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 27, 2007

Tonight...Sam Spencer searches for clues in his partner's death as the 'Maltese Chew Toy' continues. (Photo by J.M. Hilton)

posted by LuLu @ 10:56 PM 

2 Comments:

Blogger LuLu said...

The Maltese Chew Toy...continued

"A two-footer gets out of a roadster and blasts a pill at the bitch," barked Sam. "What happened next, Ricardo?"

"Let me think," hissed the cat. "I want to make sure I relay this story to you exactly as the events unfolded."

"Just spit up the mouse, Ricardo, innards and all."

"OK, ok. So the white bitch makes a break for it, and while this is going on, a skinny fella in his pajamas comes out of the house, and the gunsel lets him have it with a pill."

"Kills him?" asked Sam.

"No. The guy had time to yell for his dog before the assailant popped him again."

"Busy boy."

"Nasty boy. The second pill did the job. But the dog heard his master call him, so he comes running back, hell bent to take the two-footer down, but instead the beefy bullet bouncer puts a pill into him."

"Kills him?"

"Drops him neat with the first shot."

Sam shook his head but made no comment.

"Then I seen Archer," the cat went on. "He'd managed to make it back up the stairs, Sam, and he was crawling through the weeds over there. He was hurt and hurt bad, but he was alive."

Sam felt cold all over.

"The two-footer didn't..."

"He did, Sam. He put a pill into Archer, too. No reason that I could see. Archer wasn't a threat."

"So the pill's what actually killed him?"

"Yeah, Sam. Yeah, it was the two-footer who plugged him. He's the one killed Archer. Then he went into the cottage and I could hear him tossing furniture around, smashing things. Lights started going on in some of the houses around here. You know... he was making a lot of noise. A few minutes later, he comes out of the house, cursing like a sailor what got a bad tattoo, gets in his roadster and drives off."

Sam was quiet for a moment. "What kind of roadster was it?" he asked.

"Oh, well, it was full dark out by then, Sam. I'd have to make an educated guess."

"You're a cat, Ricardo!" snarled Sam. "You can see in the dark better than I can in the daytime. Besides, it was still light out when the gunsel arrived. Cough up the morsel or you can forget our deal!"

"After all the information I've just given you!" The cat sounded hurt.

"I'll give you three wags of my tail, rat-gut breath."

"Oh, all right! It was a 1925 Pierce-Arrow Model 80 Opera Coupe.
Maroon. California plates, but I didn't get the number."

"A most educated guess all the same," Sam commented wryly. "Do you have any idea what might have happened to the little white bitch?"

"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 twitched. As soon as it was safe, she was out 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 had a party to go to, or something."

Story continued below...

11:59 PM  
Blogger LuLu said...

Story continued...


"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 long tail close to Sam's nose. "Not likely, pal of mine. Fluffy's a lost cause. Fact is, I was just waiting around for you to show, Sammy. I knew you'd hear about your partner and hightail it over to this part of town soon enough."

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

The cat made a chuckling sound. "Not likely. It's still an hour or two before dawn. Playtime! Hence, I believe I'll take my comfort and sift my catnip with a sweet tortoise-shell 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 shared a little moo shoo gai pan."

"You're bad to the bone," said Sam. "Bad to the very last hair ball, Ricardo."

"I'll admit it," the cat remarked amiably. "I'm also smart. I don't clutter up my patch with my paramours, like someone I know."

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

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

"They might," Sam told him. "Let's just hope their mamas have all had good things to say about you, pal of mine. Praiseworthy things, Ricardo. Otherwise, a few of those kittens might one day decide to look you up with their claws unsheathed."

Thus leaving Ricardo to ponder his questionable fate by himself, Sam walked back down Bush Lane toward the cottage...his nose to the ground...sniffing out clues.

Story continued next week.

12:16 AM  

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