of all of them -- well, except for Mr. Webley-Fosbery. He was too old and harmless to matter."

"Mommy Gatthamer told the stepson she had no clue where Brigid was," Cairo chimed in. "We knew he didn't believe her, but he didn't know where to look. Mr. Webley-Fosbery mentioned Floyd's house, and that gave us an idea. We weren't sure about the timing, but we got lucky."

"And the idea was for me to distract Thor, while you pranced around on Floyd's front porch, making sure the gunsel saw you," said Sam. "Unfortunately, it was Archer who went there instead, but you got the results you'd hoped for. By the way, where did you hide while all the killing was going on?"

"Right behind the front door," Brigid replied. "It made a strange sort of sense that he wouldn't look there. At first I thought about the bathtub, but I couldn't stand the stench of that peach soap Florinda always used."

"What do you know?" remarked Cairo. "I always favored the scent myself."

"Cairo," said Brigid, "stick a chew toy in it!"

"Obviously," Sam went on, "you made a good and clever choice, angel. Once the stepson saw you at Floyd's he figured Mrs. G. was playing him for a beef jerky, so he killed Floyd, then phoned and threatened her."

"Mr. Webley-Fosbery told her to get out of town and stay out," said Cairo. "A pity she didn't listen."

"Right," Sam agreed, "at which point, your butler phoned his son and told him she'd come home. Quite a loyal servant, your Mr. Webley-Fosbery."

"Why, what are you implying?" asked the pug. "Mr. Webley-Fosbery is above reproach. He used to serve us pheasant under glass and fillet mignon. He's true blue."

"Maybe," said Sam, "but I think true green with envy and greed is more like it. Your butler had an agenda of his own. He was very patient, acted only when he had to, and just waited for events to unfold."

Brigid snorted. "What rabid nonsense! The man's over eighty in human years."

"You're wearing a fortune in diamonds around your neck, angel," Sam pointed out. "Times are hard and just one of those gems could provide Mr. Webley-Fosbery with enough money for a very comfortable old age."

He thought about his friend Old Grunt, and it occurred to him that old dogs and old two-footers might not be so very different. A shame Old Grunt couldn't get his paws on some diamonds.

"Are you suggesting that he set up his own son?" Cairo was aghast.

Sam shrugged. "Who knows what he did or why he did it? It's just a theory, after all. You're here and he doesn't have the diamonds, so maybe you're right and I'm wrong. Frankly, I don't give an old greyhound's kneecaps one way or the other. Now, it's getting late. Let's talk about the diamonds."

"They're mine," snarled Brigid. "They're all I have left now that Cairo and I are homeless and desperate."

Sam barked a brutal laugh. "Homeless and desperate? Brigid, the recent Stock Market crash left numerous two-footers homeless and desperate. You are neither. The truth is, you're probably the richest bitch in San Francisco."

She was shaken, Sam could tell. But Brigid was tough, and she was not about to give up without a fight.

He hadn't misjudged her.

"I'm going to have puppies," she said.

"That's right," Cairo backed her up, standing as tall as he could and attempting to look pugnacious. "You aren't going to be a mutt about this, are you Sam?"

Sam said to Cairo, "I'm going to be a real mutt about this, and he glared hard at Brigid. "Not only did you set me up once, angel, you tried to con me a second time at the Coronet. You knew I'd eventually figure out the gunsel lived next to my patch of earth. Florinda was out of town and Floyd was already dead -- but he was alive and you had to get rid of him. Did you expect me to trip him on the stairs?"

Brigid would not meet his eyes.

"Lucky for you the butler intervened, but all the while, you really didn't care if I lived or died, did you, angel? Now you're back a third time, trying to con me again. You owe me, angel, and you owe me big."

She bared her teeth. "The diamonds are mine!"

"There are four diamonds sewn into that collar," said Sam, "and I want three of them."

"Sam..."

He turned around and saw Effie standing there.

"Are you really going to have puppies?" she asked Brigid.

Brigid nodded.

"We need to sit down and talk this over," said Effie.

"Do you suppose," asked Cairo, "that I could have a lap of water from the communal bucket first?"

(story to be continued); 1:52 AM
Anonymous said...: After Cairo returned from his adventure with the communal water bucket, the four dogs stood in the alleyway and eyed one another warily. Cairo was genuinely awed by Effie, but he kept his distance from Sam, whose stance remained belligerent. Meanwhile, Brigid attempted to look pouty and disdainful, a ploy typical of male-endorsed bitches who can't get along with members of their own sex. At the center of the drama, Effie managed to appear cool and efficient.

"Iva and Murray will be back soon," she said, "so let's settle this matter here and now."

Brigid sneered. "I suppose you don't want to cut them in on anything?"

"That's not it at all," said Effie. "Murray is now Sam's partner, but I feel you and I need to wrap this thing up, Brigid. We're both mothers-to-be, after all."

Sam wondered what that had to do with anything, but he let his girl have the floor, or rather, the dirt-strewn alleyway.

"I have to have my diamonds," Brigid insisted desperately, and Effie nodded sympathetically.

"I told Sam to take three of them," she said, "but I've changed my mind."

Brigid glared at her. "Do you have any idea how much these gems are worth?"

Effie's intelligent eyes sparkled. "I know they're worth a tremendous amount of money -- most likely more money than any of us will ever need. But here's the way I want the split. This is what I consider fair. Two diamonds for us, that is, a diamond for Sam and me, and one for Iva and Murray. You and Cairo can keep the remaining two diamonds. There will be one for each of you."

Brigid sat down. She said nothing, but Sam could hear the wheels turning. "Why do Iva and Murray get a diamond?" she asked.

Effie also sat down, and crossed her forepaws in front of her. "Because," she said, "Archer was Iva's fella, and she's also going to be a mother."

Brigid nodded. "I see." She pondered for a while, then said, "Even if I agree to your terms, Cairo and I will still need a place to live. We no longer have any two-footers to take care of us, so even with the diamonds -- we're stuck."

"Oh, sand fleas!" barked Sam. "Brigid, why don't you and Cairo drift back up the Hill? Find a nice family of two-footers there -- a father, a mother, and a couple of kids."

"Kids?" Brigid shuddered. "I hate kids."

"I've got a feeling you're going to make a great mother," Sam prophesized. "Well, how about looking for a jewelry appraiser who likes dogs?"

"There's an idea!" cried Cairo. "And I like children. Do you know any jewelry appraisers with children, Sam?"

Brigid heaved a great sigh. "Cairo, we are trying to carry on an adult dog conversation here. At least Effie and I are."

"If woof comes to growl," Sam continued, ignoring the slap, "there's always Mr. Webley-Fosbery."

"Didn't I hear you say he has an agenda?" asked Effie, who had been carefully listening at the fence.

"Everybody associated with this case seems to have an agenda," said Sam, turning to Cairo. "The butler was always nice to you, right?"

"Oh, yes," the little pug enthused. "As I said, he served us pheasant under glass..."

Brigid broke in. "But maybe he was only nice to us because of the diamonds."

"He never tried to take your collar from you, did he?" Cairo asked.

"Well, no," she agreed, "but Daddy Gatthamer was still alive."

Sam smiled. She really was a clever, clever girl.

Cairo didn't understand. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"Maybe," said Sam, "he wanted to get rid of a few two-footers as much as you did, and now that Bugsy's dead, I've got a feeling your friend the butler might be out flea-combing the city for you."

"But how do we know we can trust him?" asked Brigid. "Dog knows, I don't want to live in a hole like this, but if he finds us, he might just take the diamonds and send us off to the pound."

"There may be a way around that," suggested Effie, who once again became the focus of their attention.

"Really, dear?" Brigid raised a set of pure white eyebrows. "What do you have in mind?"

"Leave your collar in a secret hiding place," Effie told her, "and see if Mr. Webley-Fosbery will take you in. If he's willing to care for you without the diamonds, you'll have your answer."

"The scheme sounds risky," objected Cairo, who only a short time before had been the butler's staunch defender. "He might just get it into his head to take us to the pound anyway, especially if Brigid has puppies."

"You can always escape through the heating system in the pool house," said Sam with wink at Brigid, who appeared to be thinking hard.

"So if all goes well, we retrieve the diamonds, paw them over to our former butler and live happily ever after?" she asked finally. "Or at least we live happily until Mr. Webley-Fosbery drops from old age."

"Sometimes it's best to cross only one dog track at a time," Effie told her. "It's worth a try, Brigid."

"Mr. Webley-Fosbery used to hire the best cooks," mused Cairo. "Of course, none of them ever stayed very long because they couldn't stand Mommy Gatthamer's preference for catsup on everything."

"So what's it going to be, Brigid?" asked Effie. "Are you willing to take a gamble and maybe wind up living on Nob Hill again?"

Sam slowly wagged his tail.

Brigid smiled. "I'll say this, Sam Spencer, you may be a mutt, but you've found yourself a smart bitch with a whole lot of class."

She looked at Effie and said, "Deal."

(Story to be concluded...); 12:59 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy (conclusion)

It was a warm night a week later. Sam and Effie were curled up inside the tool shed, while Murray and Iva were out walking, trying to catch a stray breeze. Effie's pregnancy was starting to show, as was Iva's, but Effie was taking her first whelping in stride. Iva, about to whelp for the second time, was acting more dramatic than Ethel Barrymore. On the positive side, Sam was keenly aware that underneath the newspapers and straw which lined the shed, buried in fact several feet beneath the very spot where Effie's forepaws rested, were two glorious rocks that were worth a show dog's ransom.

Effie stretched and opened her eyes. "Can't sleep?" she asked.

"It's the heat," Sam told her. "There are times when I wish we could put an icebox in here."

"Are you worried about the diamonds?" she asked him.

"No...well, maybe a little," he replied. "When are you planning to tell Murray and Iva about them, and when do you plan to paw them over to Mrs. Petoma?"

Effie also stretched. "I think it might be wise to wait until I've given the diamonds to Mrs. P. before I talk to Iva and Murray," she said. "If I tell them now, Iva will want to do something wildly impractical -- like getting Miss Caruthers out of the mental ward, and that won't do. As for Mrs. P., I plan to wait until the moment is right."

He licked one of her velvet ears. "You say she's superstitious?"

"Very," she said, and rubbed her face against his shoulder. "If I can sneak into her apartment and leave the diamonds by the side of her bed just before I whelp the puppies, she'll be convinced the angels brought them -- both the diamonds and my litter."

"An angel will bring them," Sam murmured, licking her ear again.

Effie made a contented little female sound, right before she surprised the fleas off Sam. "Have you heard anything about Cairo and Brigid?" she asked.

Sam twitched his nose and blinked. She hadn't mention the dignified (if sadly bedazzled) pug or the scheming Maltese since the day they acquired the diamonds.

She cocked her head and looked up at him. "Well?" Her beautiful eyes looked enormous in the semi-darkness.

"I went up on the Hill the other day. I thought I'd just go and see what was what," he admitted.

"I figured you'd go there sometime," she told him.

Sam nodded. "And I figured you'd figure I would."

"Well," she repeated, "how are things?"

"The butler is still living in the mansion," he said. "Rumor has it that he inherited the entire place along with a trust fund from Bugsy."

"Oh, my!" declared Effie. "But can't the two-footer government take all of that away from him?"

"I've no idea," replied Sam. "Anyway, I saw Cairo and Brigid there."

Effie sat up. "Did you talk to them?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I had the sense to take a bath in a fountain before going there. They never caught my scent, and I made certain they didn't see me. They were playing with a ball in the backyard. They looked fine."

"The bath was a clever idea," Effie complimented, and Sam licked her ear again. "Do you think they've given the diamonds to Mr. Webley-Fosbery yet? He's going to be a very rich two-footer when they do, especially if he's able to keep his inheritance from Bugsy."

Sam grunted. "He's certainly been a patient two-footer."

Effie nodded, but she didn't reply.

"So," said Sam, "what do you think Mrs. Petoma will do after she finds the diamonds -- maybe buy both 891 and 893? If she wants, she'll be able to purchase the entire kennel block."

Effie shook her head. "No, Sam," she said. "She won't buy property here. I think she'll follow her dream and buy a historic inn up in the Gold Rush Country. She and her old friend Mrs. Forsythe have been wanting to do that for years."

Sam's jaw dropped. "What! The Gold Rush Country? You actually think Mrs. Petoma would consider leaving San Francisco?"

"Of course she would," said Effie. "I know she doesn't want to move to Arizona to be with her son, but it makes sense that she would want to live with her friend."

"An inn," Sam repeated, sounding bewildered. "In the Gold Rush Country?"

"Mrs. Forsythe once had some money," Effie went on, "but she lost it all in the crash. The same thing happened to Mrs. P. Now they won't have to worry ever again."

Sam stared at Effie. She sounded so pleased with the idea.

"Mrs. Petoma is too old to even consider running off to the Gold Rush Country," he said. "She has arthritis, for Dog's sake!"

But Effie disagreed. "She's not terribly old in human years, Sam. A little past fifty is all, and her arthritis doesn't bother her so much as worry over money."

"I still say she's too old," he muttered.

"Look at Mr. Webley-Fosbery," she countered. "He's in his eighties."

Sam had no fast comeback. "What about us?" he asked when he was able. "Surely you don't want to leave the city?"

"Oh, but I do," Effie replied. "Cairo was right, you know? We live in what amounts to squalor here. I don't want to raise my puppies in squalor, Sam. I want them to have fresh air and a place to run and play. A place to be happy."

Sam could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "But what about Murray and Iva?" he asked her. "They have a say in this too, don't they?"

She looked down at her paws. "I happened to mention a little something about the Gold Rush Country to Murray just the other day. He found the idea....interesting, Sam. Of course, he didn't realize I was serious about it."

Despite the heat, Sam felt a cold chill start to creep into his muscles. Brigid was a smart bitch -- but Effie? Effie was a wonder and a half.

"Murray wants to be a dog detective," he told her. "That means staying here."

"He wants what's best for Iva and the puppies," insisted Effie.

Sam felt like he had a bone stuck in his throat. He felt betrayed. He stared at her. "And what about me, Effie? Do I fit into this plan of yours at all?"

She looked shocked. "Why, Sam, I don't want to go anywhere without you," she said. "We'd all move to the Gold Rush Country together."

Sam said nothing.

"Ever since Iva told us about Brigid's rhinestones being real diamonds," said Effie. "Ever since then I realized the plan could be possible. I'm afraid I'm a lot like Mr. Webley-Fosbery, Sam. I'm the patient sort, and that's not always a bad thing."

Sam gave a shrug, said, "Effie, San Francisco is my home. The city is in my blood. I can't leave this place."

Effie gently nudged him with her nose. "Sam, think of Old Grunt. You don't want to end up like him, do you?" she pleaded.

He pulled away from her, stared at the pretty beagle as if he'd never seen her before. "Effie, I'm only three years old. Your remark is seriously below the withers."

"But in a couple of years you'll be as old as Archer was," she argued. "We dogs age fast, Sam. We age much faster than the two-footers do."

Sam stood up and shook himself off. "I need to get some air," he said, "maybe fog a few rats."

Effie reached out with a forepaw and touched his hind leg. "Sam, it's one thing to be here in the city, living in a tool shed, when you're young. But it must be awful to get old and never move on, never move up. I think you sometimes have to sit down and figure out what your purpose is...determine who you really are."

"If I knew who I really was, I'd run away," said Sam, paraphrasing a line from Goethe, a line recently dropped by Murray.

"You've always run away," Effie pointed out. "It's how you protect yourself."

"I'm going for a walk," he said. "Don't wait up."

She rolled over. "I'll never be the one to bark adieu," she told him. "You know how I feel about you, Sam. How I've always felt."

He left the tool shed and slipped under the back fence. He sniffed the air, felt the dirt beneath his paws, listened to the sounds of the city all around him. His city. And he knew that Effie was right. He had always run away, always managed to escape -- first from
a truck on its way to a pet shop when he was only a puppy, and from the dogcatcher more than a few times -- certainly from emotional entanglements with all the bitches he'd bopped.

But Effie was different, and he couldn't imagine his life without her.

Sam walked down Geary Street and Old Grunt stuck his head out from behind a high wooden fence. "Psst! Spencer! I see yer gettin' smart and only comin' out at night now. The dogcatcher's been after ya, huh?"

Sam paused. "I still go out in the daytime, Grunt," he said. "I just thought I'd take a walk, maybe fog a rat or two for the fun of it."

"Yer brazen, man," the old mutt declared, "and the dogcatcher's gonna nab you fer sure."

Sam shrugged. "You're probably right, Grunt," he said. "The dogcatcher might nab me one of these days -- but for now, time is on my side, and I plan to give him one kennel of a run for his kibble."

And Sam Spencer sat down and scratched at a flea.; 2:10 AM
Anonymous said...: The Maltese Chew Toy is TM to LuLu's Desperate House Dogs.

October 23, 2005; 2:19 AM

LuLu's Desperate House Dogs (formerly the Bow Wow Blog)

: Name: LuLu

I am a single five-year-old female Beagle, shown here by myself, while my mix-up of a sister sings the praises of mutts on my blog. Well, let her. I have a most intriguing (one might even say lascivious) past, at least according to my autobiography. In a former lifetime I was Queen Elizabeth the Ist of England, and later on (among others) I was Nell Gwynn, Pauline Borghese, Louise Brooks, and eventually just lovable, neurotic, adorable ME. I have a perfectly charming, albeit very annoying, sister named Sadie. She's rarely plagued by conscience, possibly because she's a Sagittarius. To date she has attempted to steal most of my boyfriends, meaning we're quite used to fighting over bones. Sadie and I are the same age, although she's the adopted one. We do have a fair amount of things in common. For example, she was once Mary Queen of Scots, and later on both Barbara Villiers and Marlene Dietrich. Amazingly we get along -- at least when we're before the public~

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LuLu's Desperate House Dogs (formerly the Bow Wow Blog)

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

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LuLu's Desperate House Dogs (formerly the Bow Wow Blog)

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