Doggone

By Josh Foster

Ive always felt the need to save things but its hard to save the world when stuck behind a jewelry store counter in a mall all day. Soon enough that wouldnt be a problem since they let me go in light of what was happening in my personal life. Theydidnt carethat none of it was my own doing, well most of it anyway. Whoto trust might be the biggest question. Did the cop have me best interest in his sights or a jail cell? Maybe the private investigator was the good guy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499063080

Josh Foster

Josh lives with his wife of 31 years in St Helens, It is about 30 miles out of Portland Oregon. The author has had a few jobs prior to writing and they include sales in both the jewelry industry as well as major appliances. He has been known to work on Cars and Motorcycles as well. They lead a quite life and he is working on his yet to be titled second book.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I sat at what must be the longest light in Portland, just off Columbia and Lombard. I had, as usual, encountered the morning Burlington Northern as it wound its way into downtown Portland. I was asking myself why I still travel this route. I sat there at the light pondering life’s larger questions such as, what will I have for lunch today, what flavor coffee should I order and how will I make it through another nine hour shift?

My eyes gazed across the dash to see a beautiful German Shepard that had that, I need to find home, look in his eyes. He was sleek, black and brown. His hair was shiny and well kept. Obviously someone loved and cared for this magnificent animal. He was truly a thing of beauty.

I need to help him, was the thought that forced its way into my mind. At that same moment an old yellow Subaru wagon slammed into the dog and dragged him for what seemed to be a mile. In reality it was about 300 feet. The vehicle slid to the side of the road and stopped just long enough for the driver to kick the lifeless body from the car’s undercarriage. The driver returned to his seat and continued on his way as if nothing had just happened.

I was pissed at myself and the driver. At him for being such a cold-hearted ass, at myself for my apparent lack of the keen observation skills which I usually so highly pride myself on. Blue jeans and army style boots was all I could recall!

I sat helplessly at the signal that had yet to turn my way. An eternity passed, or so it seemed, until I had my chance at the green light. I put my foot to the floor and sped along Columbia towards the Sandy Boulevard and 205 Interchange. Yep, I thought, I am screwed. He got away from me. Another chance to help save something, to make it right, and I blew it. Then I saw it! There it sat. That old, yellow, piece- of-crap car was on the side of the road and it had a flat tire, as the driver well deserved.

I approached the car slowly, and I was surprised that I saw no driver and no one even close to the vehicle. No other vehicles were even around that strip of road, which is nothing but dirt and scrub brush. He couldn’t have made it up the steep embankment and over the fencing. I was not that far behind. What had just happened? The driver disappeared into thin air. I took down the information I thought would help catch the heartless bastard, who had just killed one of God’s great creatures with such disregard. I decided I would go back and pick up the dog. Maybe he would have tags and I could at least give the owner a call. I found an on-ramp and drove back. He lay where the bastard had kicked him. At least that meant he had died at the impact of the car. He wasn’t too broken up either. I took an old blanket out of the trunk of my car and wrapped him in it so, hopefully, I wouldn’t get blood on my shirt and pants. He was heavy to lift and he just about half- filled my trunk. I took off his dog collar with his name and his tag on it, and shut the trunk lid. I would have to do something with his body later. As I drove back onto the freeway, my mind kept replaying the untimely and heartless demise of Duke.

I was now late for work, and since I am almost never late for work, this should not stress me, but it did. I hoped my Girl Friday, Sarah, had opened up on time. I hurried towards my piece of the American hell we call work. Through the pressures of our society, to work hard so you can get ahead of all the other people, or at least keep up with them, coupled with the longer hours we then seem to push ourselves to work every year, have we not all in some way become responsible for our own work hell? Working in the retail world makes me feel like a robot, and I am not the only working stiff that feels this way.

Sarah had the lights on and the door open. Thank goodness! I then hurried to set up my store — to prepare the stage, also known as the smoke and mirror theater. But I could not stop thinking about Duke’s sad eyes. I dreaded having to call the number I had recorded off of the dead pouch’s black leather and chrome buckled collar.

By now you must have realized I have good guy syndrome. Well, that’s what my shrink calls it. She says I have the need to save the world from all the wrongs done to anyone or anything. So, well, maybe I started my crusade small: four legs, two eyes and a tail. At least I am trying to do the right thing. That must count for something.

I was putting off calling the number on the tag. I held the collar in my hand as I focused on exacting the revenge I dreamt up in my mind’s eye for the Subaru guy.

Would that Subaru driving bastard even fit under his own car as I drove it over him? Maybe I’d need to get a truck. Maybe the truck that had hit and killed that young war hero, Shawn, three months earlier, out at the beach as he innocently walked home from his National Guard meeting. The T V news reporter said they simply left him there to die, alone in a ditch, on the side of the road. How could I be feeling as badly for a lost dog as I did for an Iraq war veteran who had served his country so well, and protected my right to sit at a traffic light without the need of an armored vehicle to secure my safety? How screwed up I must be to think and feel this way. I guess that is just the way I am. A wrong is a wrong, and I just can’t sit on the sidelines any longer, my shrink’s biggest concern. I found myself distracted all day by both scenarios, Duke’s and Shawn’s.

It was at that moment I recalled the story of my friend, Bill, who years earlier had run over his mother’s favorite cat, for that matter her only cat. He finally told her about it after days of feeling great anguish. She, of course, forgave him, and he was finally able to put the incident behind him, but we both learned that it is painful to withhold information. From that point in my life forward, I knew I had to deliver the truth, all of the truth, as I knew it, as it never gets better with time. I dialed the number that was now familiar, since I had kept obsessing over the collar all day. I got an answering machine with a soothing, and somewhat sexy, female voice asking me to leave her a message and she’d call me right back. I kept my message brief with no detail, just a name and number. I tried to sound upbeat so she would not see the bad news coming.

My mind started to do what it does best. She must be at work and have no idea that her beloved pet is even missing let alone dead. Maybe she ran to the store and left a door open. Oh, what her guilt will be, if she was the single cause of Duke’s death. Maybe she simply took a nap, and a neighborhood kid, fetching a ball out of her yard, left the gate open as he exited. I told myself enough of the ‘what if’ game. Now back to work.

A customer with a high-dollar complaint snapped me right back into reality. This customer, who had purchased a 3 carat ring, claimed that it still had a scratch on the inside of the headset, the small prongs that hold the diamond, as if anyone but she could, or would, notice the infinitesimal mark. She further reminded me that the headset had been replaced 11 times over the course of the last three months and her ring still wasn’t right. She railed about how inept I was, and that my company really wasn’t much better. She claimed that I had forgotten about her, as well. I reflected on her wild statements, and the complaint, as she rattled on.

I knew the ring was as perfect as humanly possible. I tried to explain that jewelry making is an art, it is never perfect, since it is done by hand. I gazed into her heavily made-up eyes that were producing crocodile tears, which she dabbed at to save her mascara. She could probably have supported Macy’s make-up counter. She finally stormed out and I was half-hoping she would fall off her six-inch, stiletto heels, but I suspected that, too, would have been my fault. She was mumbling, God knows what, as she hurried down the mall. I think she was expressing her profound fondness for me. If only I could forget her, Emily Long. She is single handedly destroying my repair department profit for the quarter. My employer, Scotty’s Jewelers, has a motto: Make ’Em Green with Envy. Well, she was green all right, but somehow, maybe not what the owner had intended. Scotty’s wants everyone happy, happy, happy! And everyone else green with envy. Why did I sell her the ring in the first place? All the indicators were there, but I just blew through that stop sign in pursuit of the almighty dollar and I made the deal. I just wanted the commission.

Let me look at that for a minute. The ring cost a total of $12,300 and the commission was $146.00, what the hell was I thinking on that one? And they say there is money in jewelry. Why didn’t I let the broad go to the competitor, as she had threatened to do prior to finalizing our transaction? Their slogan is: Perfection is our middle name— Snail Jewelers. Well, they are, in fact, slow, but usually they get it right in the end. This gal was a tough case though. No one could have made her happy. What a marriage that would have been, I can see the court documents now. Snail vs. Long in a Specific Performance suit. I guess you’d have to say a real head case.

And to think my wife says I’m corny and paranoid. As far as being paranoid, that part is true. I am always worried about this or the other thing happening. I have been called cynical as well, go figure. But, really, violence surrounds all of us everyday, and I am just hyper-aware of that fact.

Well, here’s something I did to improve my odds at being safe. You be the judge. I recently purchased a six-DVD course online on the Basics of Combat that a Lt. Dominic was pushing on the internet. He claimed that he could teach anyone to be a trained killer using only their bare hands. He went on to claim, The less you know about fighting, the better, since old habits are hard to break. He promised all this in a mere six days. Well, I thought, for $218.92 including shipping, how bad could it be?

I will have you know I was pretty nearly a star pupil, and within two months I believed I was fully trained. Please understand, I was raised in a home where violence was not an option, or tolerated. In turn, I was never taught how to defend myself. This made grade school, well, rather interesting. As an adult I found this had a profound affect on my sense of security. Could I protect myself in an up-close, hand to hand struggle, without resorting to the use of my trusty .45, which I’ve nicknamed Baby?

Prior to my pro-killer course, I believed the answer was no. However, with my newfound skills, I walked a little taller, I had more confidence. I was proud of myself and I held my chest out just a bit more, too. I didn’t have to wait long, in fact it was only two nights ago that I found an opportunity to put my new prowess to the test. Damn if the guy didn’t have it coming to him, too. He pulled right in front of me, cutting me off as I tried to pull into a parking space. Then he gave me the finger. I was going to put his finger in a dark place on his body.

Mr. Do-Right to the rescue, my rescue, this time. As I jumped out of my vehicle I was more than happy to see that I was at least six inches taller, and I had him by a good 50 pounds. I told myself, I won’t hurt him, too bad. I’ll hold myself back, as I proceeded to handle the situation.

The little guy proved Lt. Dominic and his DVD course to be completely wrong. I was not only out $218.92, but I had a bloody nose as well. My self-esteem was shattered and, as I attempted to stop the bleeding, I decided right there and then that the story, if asked about the black eyes and bloody nose was, "He caught me off guard. You should have seen this guy. He was huge, a giant of an ape.

Sarah had been the first to ask what had happened to me. I used my backup story and added that it was over a parking space. I assured her that the other guy looked worse. She had looked doubtful, but she resumed her normal routine. At least I was starting to look better after my recent run-in with the five-foot three-inch gorilla.

I had better stop replaying this recent incident, and finish up my shift. I just have to make it to five. After a few more mundane tasks, like cleaning a couple of rings for an elderly woman, and throwing in a watch battery for a kid, I had made it through another day at the mall. I sure was glad that I had had such a positive impact on society today. I need to get out of this rat hole and save humanity, one dog at a time. The drive home was uneventful and traffic was light. I winced as I drove by the spot of Duke’s demise.

I felt inclined to call the woman with the soothing, sexy voice again, but I knew if she truly loved Duke that she’d be calling me soon enough.

Did I leave my number? Did I leave the right number? Did I tell the machine my name? I told my over-active brain to be quiet.

I pulled into my parking slot and noticed my wife had beat me getting home. I sat there in my boat of a car, a blue, 1964, four-door Caddy with a 428ci gas-guzzling engine. Hey, if nothing else I am a loyal American. I was dreaming of ways to dump the ‘9 to 5,’ or, in my case, the ‘9 to 9’ shifts, so I could go full time helping to save the universe.

After I pass the Saving Dogs from Cars act through Congress, I will move on to bigger things. I guess reselling Lt. D’s DVD set for $300, as even he suggests on his computer ad, will not be my meal ticket out that I am so desperately hoping for. I thought about the day I’d had, and how I’d face another just like it tomorrow, just a different date on the calendar. Oh, well, I guess a lot of guys feel like they are on a tread mill at a dull job.

I survived the trek down the dock ramp to our floating home without incident from our resident ‘meth-head.’ He’s our neighbor on the next houseboat over. I’m told every neighborhood has its own Lance. Somehow, I thought the water would be different. How naïve of me. When we first moved here, Lance looked like a body-builder. He was, in fact, a construction worker and looked great. Now, shockingly, he is a shadow of himself. Lance has a delusion in which he makes me out to be a larger-than-life villain, and a superior spy. He claims I watch his every move. I guess you could say he hates me best. I just wish I could fill those shoes he has made for me and I could finish the dance he started with me a year earlier when he accused me of being nice to him just to distract him from my true motive – to get him and his valuable stuff. My wife, Lynn, has never had a run-in with Lance. On occasion, she has insinuated that I have brought some of his crazy rage upon myself.

Dinner was waiting for me, right where it had landed after my last trip to the grocery store. Frozen waffles in the freezer and Lay’s chips on the counter. The biggest question now was milk or Pepsi? Lynn was still worried about the cut on my lip and the bump on my head, but I assured her that I was fine and that I had taken care of it.

Finally, Friday had come. Two days, and still I had no call about Duke. How strange. Lynn and I are so close to our dogs that we have had small cameras mounted throughout our home so we are able to monitor their every move from any laptop or computer while away from home. This is not a large help, however, when you can observe your ‘best friend’ eating your favorite tennis shoes, from miles away. Does this woman not care about Duke? Do I care more about Duke than she does?

It’s Friday morning at 8:45 and I’m back at the salt mine, when the phone rings before I even have the computers online. We get early calls often. I guess people think we just memorize all their account information and can recall it at a moment’s notice. Since we don’t open until ten, we are really not up to speed to handle their accounts or concerns. This call however was different from the rest. The caller said his name was Sgt. Lane with the Portland Police Department, and he asked for me by name. My mind raced as I searched it for what I had done.

Was it one of those intersection signals with a camera? Was I caught speeding without knowing it? Did Sarah, my Girl Friday, finally go through with her threats to kill her ex-husband for slow child support payments? This call was not good. How could Mr. Right deserve this contact? Told Brain to quit.

Sgt. Lane asked, When was the last time you spoke with Candy Cooper?

Candy Cooper, I thought, ‘Is she a TV star, movies, maybe singing? Where had I heard that name before?’ Then it hit me, I had no idea who Candy was.

I told Sgt. Lane that fact, but he seemed doubtful. Lane went on to ask me some really general questions, almost as if he was grabbing at straws. I was, of course, unable to help him, since I truly knew nothing of this person.

With that he repeated his name, and gave me a phone number. Then he said, Call me if you remember anything.

I assured him I would not be calling, since there was nothing to remember. I blew the call off as a mistake on his part.

My mind wandered off back to Duke, the killer in the car, and the smooth talking answering machine. If I add in the cop, I have a mystery, too bad that statement would turn out to be true.

CHAPTER TWO

What a strange few days it had been. My life is typically rather boring. Over the next three days I called Duke’s owner two more times. The first call found the sexy voice again telling me she’d call. Yeah, right. On the second call, all I got was a slew of beeps.

Was the machine full? Was she out of town? Maybe she was in the hospital? Was she happy Duke was finally gone? My Brain was at it again.

I felt badly that I had had to bury Duke in North Portland at the edge of a rather small, obscure park, alone, with no family and no fanfare. How cruel his end had become. I had found a nice spot with grass and some large shade trees nearby. I made the grave as nice as possible, under the make shift cross I had built for him. Saving dogs may be harder than I had originally thought if this was the type of cooperation I’d get— a smooth sexy voice on a machine.

The morning traffic was oddly light, so I was again at my desk early. I was in the middle of catch up work when, as usual, the phone rang too early to help anyone. I almost didn’t answer it, but I had a feeling it was going to be Duke’s mom. I was wrong on that guess, as was becoming the norm for me.

Sgt. Lane was on the line again, and skipping the standard pleasantries, he again asked when I had last spoken to Candy Cooper.

At this point I was starting to wish I did know Candy Cooper, since this was getting more confusing by the day. I decided I would ask Sgt. Lane some questions of my own and I got nowhere, and fast, might I add. Once more, Sgt. Lane left his number, and I assured him I still had it from our previous one sided conversation. Usually, the police don’t call me at work everyday, but that seems to be changing.

Should I tell my wife about these calls? What will she think? Told Brain to be calm. I have done nothing wrong.

I thought more about the strange calls from Lane. My curiosity got the best of me, and, although I knew better than to call back, I did. When I called the number Lane had given me, it was no easy task getting through to his desk.

Once I was connected, I said, Sergeant, what is really going on here? I have checked all my records, and though I have a few Coopers, there is no Candy, or even C. Cooper, for that matter. I said, Her husband or boyfriend could have purchased a gift for her, and it was invoiced under another name, and there would be no way to cross-reference that. I told him, I probably called the number on the sales slip, as we call every customer to make sure they are completely satisfied with all aspects of their purchase here at Scotty’s. If the customer is not reached at that time, we wait a few days, then my staff or I try again.

Without hesitation, Lane cut in and stated, You were the one who called, both times.

I said, Well, there you have it. I did my job, and that is what happened.

Lane immediately picked up on my sarcasm and told me, You’ll wish it were that simple.

I said, Then please explain why you think I contacted this Candy person.

Well, is ‘Duke’ a code word for, ‘are you happy with your jewelry?’ he snapped. Maybe it’s a code for drugs, or I don’t know what. Why don’t you tell me?

Wow, my body suddenly felt like stone. Why would a missing dog require a cop to investigate? Drugs?

Pleeease! I said, with anger and sarcasm in my voice.

Lane said, Well, since you left the last two messages on her phone, that sure sounds as if you know her. Now, I suppose, you’ll tell me you still don’t know who or where she is.

What the hell had I stepped into here? The phone was silent for a minute or so, then Lane said he’d be in touch with me.

I could not help myself as I heard myself say, Should I not leave town as well? Needless to say, he hung up on me.

To say my poor, sick, paranoid mind was racing, cannot start to describe it. If only I knew the truth, I’d tell him, and be done with this. I waited and stewed over this for a while. Why in the hell had I called him back? After all, I knew better.

I decided to call my policeman friend, Ray, who works in a town just north of Vancouver. Ray promised to give me as much information as he could on the dirt bag that drove the Subaru, with the agreement that I would not do something stupid, like go to his house and, well, as Ray put it, laughing, Let the guy beat the hell out of you. I promised I had learned the limits of my killer skills, as taught by Lt. Dominic, and that I knew better than to press my luck in this area of expertise.

Next I decided to call our friend Tina who lives in Vancouver just across the Columbia River which separates Oregon from Washington. Tina has a knack for solving mysteries. I wanted to see what she thought about the strange things happening around me. I needed to tell someone who could help me sort this out, but when I was done telling her my sorry tale, she simply said, Could only happen to you.

I get that a lot. My father used to say I saw more unusual stuff in a week than most people see in a year. I was never sure if he was telling me I was embellishing a lot, or if he really believed that my stories were true. I asked Tina, half joking, How can I help the dogs of the world from a jail cell? We set a date to get together, with our spouses, to go out to dinner.

Ray called me back while I was still at work and gave me a name, and the address, of

Reviews for Doggone

[janemarieprice · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was a fun short read. The story jumps between different points of view and different styles of writing in a unique way. The story is strange but witty and made for an interesting read.