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~

Friday, July 13, 2007

Meanwhile, Sam Spencer gets some bad news tonight, as our Golden Oldie mystery, The Maltese Chew Toy, continues. (Photo by J.M. Hilton)

posted by LuLu @ 11:49 PM 

4 Comments:

Blogger LuLu said...

Please catch the beginning of our story in our archives under 3/06/2007....

The Maltese Chew Toy (continues)

Sam awakened in the middle of the night curled up next to Effie in the shed. He felt tense and uncomfortable, yet he couldn't get a handle 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 felt to Sam 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 manager of the apartment house on Post Street and move to Arizona with him.

So far, she had refused, but she wasn't getting any younger, 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 unmarried uncle conveniently got whacked by a bus.

There really was no justice in the world, Sam concluded. Mrs. Petoma finally turned off her light, but in the instant before she did so, Sam saw that the doghouse where Archer usually slept was still empty.

The old dog had yet to return home.

Sam stood up, licked Effie's ear, and left the shed. 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 still couldn't dismiss an uncomfortable feeling that had been gnawing at his innards like a tapeworm all night.

Something wasn't right.

Sam's ears perked. He heard a faint scraping sound behind the back fence, and then he picked up a rancid odor that smelled vaguely familiar.

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

"Keep it down!" whined a voice he recognized. "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 first."

Sam nodded, wondering how long it would take for Old Grunt to get to the 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 -- fer sure."

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

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

Sam's ears drooped. What the bark was up? "Stand and 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 mud 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 last night."

Story continued below...

12:57 AM  
Blogger LuLu said...

Story continued...

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's 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 bark. "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 o' us get lucky, but not many. His bones was botherin' him somethin' awful...and he had a look about him."

"I never noticed it," Sam contended.

"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 for Chowtown in a few minutes," he barked tersely.

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

Sam hesitated for 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 ain't noticed, Spencer, I don't egg-zactly got one." 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 not here to get the bad news, Sam. Miss Caruthers' boyfriend didn't show up tonight, which means Iva's likely to be up there with her all night. It's a blessing."

"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 hole 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 for 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 his worst fear 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 two litters of puppies to consider. As for how Mrs. Petoma would react when she found out he'd knocked up Effie, well, only time would tell.

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

Story continued next week.

1:18 AM  
Blogger LuLu said...

The Maltese Chew Toy (continues)

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 directly 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, searching 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 more like an alleyway, Sam caught the ripe scent of a nearby cat, followed a moment later by a loud hiss. His body tensed, he backed up against the side of a tall eucalyptus tree, and bared his teeth.

"Yo, Sam! Up here!" yowled a voice that sounded like it belonged to a castrated hyena attempting to warble love songs.

Sam looked up. "Ricardo, is that you?"

A moment passed before the glow from a car's headlights proved that it was. Sam caught a brief glimpse of a straggly orange cat with the face of a prizefighter high above him on a tree branch.

Ricardo was a large feline of around five years of age, but he'd been in so many fights, he looked half a decade older. He was missing parts of both ears, had a huge scar running from his right eye directly across to 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 in this neck of the woods?" Sam asked him. "You wouldn't be tailing me, would you?"

"HA!" the cat howled with glee. "What an ego! For your information, Sammy-my-love, I've been hanging free and loose in this part of town for days now, and I assure you it's not YOUR tail which interests me."

"I'm relieved to hear it," Sam told him.

"There's a kitty cat named Fluffy whose time has come, if you get my meaning," Ricardo confided. "She's got every tom in the city set to pluck her harp strings, but I, the top cat of the Barbary Coast, finally arranged an assignation for last evening -- and guess who had to show up and queer-mouse the deal?"

"Possibly a former girlfriend of yours -- like her mother?"

Ricardo shrieked a laugh, then tried to look somber. "Oh, my sincere condolences on the loss of your partner, Sammy. Archer was a nice enough old dog, but he lacked your playful competitive edge when it came to competing with me over fogging rats."

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

The cat swished his tail. "And I almost ripped your eyes out last autumn."

Sam was tired of the verbal fencing. "You saw Archer take the hit, I guess?"

"Watched the whole thing go down from my treetop perch, baby. Cast your bedroom eyes to the right, Sammy, and behold the scene of the crime."

This cat, thought Sam, is enjoying himself way too much.

But he turned and carefully crept down the narrow alleyway-like street, which jutted off the main street like a broken toenail. It turned out to be a cul-de-sac, although the fancy term hardly applied to the armpit identified by a broken sign as "Bush Lane."

There was a small, beat-up cottage set close to the road. The one streetlight was flickering, but Sam spotted the ruined tree by the door, and he could clearly see the ropes blocking off the crime scene.

He could also smell the blended odors of blood and bullets.

It was the acrid smell of death.

Story continued below...

11:54 PM  
Blogger LuLu said...

Story continued...

Sam turned around and went back to the eucalyptus tree. He couldn't see Ricardo, but he knew he was there.

"So tell me what happened," he said. "Delineate the tale for me in your own inimicable fashion."

"My time is worth something," purred the cat, "meaning this tale of murder most foul 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."

Sam winced. Ricardo was making him pay through the snout for his information, but he agreed before the cat could sweeten the deal even more in his favor. Ricardo was many things, but generous was rarely one of them.

"All right," he barked. "You've got it. Six months from tomorrow morning -- now cough up something aside from hair balls."

The cat purred contentedly, and without further preamble settled down and began to tell his story.

"It was just before dark last night, when I looked down from my tree and saw Fluffy's gently curved and gracefully sensuous tail moving through undulating weeds like a periscope aimed straight for my heart..."

"Cut to the chase, Ricardo," Sam growled.

"No lover of purple prose, are you?" hissed the cat. "You did say I could tell the story in my INIMICABLE fashion."

Sam sighed with resignation. "Just get on with it."

"Well, I was all set to pounce, when I saw Archer coming up the street with his nose to the ground."

"He was alone?" asked Sam. "There was nobody tailing him?"

"He was alone, and alas, so was I," continued the cat. "I motioned to fair Fluffy to stay where she was, then I hailed Archer, who limped over to my tree to ask me if I'd seen a hot white bitch hanging out with a bruiser of a guard dog."

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

"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 give the old dog a civil enough answer, this veritable brute of a hound came lunging out of the house over there and gave your partner the evil eye."

"And Archer didn't move his rump?" Sam asked him.

"Nope. Instead he got into the subservient position and attempted to play nice, but the bruiser wasn't buying. Archer even asked ME to help him out, and since it was obvious he was on the verge of becoming dog meat, I did my best. I yowled at the beast, who then lunged at my tree -- and that gave Archer a chance to get away."

Sam waited a beat before saying, "But he didn't get away, did he?"

"For a minute I though he had -- he seemed to make it to the top of the tunnel stairs -- and at that moment Fluffy took off like she'd been impregnated by a cheetah, the brute saw her and hesitated for a second -- if Archer had been younger..."

"Yeah," agreed Sam. "If only Archer had been younger."

"Then this little white bitch showed up on the porch," said the cat. "She padded back and forth -- like she was trying to do the Charleston or something."

Sam blinked. "What?"

"Fluffy actually made an effort to try again," Ricardo went on. "I looked down from my perch and caught the lustful look in her eye. I was set for serious action, when a beefy two-footer drove up in a roadster, and took a shot at the bitch."

"WHAT?" Sam was on his back legs, with both paws pressed against the tree.

"He didn't hit her -- in fact, she got out of there faster than a politician caught with his pants down in a bordello raid. Unfortunately, so did Fluffy. Our romance did not get off to a propitious start, Sam."

"My heart goes out to you. What happened next?"

Story continued next week...

1:36 AM  

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