Duffy to the Rescue (The Duffy Dombrowski Mysteries)

by Tom Schreck

  “I don’t get it,” I said. I sipped my Schlitz and tried not to get pissed at this year’s middle reliever who was blowing the game.

  “It’s very simple.” TC was really enjoying this. “You catch the dog doing something right, you give a click and then he gets a treat.”

  “Whatyamean you ‘catch’ the dog doing something right? What kind of bullshit is that?” Rocco said. Rocco was often what you might call skeptical.

  “You click the clicker and give him a treat. Then he starts to associate clicks with treats.” TC said with just a tad of impatience. “AJ, is that cheeseburger ready?” he added.

  I looked over at Al who was on his stool resting his head on the bar. A pool of drool had gathered on the bar but his eyebrows and his wrinkly forehead showed movement at the mention of his favorite word.

  AJ slid the cheeseburger in front of TC. TC broke of a piece of bun and cheeseburger and walked over to Al’s chair.

  “Watch,” he commanded. The Foursome was enthralled.

  TC looked at AL who was now fixated on what was in TC’s right hand.

  “Al, stay.” TC said and clicked the clicker.

  Al’s attention didn’t waver from TC’s right hand.

  “Good boy!” TC said and gave Al the cheeseburger segment.”

  Everyone else stared at TC until Jerry Number Two spoke.

  “TC, what exactly did that just prove?”

  “I’m conditioning Al,” TC said.

  “It looks to me like you’re feeding him,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “He will begin to associate the click with the cheeseburger and repeat the desired behavior,” TC said.

  “He’s just fuckin’ sittin’ there eating a piece of cheeseburger!” Jerry Number One said.

  “Don’t you know anything about psychology? This is just like Pablo’s dog,” TC said.

  Everyone just looked at TC. Everyone except Al. Al moved from foot to foot and looked down the bar at TC’s cheeseburger.

  “Pablo, the lawn guy at the golf course, he’s got a dog?” Rocco said.

  “I’ve seen that dog. That thing doesn’t do a damn thing Pablo says,” Jerry Number One said.

  TC shook his head.

  “Pablo’s dog is a famous thing in psychology. Part of the ‘Classical Music Conditioning’ theory.”

  The Yankees had two men on and Texiera up but like rubbernecking at a bad car wreck I couldn’t not look at TC.

  “They would listen to classical music and ring a bell and then Pablo would give the dog a treat. After awhile the dog learned to love classical music.”

  “What was Pablo’s dog’s name?” Jerry Number Two said.

  “I dunno,” Jerry said.

  “What kind of dog was he?” Rocco said.

  “I dunno,” Jerry said.

  “Bitch?” Jerry Number Two said.

  “Hey, fuck you!” TC said at Jerry Number Two.

  “I mean was it a girl dog?” Jerry Number Two said.

  “Oh, I dunno,” TC said.

  “Doesn’t seem like there’s much you do know about Pablo’s son of a bitchin’ dog,” Rocco said.

  Texiera struck out and the YES Network went to a commercial.

  Al barked and it startled the Foursome.

  “Hey, Pablo, now what are you going to do?” Rocco said.

  “Easy, I’ll wait till he shows me the correct behavior then I’ll reward him.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said under my breath.

  TC looked Al straight in the eye and waved his finger at him. Then he gave his command.

  “Al, quiet!”

  Al barked twice.

  “Quiet!”

  Al barked three times.

  “Quiet Al!”

  Al barked four times.

  “Shut the fuck up Al!” TC said. TC had reverted to my method.

  Al momentarily shushed, which surprised TC. TC recovered well, clicked his clicker and gave Al part of a cheeseburger.

  “See!” TC said with a little too much jubilation.

  Everyone just looked at him.

  “You know I never put much into that psychology shit. Ever since I heard the story about that kid Eddie Pull,” Rocco said.

  Now, this was going to be good. I waited and Jerry Number One was right there on cue.

  “Who?”

  “Eddie Pull was this kid that Sigmund Freud was doin’ that psychology shit on. One day he couldn’t find him and he looked all over the house until found the kid—get this—bangin’ his mom!”

  “That little motherfucker…” Jerry Number Two said.

  “You’re telling me,” Rocco said.

  “That has nothing to do with the clicker and the classical music therapy conditioning.”

  “Oh, you’re full of shit!” Rocco said raising his voice just a bit.

  “Guys, take it easy,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “You know—” Jerry Number One didn’t get to finish.

  Al had jumped from his stool onto the bar, knocking over Rocco’s Scotch, TC’s B&B and Jerry’s Cosmo. Al’s big paws splashed the amalgamation of the liquid onto the guys’ laps on his way to the plate in front of TC. The remainder of the cheeseburger was gone faster than you could say “Oedipal.”

  “That son-of-a-bitch!” Rocco said.

  AJ just shook his head, ran the rag over the mess and began making fresh drinks.

  “Classical conditioning, all right,” AJ said to no one in particular. “I got you classically conditioned.”

  * * *

  Young dogs are good too!

  A rescued buppy brings years

  of love, joy and drool!

  —Ginny Tata-Phillips

  Photo: Bruno by Rick Phillips

  * * *

  Rescue Organization: House of Puddles

  Who knew old dogs needed a retirement home? Think about it...

  By Ginny

  Where would you go if you were an old Basset Hound and your person was too old or sick to take care of you any longer? Where would you go if your person didn’t want you anymore because you had too many accidents in the house, or you were too sick or too much trouble to care for? Where would you go if your person died?

  If you are a lucky old hound, someone would contact Basset Hound rescue and a foster home would be waiting to take you in and care for you until someone came along who wanted to adopt you. What if there were so many other homeless hounds that there was no foster home for you? What if nobody wanted to adopt you because you were too old?

  Sadly, this is often the case. Foster homes are hard to come by. People looking for an old hound to adopt are even harder to find. Who wants an old dog that might only have a few months or a year or two more to live? Who wants an old dog that might pee all over your carpet because he’s too old to get out the door in time? Who wants an old dog that might run up a lot of vet bills?

  Yet, senior Basset Hounds are among the dearest, sweetest creatures on earth and they deserve to be loved and cared for as long as they live. You don’t dump Grandma off at the local shelter when she’s outlived her usefulness. You don’t take Grandpa to the doctor and say, “Put this old boy down, I can’t take care of him anymore.” You at least put them in a nice retirement home. Why would you do anything less for a loving, faithful companion just because he’s a dog? That’s why Marilyn started House of Puddles, a retirement home for old Basset Hounds.

  April with her puppies

  House of Puddles accepts senior Bassets from Basset Hound rescue organizations when there is no place else for them to go. They live with Marilyn, in her house, just like any other house pet. The only difference here is there are a lot of them. She loves every one of them dearly for as long as they are with her, and grieves for each one when they are gone.

  In April of 2008, a senior Basset was rescued from a dog hoarder of various breeds by Bluegrass Basset Rescue. House of Puddles took her in and called her April. She was thought to be about 10-12 years old and looked like she had
been bred over and over again. She was nothing but skin and bones but was a very sweet girl.

  She was fed a lot and started gaining weight. Soon she started to gain too much weight and a quick x-ray confirmed the suspicion. April had smuggled two puppies into HOP!

  Shortly thereafter two buppies were born at the House of Puddles! Such excitement had never been seen at this, or, dare we say, any retirement home! They looked like two little guinea pigs but grew and thrived and thankfully April was a wonderful mother to her last litter of two!

  That was almost two years ago. Now April is very happily enjoying her retirement, properly spayed and often acting like a puppy herself. Moral of the story - seniors CAN get pregnant, but they shouldn’t. Spay and neuter your pets!

  * * *

  Love is a strange and

  glorious thing: it is blind,

  deaf, but never dumb!

  —Ginny Tata-Phillips

  Photos courtesy of BaRNI Volunteer

  * * *

  Duffy Dog of the Week: Otis, Bite Specialist

  By Tom

  Otis passed away recently.

  We don’t do sad stories here and this isn’t one.

  Otis was a shelter dog in a Humane Society near Cromwell, Connecticut. That’s right, he was in a shelter like the other zillions of dogs in this country.

  He very easily could’ve been put down or lived out his days in the lonely world of a shelter cage.

  He didn’t.

  Otis went to work.

  When Otis was 14 weeks old he met Cheryl Gagnon, an animal control officer. Her son had just been attacked by a dog and severely bitten. Cheryl had grown up with dogs and didn’t want her son to live life terrified of dogs. She wanted to teach her boy and other kids about safety around animals.

  Enter Otis.

  Cheryl started a program for nursery school kids on how to act around dogs. How to approach, how to pet and how to be safe around a dog, especially one you don’t know.

  Cheryl would give a lecture and at the end the kids would come pet Otis. Kids who were terrified of dogs learned to love dogs because of Otis. Otis would let the kids pet him and remain calm as could be around them, especially the nervous ones.

  He became well-known around the schools and became an ambassador for the animal control office.

  He turned 15 this year and passed on well past the normal age that bassets live.

  Thanks Cheryl. Thanks Otis.

  You made the world better which is about all anyone can ever ask.

  Job well done, friend.

  * * *

  Anyone can buy

  a dog but only someone

  special can rescue.

  —Ginny Tata-Phillips

  Photo: Hannah by Rick Phillips

  * * *

  Rotten Riley

  By Tom

  That’s me and Riley.

  Riley’s a rescue dog—meaning someone gave him up and he needed a home. Turns out some old lady kept him in a cage all day and called him “Rotten” Riley.

  Some group of dog people got him but they said he was aggressive and they recommended that he get put down. Besides that he wasn’t a pure bred—he’s half Bloodhound and somehow that made him less than perfect.

  Well, a nice woman named Heather thought the dog group was nuts so she adopted Riley and didn’t put him down but added him to her collection of 10 unwanted Bassets. She put his photo on Petfinder.com, a spot for rescued dogs.

  My first dog Buddy had just died suddenly and we had Agnes, a Bloodhound and Wilbur, a Basset left. When I saw Riley’s lineage something inside of me said he’s might be for us. When I called my wife she said he was definitely for us and made me call the woman and set up a road trip.

  My wife is like that.

  Riley became ours and he didn’t come without issues. He was aggressive in his own way and bit both of us once or twice when we broke up fights between him and Wilbur but that was a long time ago. He barks when he gets his food and he does this weird thing where he controls which dog gets to go through the doorway first.

  He also took and passed his therapy dog test.

  That’s right—Ol “Rotten” Riley, once on death row, is a certified therapy dog. He goes to the VA Hospital and visits the locked psychiatric ward where’s he’s known to steal milk, snacks and sandwiches from the patients. Nobody complains.

  And people who don’t smile much smile a little more when Riley takes their milk.

  May we all be as rotten.

  People like Heather and the rescue groups take care of dogs like Riley and they spend their own money getting them fed, giving them medical care and everything else that goes into caring for a pet. Sometimes they do fundraisers at pet stores and other places. Next time you go past them give them some money or maybe even adopt your own rotten pet.

  My very first book signing for On The Ropes benefited the New England Basset Hound Rescue—and even though there were lots of Red Sox fans there I still gave them all the proceeds.

  * * *

  Basset Hounds are just

  ears, noses and long bodies

  housing angel’s souls.

  —Ginny Tata-Phillips

  Photo: Charles & Hannah by Ginny Tata-Phillips

  * * *

  Duffy, Elvis, and a Very Special Hound Dog

  By Tom

  There’s something about driving past an aircraft carrier that makes you feel insignificant. Actually, there was a lot about life that made me feel insignificant. I was on my way back from Gleason’s Gym, the world’s oldest boxing gym in Brooklyn, after spending a week as a sparring partner for a top ten heavyweight. The Intrepid was there on 44th St. to remind me of how small I was as I drove up the West Side Highway.

  I’m an okay pro heavyweight—the kind of guy that beats bad fighters and loses to good fighters. That resume makes me perfect as a sparing partner for a good fighter. I’m the human equivalent of a pace horse for a thoroughbred. As a left hander, a southpaw in the trade, I’m even more valuable because there just aren’t that many guys who lead with their right and throw their power shots with their left.

  So my job for the week was to be cannon fodder for this other guy. He was good, like he was selected from a slightly different gene pool than me. His punches felt like getting hit with a screwdriver while mine were like getting hitting with a rubber coated mallet. Both types of shots hurt, but one hurts different...and more.

  The five hundred bucks was good and I knew what I was signing up for but I always felt used by the end of a sparring week. I hurt all over like someone kicked me down seven flights of stairs. The other thing that pissed me off was that all week they insisted that I wear 18-ounce gloves while their guy wore 14s. Hey, I know my place but by Fridays of these kind of weeks I was pissed off.

  So, while I passed the Intrepid I could already taste the cold Schlitz at my hang out, AJ’s, 90 minutes away in Upstate. That statement was only partially figurative because I bought a sixer for company on the ride home from Brooklyn. I figured it wasn’t alcoholic, it was simply analgesic.

  The heat wasn’t helping either. It was the second week in August and New York was stifling. The oldies radio was blaring mindlessly when I noticed the DJ’s banter.

  “Coming up on thirty years that we lost the fat, old king sittin’ on the toilet. Here’s Return to Sender...”

  I snapped the radio off and muttered ‘asshole’ under my breath. It was close to the anniversary of Elvis’s death and, put simply, I loved Elvis and hated when idiots disrespected him. The week sucked, I was stuck in traffic, my head throbbed and some 20-something asshole slacker felt good enough about himself to make fun of Elvis Presley.

  It just pissed me off but that’s what I got for listening to the radio. I slipped the Live from Madison Square Garden 8-track in and pointed the ‘76 El Dorado towards Crawford and AJ’s. It worked, Elvis always did, and in what seemed like no time, I pulled up in front while he was half way through Can’t Help Falling In Lov
e.

  Al, who was asleep in the backseat, followed me in.

  “It says here in the ‘Life’ section, ‘Include Your Children When Baking Cookies,’” Rocco said. Every night whether the rest of the bar liked it or not, he recited the paper.

  “That sounds cruel,” TC said. He rolled his eyes and sipped his B&B.

  “What’s cruel about making cookies with your mom?” Jerry Number One said. His Genny was half full, or I guess, half empty, depending on your point of view. When the Fearsome Foursome were drinking, rest assured, it was half empty.

  “It doesn’t say you’re making the cookies with your mom, it says you’re getting baked with the cookies,” TC said.

  “I spent most of the 90’s baked,” Jerry Number Two said.

  He had on a tie-dyed shirt that formed a blue speckled heart right in the center and, as always, he was sipping a Cosmopolitan. “Come to think of it, it wasn’t just the 90’s,” he said.

  The Foursome hung out at AJ’s all the time. It was some sort of modern existentialism or something but they were never not here. They sat in the same order, drank the same things and pretty much covered the same things in their conversation. Rocco’s newspaper reading served as their current events course in their daily curriculum.