by Nick Pirog
3:17 a.m. (The Lassie Files 2)
by
Nick Pirog
-Smashwords Edition-
Published by:
Nick Pirog
Copyright © 2015 Nick Pirog
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:01
The noise makes me think back to a couple weeks earlier.
Please, not again, I pray.
Not another one.
It happened two Wednesdays ago.
I woke up as usual at three in the morning. Ingrid was working a case and the side of the bed she slept in three or four times a week was empty. With Ingrid away, Lassie had snuggled into his second favorite spot, tucked into the small concave of my ribs. (His favorite spot was with his head nestled comfortably between Ingrid’s breasts.) I reached my left hand down and stroked his small back. Maybe on the third or fourth stroke, I noticed his fur felt different than usual.
Coarser.
And his tail.
There was no hair on his tail.
I lifted Lassie up and set him on my chest.
“Dude, what happened to you?”
Lassie’s usually black and tan face was now white.
His yellow eyes were now the color of coal.
His perfect little black nose was now pink and protruding.
It wasn’t Lassie.
It was a possum.
I screamed.
The possum hissed.
I screamed some more.
It took me ten minutes to get the possum out of my condo.
It took me another ten minutes to find Lassie hiding in the dirty clothes hamper. I asked him if he knew anything about the large rodent that I woke up next to in my bed.
He declined to answer and asked for a lawyer.
Anyhow, the noise this morning is less of a hiss and more of a throat clearing.
I open my eyes.
Lassie is on my chest. His small head slinks backwards and forwards. The sound I woke up to is him hacking something up.
I cringe and ask, “Dude, are you okay?”
Hack.
Hack.
Hack.
I want to move him off my chest, but I don’t want to cause him more agony than he’s already in.
I pray this is just a drill. A false alarm.
He hacks three more times. And then it comes out. Directly on my chest. The longest hairball in the history of the known universe.
I take one look at the long, slimy, tubular mass of hair, and I gag.
“Oh my God,” I utter.
I will never be able to sleep in this bed again.
I may have to burn it.
I push myself up, wiping the slimy mass off my chest and shout, “Could you seriously not jump off the bed before you did that?”
Lassie sniffs at his creation on the bedspread, then glances up at me.
Meow.
“No time? I’ve seen you teleport from the bedroom to the kitchen in half a nanosecond when I open a can of tuna, I think you could have jumped three feet.”
Meow.
“Yes, I suppose I am lucky that none of it went in my mouth. On that note, I’m gonna go take a shower. I might stay in there the whole hour.”
I jump up and look at the clock on the dresser.
3:02 a.m.
I take a three minute shower — which is two minutes longer than normal — using the loofa Ingrid keeps in the shower to scrub my chest red and raw.
Lassie is standing in the middle of the bathroom when I step out.
Meow.
“You should be sorry. I’m gonna have nightmares about that thing for weeks.”
Meow.
“You want me to call the Guinness Book of World Records people to come take a look at it?”
Meow.
“I’m not going to do anything with it. You are going to carry it outside in your grubby little teeth and throw it in the river where it can’t hurt anyone ever again.”
Meow.
“Frame it?” I shake my head. “Get out!”
I pull a pair of socks from the top drawer of the dresser and throw them at him. I miss by a couple inches but am close enough to send him zipping from the room.
I pull on sweats and a T-shirt, then turn and stare at the bed. I take two deep breaths. I roll up the sheets and the comforter, and with it, The-Thing-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. I walk the bundle down three flights of stairs and throw it in the dumpster behind the condominium.
When I get back, it’s 3:08 a.m.
Lassie is sitting on the back of the couch.
I pick him up with both hands and hold him at eye level. I say, “Please, in the future, try to keep your fur on the outside of your body, or at the very least, off my body.”
He pinky promises.
I set him back down on the couch and he touches his little paw to my pinky.
I walk into the kitchen.
Ingrid has left a sticky note on the fridge. It reads, “Caught a double murder last night around eight. Hopefully, I’ll see you in a couple days. Love you. P.S. Isabel’s enchiladas are insane!”
Ingrid was officially moving in on May 1st, just a little under two weeks from now. Until then, when she and her partner Billy caught a case, she stayed at her apartment, which is a few miles closer to the Alexandria Police Department.
I smile, then open the fridge and pull out a Tupperware container of Isabel’s famous enchiladas, which to quote Ingrid, are “insane.” Isabel has scribbled on the top with a sharpie, “Heat for dos minutos.”
I chuckle then begin heating it in the microwave.
I do push-ups and sit-ups for dos minutos, then scoop half an enchilada into Lassie’s bowl, fill up a saucer of milk, and carry everything to the table.
Lassie and I watch six minutes of Game of Thrones while we eat. When I turn it off, Lassie asks if he can get a dragon. I tell him no.
I make some small tweaks to a couple of my online investments, then text my dad and Ingrid a quick hello, pull on my Asics and leash up Lassie.
Meow.
“Why do you have to be on a leash? Do you not recall what happened last time I let you off-leash?”
Meow.
“I WOKE UP WITH A POSSUM IN MY BED!”
Meow.
“Yes, I’m sure you had nothing to do with that.”
Meow.
“Proof? Proof? How about the week before the ‘Possum Incident’, you asked me to Google, ‘can cats have sex with possums?’”
Meow.
“Circumstantial? Dude, you are done watching Law and Order.”
It’s 3:24 a.m. when Lassie and I exit the condo and begin a slow trot up the street.
April is my favorite month to run in Alexandria. The humidity is still bearable, the mosquitos have yet to rule the night, and the trees are just beginning to shake off winter.
We head towards the Potomac River, which is a little over a mile away. I have a lot on my mind: Ingrid officially moving in soon, the trip I want to take to Alaska in June in hopes of seeing the sun for the first time, but mostly, the red folder.
President Conner Sullivan gave me the folder six months earlier. It was my mother’s file from the CIA. I hadn’t been able to open it yet, too afraid of the secrets inside. The folder was sitting in a safe in my closet next to one of Lassie’s prized jingle balls.
Lassie and I hit the river, watch the black w
ater rush past under the sliver of a quarter moon, then turn around.
When we are just a couple blocks from the condo, Lassie tugs against the leash.
I stop.
There is a squirrel next to a tree.
Meow.
“I don’t care if you know him.”
Meow.
“Roger? That squirrel’s name is Roger?”
Meow.
“Nothing, it just seems like a silly name for a squirrel.”
Meow.
“I don’t know, not Roger.”
Meow.
“Fine, but if I wake up with any animals in the house, I’m throwing your jingle ball down the garbage disposal.”
Meow.
“Oh, I would.”
He promises and I unleash him.
He runs towards Roger and they both disappear.
It’s 3:46 a.m. when I walk back through the doors of my condo. I leave the door open a couple inches so Lassie can get in later, then head to the fridge and grab one of Isabel’s pre-made peanut butter protein shakes.
I sit down to the computer and pull up a list of vacation rentals in Fairbanks, Alaska. I’m looking at photographs of the interior of a beautiful cabin on the banks of the Chena River, when Lassie shoots through the door.
“That was quick,” I say.
He jumps up on my lap.
His yellow eyes are open wide.
Meow.
“Billy was taken? Who is Billy?”
Meow.
“Oh, right, one of the gerbils from the vet.” I think back to the two little tan puffballs with their insistent whisker twitching. “How do you know he was taken?”
Meow.
“Roger heard it from Mayweather who heard it from Winnipeg?” Mayweather is a big raccoon that is Lassie’s biggest nemesis, but Winnipeg is new to me. “Who is Winnipeg?”
Meow.
“A mini pig?”
Meow.
“Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Winnipeg was at the vet and he was staying overnight in one of those cages when Rasmussen, the other gerbil, told him that his brother was kidnapped?”
Meow.
“Right, gerbil-napped.” I take a deep breath. “Winnipeg got word to Mayweather, who then got word to Roger.”
Meow.
“Yes, then Roger told you, and then you told me. Thanks for explaining that last part.”
Meow.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Meow.
“Fine, I’ll call the vet and see what I can find out.”
I find my phone, which tells me that I have nine minutes left in my day, and dial the number for the Alexandria Emergency Vet.
A woman answers on the second ring.
It isn’t Candace, who after being shot in a hostile takeover by a snake owner last year, moved back to Minnesota. At least according to her last Facebook post.
The woman on the phone is named Jennifer.
“Hi, Jennifer,” I say, still trying to figure out how to frame my inquiry. “I was trying to get some information on a gerbil that is a patient there.”
“Is he your gerbil?” she asks.
“Not exactly.”
“Well, then I can’t give you any information. You need to have the owner call us.”
“That’s the thing, I don’t even know if he has an owner. He, um, kind of lives in the ventilation duct of your vet.”
“He what?”
I tell her again, then add, “I think he was brought there by his owner and escaped. His name is Billy and he has a brother, Rasmussen.”
She doesn’t ask how I know their names, and had she, I don’t know how I would have responded.
I hear her hitting keys, then she says, “Oh, yeah, here they are. It sounds like you’re right. They came in for teeth and nail filing and they both got out of their cage. Looks like one of them was found here a week ago….” She stops and says, “I can’t really tell you anymore.”
“What? Some sort of critter-vet confidentiality agreement?”
“Something like that,” she says with a laugh.
“Okay, can you just give me the owner’s contact info?”
She sighs. “I can’t give that out either.”
I pause.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asks.
“I guess not.”
I tell her thanks, then hang up. I set the phone down and tell Lassie, “Sorry, buddy. I did what I could.”
Meow.
“We are not breaking into the vet’s computer files. I don’t even know how we’d do it.”
Meow.
I cock my head to the side. “That might work.”
I pick up the phone and dial my dad.
He picks up on the second ring. “Hey, Sonnyboy.”
I tell him straight off. “I need Murdock’s help.”
:02
I push myself up and look at the clock.
2:59 a.m.
An extra minute.
Yahoo.
I find my phone on the bedside table and check my text messages. There are two from Ingrid. They had a lead in their homicide investigation and she hoped to stay the night tomorrow. Knock on wood. Then she sent an emoji of two glasses of wine and a couple hearts.
I send back two thumbs up.
There is one message from my dad. He dropped Murdock off around 7:15 p.m. He wanted to get back in time for some show called The Voice. He left the car here and Ubered home.
I shake my head.
Not because my dad had to get back to watch some show, or my confusion of what Uber is, but that Murdock and Lassie have been unsupervised for going on eight hours.
I jump out of bed and run into the living room.
The couch is on its side, an empty box of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch is laying on the carpet, and “I’m Bringing Sexy Back,” by Justin Timberlake is playing on a loop on my laptop.
I let out a sigh of relief.
I expected worse.
It takes me a moment to locate Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
They are in the hallway that leads to the living room guest bath.
The enormous English Mastiff is on his side, six inches of his tongue hanging from his mouth. Lassie is lying across his neck like a scarf.
“Guys!” I shout.
They don’t flinch.
I shake my head, then head into the kitchen. I grab my laptop from the table, turn off Mr. Timberlake, then flip on The Game of Thrones. I watch six minutes while I scramble up a large pan of eggs and heat some pre-made bacon in the microwave.
At 3:08 a.m., I divvy up the eggs and bacon into three portions — adding a heaping portion of a mystery ingredient to Murdock’s serving — then take what remains of the pan and walk into the hallway.
I set the pan down next to Team Rampage.
Murdock stirs first, shaking Lassie off, then pushing his one-hundred and sixty-pound frame up off the floor.
He devours what small amount of egg is left in the pan, then rears up and puts his paws on my chest. He gives my face a couple licks.
“Good morning,” I say, wiping off his slobber.
Lassie stretches his legs out in front of him, his butt high in the air.
“Looks like you boys had fun last night.”
They both wag their tails.
“Come on, I made you guys some breakfast.”
They follow me to the dining table and the three of us dive into our eggs and bacon.
When we finish eating, I ask Lassie, “Are you ready for this?”
He hunches down, closes both eyes halfway, flips his ears down, and lets out a soft moan.
“That’s pretty good,” I tell him.
Meow.
“Yes, exactly like Matt Damon.”
Three minutes later, the three of us are in the car, headed for the emergency vet.
::::
“Poor guy,” the girl behind the reception desk says, softly stroking Lassie’s back. “We’ll f
ind out what’s wrong with you.”
Lassie squirms from my arms, walks across the reception desk and plops onto her lap.
Murdock rears up, resting his huge front paws on the counter. He opens his mouth and pants.
The girl — Rebecca according to her nametag — laughs and says, “Hey, Big Guy. What are you so happy about?”
“This is Murdock. He’s here for emotional support.”
He is actually there to send her running for the hills, but I’m not about to share that with her.
Rebecca asks if she can give him a treat.
I tell her yes and she gives him a small cookie.
He swallows it whole and she gives him a couple more.
“Is Dr. Evans here tonight?” I ask. After what the doctor and I went through together, he would most likely divulge whatever information he had about the gerbils. I mean, they were partially responsible for him still being alive.
Rebecca’s face falls. “There was an incident here a while back and Dr. Evans was shot.”
Yeah, I was there.
She says, “After he recovered, he started his own practice just outside D.C.”
“Good for him.”
“Yeah, I never got to meet him, but I hear he was a super nice guy.”
“He was,” I say, then back pedal to one of the seats against the far wall.
“You want your cat?” Rebecca asks.
Lassie lifts his head.
“No, you can hold onto him.”
Lassie lays his head back on her lap with a smile.
Murdock follows me to the chair and lies down at my feet.
He glares up at me, a pained expression on his face.
I can only imagine what is happening in his stomach right now. Six eggs, eight strips of bacon, three dog treats, plus a heaping pile of the mystery ingredient — sauerkraut — fighting for space.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
I grab for a magazine.
In Touch.
I’m just learning about Jennifer Aniston’s fledgling marriage when I see Murdock’s tail lift out of the corner of my eye.
Two seconds later, my eyes begin to burn.
I can barely choke out, “I said, not yet.”
I gaze up, waiting to see if Rebecca notices, but she’s too busy adoring Lassie.
