It was 9:34PM when Vincent came to, lying in darkness, sprawled out on the hardwood floor of someone else’s house, feet half fallen out of someone else’s shoes, and with a throbbing pain in his head that he wished was someone else’s problem. His right arm didn’t wake with him, staying stubbornly numb and weighing him to the ground like an anchor. He felt as if he was laid out on a metal slab, blood running cold in his veins, his whole body heavy like a sack of grain.
It was 9:34PM and Vincent was about two blocks south of Easy Street without a map.
At 10:20PM they would call time of death at the ER.
But before the clock could march him along, Vincent felt something moist and rough tug at his left hand. From the greying shadows that washed over him, a pink tongue darted back and forth. It licked the webbing between Vincent’s fingers. He stretched his hand into his pocket, a curious wet nose tracing its movement, and pulled out a brown dog-biscuit. It was one of those cartoonishly fashioned ones, shaped like a bone. The dog accepted the offering and lay alongside Vincent, pawing at the treat while it tried to fit its mouth around it. Vincent ran a trembling hand through the dog’s soft curls.
‘Good boy, Pepi.’
He let his head fall to the side to get a good look at the well groomed Labradoodle. Its tail swished along polished wood as it wagged back and forth.
‘You’re a damned good boy. As brilliant as they said you were. Nah, you don’t know who I am. But I know you. I know you…’
Vincent coughed. The numbness in his arm seemed to be spreading.
’Say, how about you do one last trick for this old dog and just sit and listen for me? Because, let me tell you, if you did know me, you wouldn’t be wagging your tail like that. Sure, you think you’re man’s best friend. But the truth is, I’ve never been too friendly with your kind. I’m usually the last person a dog like you ever meets.’
Pepi breathed heavily through his nose, head jolting up and down trying to get his canines some purchase into the biscuit.
‘You see, I’m a specialist. First got a call about you a week ago. Doc wanted me to come in for a consultation. I only ever get called in for one reason, so I wasn’t really surprised by the job. But even so, you were a special case. That meeting with the Doctor was where I first learnt your name, your home, your owner…’
The Doc’s office is all desk. That way he can always keep a piece of furniture between you and him. His walls are covered in framed qualifications from a time when he still practised. Though he traded in his scrubs for a suit long ago, back when he joined the insurance racket. People like me were his scalpel, now. And there I was, sitting across from him, a table-length apart. I already knew the score, I was just here to learn about the mark.
‘What have you got for me, Doc?’ I asked him.
He didn’t answer, nor did he turn his chair. He kept his gaze on the window, looking down to the carpark below. Now, normally I’m not the kind to wait around. I always liked to keep my location between two points. There’s plenty of debt collectors and broken hearts out there that will say the same about me. But what you’ve got to understand about the Doc is, even though he dressed the part, he wasn’t really like other Suits. The ones who’d lost their nerve somewhere in their double-breast. No, the Doc was tall, wire thin, and his presence cut through the room like a garotte. He made a habit of choking out any conversation until there was silence. Until he was ready to speak, on his terms.
Yet even before he said anything, he simply produced a file and handed it over to me, touching it down to the table with the kind of indifferent care that only the medically trained can manage. It was once I had taken out the vitals sheet that he addressed me.
‘Labrador Poodle cross. 14 years.’
Manageable size, I thought. The sums of money mentioned on the phone had me thinking Great Dane, though. There had to be something more to the job.
‘Any history I should know about?’ I asked.
‘Patella luxation. Pretty serious case, at that. The subject in question spent an overnighter in the Chatswood clinic last year for reconstructive surgery. Of course, it was completely covered by our premium insurance plan.’ The Doc’s tone suggested a smile, but his face never caught up.
‘So it’s a knee job, huh?’
Not surprising, they were mostly knee jobs. After all, they’re the first part of your body to give out when you spend your whole life sitting on command. I thumbed through the rest of the file. No history of illness. Pedigree breeding. A clean bill of health. The job seemed like such a straight shot I could have made it cross-eyed, and I let the Doc know it.
‘This is pretty standard stuff, Doc. Any reason why we’re making this a social call?’
I eyeballed the Doc. His Adam’s apple dropped as my question hit him.
‘This is a sensitive situation, Vincent. This is a Show Dog. It’s…well, it’s Pepi.’
I can’t say the name meant all that much to me at the time. I was never much into dog pageantry myself, and I only ever read Modern Dog Magazine for the crosswords. I’ve found that, in my business, the less you know the better. So I drew my Vape Pen from my pocket, billowed out a nice, silky cloud, and settled in for the explanation.
Another file came my way. This time the Doc fanned its contents out onto the table, like a dealer showing the deck before a poker game. Newspaper clippings and photos, mostly. First thing I noticed was what a photogenic little runt you were. I’d tell you to thank your parents for blessing you with two good sides, but for breeds like you, you’d be talking to test tubes. Second thing I noticed was your full page spread in the Sunday Paper. An action shot–you were fully 2 metres in the air, snapping above your owner’s head. The Doc was quick to explain that one to me.
‘The press call it the Eiffel Tower.’ He said, ‘It’s a trick. The dog jumps off the bent knee of the trainer to catch the treat held overhead. That’s Pepi performing to the Parisian judges outside of the Louvre.’
‘They do dog shows at the Louvre now?’
‘I believe it was part of a modern art exhibition. Whatever the case, our boy made a clean sweep of his weight division. You can imagine the media attention that followed. It was a global feel good story four weeks running.’
I considered the pictures before me, juice gurgling through my vape as my own thoughts bubbled. I hadn’t handled such a hot target before. Don’t take this the wrong way Pepi, but one of the perks that came with offing dogs is that it gets filed under misdemeanour rather than murder. But you were maybe just high profile enough to pull the attention of some of the bleeding hearts of the law.
‘This is a risk.’ I told the Doc.
‘He’s a liability.’ He told me back. ‘Thanks to his international success, the net worth of this dog is far, far beyond what our premiums can recoup if they were to make another claim.’
I wasn’t buying in just yet. I still had some questions.
‘But he’s a healthy dog, right? Must get pampered pretty well. I don’t see him catching Kennel cough any time soon. What makes you think he’ll fall if I’m not there to push him?’
The Doc took a measured breath. He had rehearsed this answer enough to know how much air he needed.
‘At a certain point, all dogs become risks. Even without any pre-existing conditions, once they pass 12 years they are prone to injuries and disease. It only gets worse with time: incontinence, hair loss, epileptic episodes, neuralgia, muscular dystrophy. The fact is, natural causes are grotesque and painful. Your intervention is more humane than letting father time dictate.’
It was some speech. And he was right, in a way. Doctors are always right, they can’t afford not to be. Me, I made a business of doing the wrong thing, and that’s what he was counting on.
‘Will you do the job?’ He asked, turning back to the comfort of the window. Probably couldn’t bear to look me in the eye when I accepted. Haunted by the hippocratic oath, like any Vet turned misfortune profiteer would be. I was used to it, by now. The only ones that ever watched me to the end were the dogs.
I drew a thick cloud and held it. Let it wisp out of the corners of my mouth. To be honest, I already had my answer. I had my answer as soon as I got the call. But there wasn’t any harm in making the Doc work a little before palming the job onto me. I would’ve made him sweat even longer, but I did respect the man, after all.
‘Yeah, I’ll do the job. Hell, might even get a photo with the little bugger. The file said Pepi doesn’t have accident insurance, is that right?”
‘That’s right. The owner’s didn’t feel it was worth it.’
Sorry to break that one to you Pepi. Your owner opened the back door for me with that decision.
‘Well that’s my angle then. Bump in the night, slip of the kneecap, and Pepi will be basically paralytic. At his age, they’d have to be sick not to put him down.’
The Doc nodded.
‘As long as you limit your attention to the patella, they won’t be able to claim any of it.’ He confirmed.
It was simple, really. I figured I’d break in, sprinkle some crumbs around, act like you got into the treat bag and got a bit hyperactive. Maybe you overexerted yourself and blew out your knees? I pulled the same stunt only eight months ago on a Dalmatian claiming to have intellectual property rights for Disney’s 101 Dalmations reboot. That one was a real work of art. The Doc wasn’t too keen on keeping me around to discuss it, though.
‘All of the owner’s details and addresses are there in the file.’ He said, ‘there’s nothing else we can give you.’
I got the hint, I was making him uncomfortable. But he didn’t hire me for hospitality and it didn’t suit me so well to shoot off while there was still oil in my pen. Those next few minutes of silence, the Doc’s back to me while I vaped the pen dry, that was probably the friendliest conversation he and I ever shared.
It was also the last conversation I had, before tonight. I spent the rest of the week casing your house. Use this information how you will, Pepi, but breaking and entering is really just about timing. If you know when to enter, there’s not much you need to break. Remember the parked, green car whose tires you relieved yourself on during Tuesday’s walk? That was my car, Pepi. I saw all of that. I learned the whole route your morning walk takes you on. I know your owner’s name is Cheryl. I know she doesn’t always pick up after you when you shit in the park.
After looking through her garbage, I also know that Cheryl eats two snack-sized tubs of Yoplait every day. I know you eat Barkley’s Bone Biscuits as treats. I know that every second shift at the call centre is a night shift for Cheryl. And I know that she keeps a key underneath her neighbour’s birdbath, just in case there comes a time when someone needs to get in and check on her prizewinning pooch. Well that time came tonight, Pepi. I unlocked the door and walked right in.
Vincent wheezed out a laugh and scratched behind Pepi’s ear. The dog had devoured the biscuit and was now licking the floor to savour the crumbs. At times he would also gingerly sniff at the expanding red pool.
I left my shoes at the door so I could slide silently up to the master bedroom. Your lot loves to bark at anything, so I didn’t want to give you an excuse to cause a scene. What I needed to do was to make myself less of a stranger, so you’d come to me when called. The bedroom had my solution; a whole wardrobe full of your owner’s scent. People will tell you that dogs are loyal animals, but in the end they’re just slaves to their own instincts. All I needed was something familiar, something worn recently, and that’d be enough to have you licking at my boot. That’s why I went for the strapless heels. Easy to slip into, well worn, and made that distinctive click-clacking sound of ‘Mum’s home’ on the floorboards.
And when I stepped out onto those floorboards into the foyer, Pepi, you played your part like you were the star of your own dog show. Out from the dark you ran in, skidding across the floor, a gormless, furry torpedo aimed squarely at your own demise. As soon as I pulled out that dog biscuit you were mine. Frozen, sitting up on your rear legs, paws begging for a shake. I shouldn’t have done it in front of your trophy cabinet, in hindsight. It just seemed poetic. I can be a tad theatrical at times.
I pulled your attention up with the biscuit in one hand, and brought out my weapon of choice with the other: a ball peen hammer. A simple tool for a simple job. Any knee would’ve done it, but it was the rear right leg that had been reconstructed. That was the ideal target.
I had the hammer poised right there, cocked and ready to strike, ready to drive the nail through that little insurance contract of yours. Turns out it’s a lot harder to squat in heels than you’d think, especially on a polished floor. If you weren’t such a runt Pepi, I wouldn’t have had to raise the biscuit any higher, to get you to look up, to get you to fall back further onto your hind legs to give me a clear shot. And, no offence, even in the moonlight, with the twinkle of your trophies around us, with you athletically coiled and obedient, I didn’t see what all the fuss was all about. Then again I’m not much of a dog person.
I should have been looking harder, though. Because I did see something. Saw it too late. You changed; snapped. I suppose I’d raised the biscuit above my head and, well, it triggered something primal in you. Pure driven instinct. From a reckless torpedo to a heat-seeking strike. You blasted off the spot and kicked into my knee, launching yourself high above me. The funny thing is, I’ve never even been to France. I never thought it’d be a dog like you that’d show me the Eiffel Tower.
‘Well, you know the rest better than I do.’ Vincent swallowed hard. His mouth was painfully dry. ‘I slipped, and must have hit the cabinet. It goes a bit dark after that.’
Pepi’s nose was buried deep into Vincent’s pocket, searching for more Barkley branded crumbs. Vincent strained his neck to look down at his chest, the glistening point of the Louvre International Dog Show trophy driven through his ribcage like a wedge. Even in the darkness his shirt looked black and wet. It was perhaps a small mercy that he couldn’t fully see the extent of his injuries.
There was no warmth left in Vincent’s body, just Pepi’s hot breath in his pocket. He didn’t want to talk anymore. He was tired. More tired than he’d ever been before. He let his hand rest on the dog’s back.
‘Goodnight, Pepi.’
There was a sound of a car door closing outside. Pepi bounded over Vincent’s body to run for the front door. The key turned in the lock; the shadows crept into Vincent’s eyes. The last thing he saw, as the world around him began to drain of all colour, was the pitter-patter trail of little red paw prints.
Ben Hudson Stories 