WALKING THE DOG

            Five forty-five, I’m up to take the dogs for a walk. Two very large, lovable, and constantly licking chocolate labs named Clark and Mable. Both from the same litter, which is a mistake, but the puppies were so attached, I couldn’t break the brother and sister apart. I put their shock collars on—never use them, but just in case they run into traffic and need to be stopped in their tracks. I love those two. We do this all year round, weather permitting and sometimes not permitting.

            It is an obsession and more enjoyable than walking on a treadmill or riding a stationary bike.

            We head out, and the dogs look left and growl at the new neighbor who is always talking on his cell phone. I can’t make out what he says. But it’s suspicious. Why doesn’t he talk in the house?

            What’s he talking about? His voice is bullfrog-low. When he sees us, he heads around the corner of his house and hides behind the bushes. Not his house, actually; he’s renting. Renters are rare in my neighborhood and not wanted. They cause trouble.

            Morning dog walking is a social outing. I know the people by their walks and the time we encounter them. The first person we meet is a guy always walking alone without a dog. His arms don’t swing with each step, so he’s on anti-psychotic medication or he’s a zombie.

            The dogs growl at him too.

            We walk farther and come across other dog owners, and most are very courteous. All dogs are leashed, and we carry our plastic bags for poop. Some people think their dogs are very well trained and try to walk them without a leash. That is a mistake and illegal in the suburbs. Every weekend, some guy walks two sheepdogs unleashed. He thinks too much of them. They race over and start barking at Clark and Mable.

            Clark and Mable went to dog school and wear their shock collars. I tell them to sit and they sit, and his dogs harass them. Mine show restraint and good breeding and parenting.

            “Your dogs should be on a leash,” I say.

            “Sorry,” he says.

            “You do this every weekend. You’re not a good dog owner. Your dogs are not that smart.”

            “Yes, they are.”

            Well, I think, they are definitely smarter than you. If you have to tell him, he’ll never get it.

            It bothers me a little, but I like to give him a hard time. The guy doesn’t realize his animals are animals and not an extension of his animal training ability, which is modest at best. I won’t engage further. Like road rage, it could get ugly. Ours is a very peaceful, crime-free gated community.

            What really defines the dog owner is how they handle the poop. When my dogs go, I pick up the poop in the orange bag from The Wall Street Journal. Once they poop, the walk’s pretty much over because I hate walking around with a large bag of mushy crap. But I dispose of it properly. I am a good dog owner and proud to be one. It’s part of the social contract.

            Bad dog owners pick up their dogs’ poop, bag it, and throw it on a neighbor’s lawn. Not very nice. I’d like to catch someone in the act. Actually, I did and confronted the perpetrator, but it turns out he put the bag on his own lawn to dispose of it after their walk. Oops. I was embarrassed, apologized, but still I’m a dog owner always on the alert. I must be on guard for dog poop abusers. I’m on patrol.

            On this walk home, I am a victim of discarded dog poop. On my lawn tied up neatly is a dog poop bag, filled to the brim. It must be a huge dog almost as big as my guys. I ignore and will not touch it and hope the person would walk by it daily and acquire a bit of remorse and guilt.

            We go on the walk the next day, and there is another bag of poop, two days in a row. I’m pissed. The third day, it happens again. The next day is trash day; I take the cans to the road. I get my mechanical-arm poop-picker-upper and clamp the bag. The arms release and cut the bag, releasing a white powder. The same powder is in the second bag and the third. A breeze hits the powder, and the dust burns my nose. Cocaine or heroin.

            Tomorrow, I will call the police, but I want to give it one more day. I need more evidence. I want to catch the derelict drug dealer in the act and record it on my iPhone.

            The fourth day, there is another bag, only smaller. Must be a Yorkie. I clamp it, and gold coins and diamonds pour out.

            This is getting out of hand. We don’t have drugs in this neighborhood.

            I call the police and begin to tell them.

            “Somebody is throwing dog poop bags on my lawn, but it’s not really poop it’s…”

            Before I finish, the dispatcher says, “Happens all the time. You have to catch the perp in the act; use your cell phone; get a video.”

            “Of the dog pooping or the owner bagging and tossing?” I ask.

            “Not funny; you’re wasting my time.”

            She hangs up.

            I put the drugs and diamonds on the kitchen table.

            There is an angry knock on the door. “FBI.”

            I open the door.

            I see eight agents with assault rifles pointed at me.

            “What?” I ask.

            “Get down, hands behind your head.”

            “But…”

            I’m thrown to the ground. My face plants on my recently sealed driveway. I smell the tar and imagine some sticking to my nose.

            “We have a search warrant.”

            “Where are the drugs and the money?”

            “On the kitchen table. I was going to call you guys, but I didn’t have a chance.”

            “That’s what they all say.”

            I need to collect myself. I try to stand up but am cuffed from behind and on my ankles.

            Clark and Mable are barking.

            “Come with us.”

            “Can I call my lawyer?”

            “No, your cell phone is evidence. You can’t touch it. You can call him from our phone when we get downtown.”

            Chained, I hop to their Crown Victoria. One agent puts his hand on my head, and I’m shoved into the back.

            “This is all a misunderstanding,” I say.

            “That’s what they all say,” agent number one says again.

            “It’s best if you don’t say anything,” the agent driving the car says.

            “I don’t know how the drugs and money got on my lawn. I thought it was dog poop.”

            “When we get downtown, we’ll sort it out, cut the dog shit.”

            The two agents laugh.

            We arrive at FBI headquarters. I am booked, fingerprinted, and read the Miranda rights.

            I waive my rights because I am innocent and just need to talk to them. I’ve been told never to talk to the FBI without a lawyer, but really?

            “We’re examining your cell phone.”

            “Every morning, I walk the dogs.”

            “Do you have a schedule?”

            “Yes, we walk from six to seven, every day on the dot.”

            “Does anybody know your schedule?”

            “I don’t think so.”

            “Nobody sees you?”

            I think for a moment.

            “There is this new guy who just moved in next door. He’s always talking on his cell phone, and he sees us go on our walk. He’s a renter, and we don’t like renters.”

            “I’m a renter.”

            “Sorry.”

            “How do you know he sees you?”

            “My dogs growl at him.”

            “What does he talk about?”

            “I can’t make it out, but he’s always on the phone.”

            “Are you sure about your time?”

            “Yes.”

            “So you are away from your house from six to seven every day?”

            “Yes, I’ll take a lie detector test.”

            An agent joins us. He hands me my cell phone.

            “Your phone has you on a walk away from your house. The cell phone we traced was on your property while you were away, every morning from six to seven.”

            “So I don’t need a lie detector test?”

            “No.”

            “We’ll pay a visit to your neighbor, the renter. He’s a person of interest. You want to ride along?”

            “Sure,” I say. “I need a lift home.”

* * *

            We drive to my home; the FBI is already at the house next door. Same routine, eight ominous people—men and women dressed in SWAT gear holding assault rifles. They are walking in and out of the house, carrying boxes.

            “Your neighbor’s gone; we’ll try to track him down, but I suspect he is an out-of-town guy. My snitches would have tipped me off. He is dealing with a lot of money and using diamonds for payment, indicating he is international—a cartel guy.”

            “You should never be on a schedule; it’s a good way to get killed or set up.”

            “Thanks, I’ll remember that.”

            The FBI leaves. The neighbors gather around our houses.

            “What was that all about?”

            “It is a mistake. The guy that lives next to us is into drugs, and he set me up and ditched when the FBI got me.”

            “You’re into drugs too.”

            “No,” I say. “I’ve had a rough day. I’m going to have a drink, watch TV, and turn in early.”

            “We need to start a neighborhood watch,” a woman says.

            “This is a gated community; that should be enough.”

            Just don’t spy on me, I think.

            I enter my house. The TV is on upstairs in my bedroom. I must have left it on.

            I turn on the light and asleep on the bed, dressed in one of my Brooks Brothers shirts, is a young woman. The shirt rides high on her thigh.

            “Excuse me,” I say. “Who are you?”

            She sits up. She is cool, calm, unfazed, and beautiful in a deadly way. Her lips are thick and glossed. Eyes are cobalt blue. Her hair a dark brown, almost black. Her enhanced figure is great and well sculpted. God gave her a lot, and plastic surgeons took it to the next level.

            “I’m your neighbor.”

            “I thought he left. I didn’t know he was married.”

            “He left me holding the bag, so to speak. As soon as I saw the FBI take you in, I snuck over as I assumed you’d be cleared, and they would come to my house. Louis left me after taking most of the money and diamonds. He’s most likely in Rio now.”

            “Now what are you going to do?”

            “Head to Rio. Catch up with Louis and kill him, or make love to him, or make love to him and then kill him; it depends on my mood or if he can talk his way out of this one.”

            “How are you going to get to Rio?”

             “I have several passports, some money, some crypto, and diamonds. I would have had a lot more if you hadn’t taken those bags. Those bags were a great ploy; nobody would pick them up for days, and we could buy and sell under your petty bourgeois neighbors. You will drive me to the airport.”

            “I think I’ll drive you to the police.”

            “That would not be smart.”

            She gets up from the bed. She wears black panties, nice.

            She has a gun. Not so nice.

            “I’ll do what you say.”

            “Let’s make love.”

            I hesitate. On any other day with a woman that was created in, and for, paradise, I would have followed my instincts, but the drugs, diamonds, and guns dampened my libido.

            “Just kidding,” she says. “Perhaps another day. You are very cute. But Americans are horrible lovers.”

            The dogs start barking.

            “Why do you have dogs? They are so much trouble.”

            “I love those dogs.”

            “They are dirty, make messes.”

            “Speaking of messes, I need to let them out.”

            “Okay, let them out, and we’ll head for the airport.”

            I let Clark and Mable out.

            When they see the woman, they run to her, jump on her, start licking her face.

            “The dogs like me.”

            “They are a good judge of character. They always growled at your husband.”

            “He is not my husband, just my business partner.”

             Her accent is Spanish, I think, and that would explain Rio and the Brazilian butt lift. I wonder how she ended up in the drug and diamond trade.

            “How did you get in this business?”

            “It is the only way I could get out of a worse business.”

            I can only imagine, but don’t want to ask further; instead, I get the car out of the garage.

            “Can the dogs come with us?” she asks.

            “Sure, they like to ride in the car.”

            The four of us get in the car and head to the airport.

            “You have been of great help to me. Take this.” She hands me a diamond. “Three carats, for that day you meet that very special girl.”

            I put it in my shirt pocket. I want to tell her she’s the very special girl. For me, it is love at first sight. Some women will do that to you.

            We get to the airport.

            “International airport?”

            She nods.

            She gets out of the car, puts her arms around me, and gives me a long kiss. One I will never forget. She gently brushes her tongue against mine.

            “Goodbye, darling. I will see you in two weeks when I get back.”

            She plays it so well people might think we’re newlyweds. So well I believe her and want to get on the airplane and go with her, anywhere.

            I drive home. The dogs and I go to bed. Clark on one side of me and Mable on the other.

            I dream of that fantastic, dangerous woman who lives now only in my memory. But I believe the kiss was real. Perhaps she feels as I do and will return in two weeks. Maybe she wasn’t acting.

            The next day, we go on our walk, return home, and there it is—another poop bag. I am taking no chances and throw it on a neighbor’s lawn.

            I count the days, hoping that in two weeks she will return, but after about a month, I give up. I leave work early to go play golf, and I hear the television. I walk up the stairs to my bedroom. The fantastic woman is there under the sheets.

            “What?”

            “I missed you, darling. You are so cute, so innocent. I miss the dogs.”

            “What about Louis?”

            “Louis belongs to the ages. Please come to me. I dream about you.”

            My hormones get the better of me, and I do as she says.

            I am lost.

THE END