Let’s cut to the chase. Tom and Livvy—Dude’s humans—are missing. Gone. It’s a big deal, because people don’t just up and vanish in our ’hood. And anything that goes amiss on our patch is a big deal. It’s an action signal for the Wagatha Labsy Secret Dogtective Alliance. We don’t have an agency, per se, but we’re sort of allied. We do what we have to do because we’re the only ones who can do it. Who’d leave the solving of mysterious goings-on around here to a pack of humans?
Before we go any further, you need to know who’s who in the ’hood—which is in a small town twenty-five miles north of the city of San Francisco. Location-wise, that’s all you need to know—we protect our privacy.
There’s Wagatha Labsy, aka Wags, Aggie, Waggy-girl, and The Wagster. I’m sure you know that all dogs have at least four names assigned to them by people like yourselves. Humans. I’ll get to my own monikers in a minute. Wagatha Labsy has a day job. Works narcotics. Mainly SFO—that’s the airport—and the docks. She used to be on the fruit, nuts, and meat beat, but jeez, she felt bad, you know, sniffing out an apple some old lady forgot was in the bottom of her bag when she flew in from Madrid or Paris, maybe London. But now Wagatha’s nose is finely attuned to illicit substances, from recreational herbs to the hard stuff, though she says what they’re really after now is something called fentanyl. And she don’t just work the airport and docks—she’s a numero uno trained asset and is deployed on all the big busts, which is why she has a few days R & R this week—K9 snooze time. There’s only so much an efficient olfactory system can handle. Oh, and in case you didn’t guess—she’s a Labrador. Black. Like soot.
I’m Rebel. Aka Rebsy, Rebbo, and sometimes just Reb. Pure German Shepherd. Former SFPD K9. Took a hot one in the shoulder while in pursuit of a perp. The boys rushed me up to UC Davis. Lights and sirens. CHP outriders all the way. We take care of our own, and Davis, in case you don’t know, is the big university veterinary hospital, where I had the best docs working on me. I pulled through, but the department had to retire me. Big ceremony, medals, party—the whole deal, plus press photo call with me and Ed, my human partner. He got a stomach wound on the same job, and the perp got him in the leg, too. He was in the hospital for a while—not the same one, duh! Then rehab.
We’ve both had a hard time adjusting. Ed’s now on what they call “PR duty.” He goes around to schools talking about the safety stuff that kids should know and how not to get into trouble. If he’s expecting a tough crowd—and you know what they’re like, these kids—he’ll take me along. One sassy comment, and I get up, slink along real low, and stare down the little shits. No one, but no one talks back to Ed on my watch.
Okay, down the line here, and I’ll make it snappy. In the house across the street there’s Penny Lane, and it’s anybody’s guess what she is—Aussie Shepherd, bit of Corgi, maybe some sort of oodle in the mix. I tell you—those oodles get everywhere. You buy any brand of oodle, and in my humble opinion, you’ve been had. Got yourself one overpriced mutt. Not that I’d mention it to Penny Lane, aka Penno, Pensy, Pen, and—get this—Pen-E-Lope. That’s what her mom calls her. Pen-E-Lope. And Pen’s a bit off-kilter, for a dog. Rocks out to the Beatles’ White Album when she thinks no one’s looking, but—take note—she sees more than she lets on, which is why Wagatha called her into the Alliance. She’s not as stupid as she is strange-looking.
Hank’s up next. Lives two houses along from Pen. Hank’s a Newfoundland. Big black, hairy giant, looks like a walking rug. Guards the refrigerator. Never takes his eyes off the refrigerator unless his people go to the cupboard. Then he’s there, at the cupboard, waiting. Do not—I repeat—do not leave any rations anywhere near Hank. You won’t even see him get into your bowl, he’s that fast. Hank’s in the gang because he’s huge—like Hagrid, the big hairy guy who keeps an eye on Harry Potter. I’ll get to the matter of dogs and reading later. Oh, and Hank—the Newfie, with webbed feet designed to save people from the sea? Terrified of water. Go figure.
Wrigley—aka Wrigs—is on my side of the street. Another big black Labrador. WTF is it with these Labradors? Former seeing-eye dog, just didn’t make the grade. If he’d gone out with a blind dude, the poor guy would’ve ended up dead. Wrigs gets distracted. But you know, he has a nose on him, and we like a good nose, so Wagatha okayed him joining. I heard the gal who named him was a fan of the Chicago Cubs.
Next we have Ella from the ’Hood—and you should see that little gal. White terrier crossed with something else that’s got a lot of ’tude. Ella’s human dresses her in dog coats from freaking Armani, Gucci, and—get this—Chanel! You could say Ella (aka Ella Bella, Ella-roo, and sometimes even Sweet Ella) cleaned up real good, because her human doesn’t know that, before she rescued Ella, that dog was known as Rats, and she owned—yes, owned—Bernal Heights until it went upscale, courtesy of all those Googlers moving in. Ella’s one fearless little fighter, and she’s on the team because Wagatha said she was fast off the mark when it came to a scrap. Ella from the ’Hood is our ammo.
Ladybird is our go-between with the coyotes on the hill. She wanders at night and there’s nothing escapes her notice. She comes back with serious intel and reports to Wagatha every day, which is how we keep the ’hood clean—not mean.
Moving right along there’s Dude. Aka Doody-boy, Dooley, Doody-do-do. His people—Livvy and Tom—are the young couple on the street. Thirtyish, both work for tech companies, so they ain’t short of greenbacks. You see them out on their mountain bikes on the weekend—and we’re talking top of the line. Josie, Ed’s girl—she’s with CSI—says those bikes probably cost more than her horse. Livvy and Tom have got their own business stuff going on the side, so they’re working 24/7, according to Dude—he says they’re into developing apps or whatever the hell.
Wagatha gets it because her department liaises with the data protection and fraud guys, and she okayed Dude for the Alliance because we needed a techie hound. He watched and he learned. And like all you humans, his people don’t know his capabilities. Only problem is his…well, let’s call it his “attire.” Makes Ella from the ’Hood look underdressed. His people taught him to ride a skateboard, and they bought him some shades and a baseball cap with holes for his ears to poke through. Goes with the image, I guess. I said to him, “Dude, why’d you put up with it?” and he says to me, “Keeps my people happy—and I’ve got a good gig. If it ain’t broken, I ain’t gonna fix it. They get me high-quality kibble, treats from a fancy puppy store in the Embarcadero Center, so what do I care?” I could see his point.
Maya’s probably mostly Labrador, but there’s something else in there, too. Something suspect. I’d say pit bull—just a spoonful, enough to give her an “I can take care of myself” edge. She hangs out with Ella because they’re both rescue dogs. Maya would never start a fight, but boy, does she know how to finish it. Do not mess with Maya. She’s sharp as a whip and together with Ella, they are our sniper force. They can go in, take out whatever needs taking out, and get home without anyone being any the wiser.
Now I get to the final member of our gang. But he’s still on probation on account of his age. So, here’s how it goes. Ed comes home a couple weeks ago, strokes me on the head and says, “You need a pal, old fella.” I didn’t like the sound of “old fella.” As Wagatha might say, it did not bode well.
Ed goes out to the car and comes back with a crate. First thing that goes through my mind is, Oh shit. Now what the freaking hell is this? Yeah, you know what it is—it’s a freaking kid! And not only that—Ed has completely lost it because it’s a Border Collie pup!
I give Ed the look that says, “Ed, partner, my buddy, Ed—you’ve got more sense than this. You do not bring home a Border freaking Collie unless you also have a freaking sheep or two in the backyard! He is going to drive us out of our minds!”
Even Josie says, “But Ed, these dogs are herding dogs.” What she left out was “Where the f%*k is his herd?” But Ed just brushes it all aside, and calls him Angus. Something to do with his heritage. Whatever that is.
Now to the case. “At last,” I hear you say. Yeah, but you’ve gotta know who you’re dealing with in the Wagatha Labsy Secret Dogtective Alliance first, haven’t you? Otherwise you’d’ve been stopping me and asking me who was who. Or whom.
Wagatha had just come off a big job—pulled in a shipment of cocaine coming up from the south. All the narcotics guys were on it. So, like I said, she’s on R & R right now, though her handler don’t get the vacay. I guess I left out most of the human names, but they’re not what you’d call germane. But Tom and Livvy are important because they vanished.
As I was saying, Wagatha had just come off an all-nighter, and her human was opening the passenger door to let her out of the car, when they saw Wrigley and his person across the street with Dude. Dude was downcast—you know, droopy eyes, all “Oh, woe is me”—so there was a conversation about what was going on, and Wrigley’s person said that the back door of Tom and Livvy’s house had been left open, and she’d heard Dude howling in the kitchen—in a crate. Wow.
Wrigs told me that the minute the story started, you could see the hair on Wagatha’s neck go up. Just like that—you know, full-on hackles. That’s when me and Ed came along for our morning walk. I don’t need no leash. I know my place and I am right there, by his side—where I’ve been since basic training. Which is more than can be said of freaking Angus. “What part of ‘heel’ are you not getting, you little shit?” I growled. Before we could say “Cute Puppy Approaching,” the humans were all over little Angus. And Wagatha’s handler should have known better, having just been given serious intel and letting it slide. Wagatha nodded to Wrigs and me, and we did some sniffing of one another and Dude—we didn’t want the humans to know what we were communicating about. At this point I will say that I do not know what Wrigs gets into, but it has to be cat scat, because he just stinks. At both ends.
Wagatha brought us up to speed about Dude’s people. Dude one-pawed his skateboard back and forth, so it looked like he was playing.
“Did you see anything suspicious?” asked Wagatha. “I mean, Dude—you must’ve seen something.”
“Nothing much, because I’d chewed some good shoes yesterday and was confined to crate.”
“A crate?” said Wrigs. “What kind of shoes were they? Livvy’s new trail runners?”
“Wrigley.” Wagatha raised her nose. He shut up.
“You didn’t hear anything?” Wagatha pressed the Dude.
“I had my headphones on,” he said sheepishly. “I caught a look at one guy, came to the door.”
“Wassup?” Ella joined us. She was wearing a new Kate Spade coat. Her person was distracted by Angus and was all, “He’s just the cutest!” If Ella hadn’t been more interested in us, Angus would have been chow. I sighed in relief—I didn’t relish having to protect the little bro from Ella’s fangs.
Wagatha summed up the story, then said, “If Tom and Livvy haven’t been located by lunchtime, the Alliance meets at the top of the fire road, under the redwoods. Twelve hundred hours. You know what to do.” She looked at me. I’m her lieutenant—did I tell you that? “Reb, we’ll need Ladybird for reconnaissance into C-territory. Bring Penny, and someone tear Hank away from the Wilsons’ fridge—Ladybird will need backup if this goes dark. Ella, make sure Maya’s with you—I want sniper presence.”
“Ten-four, Wagatha,” I said. The others raised their noses.
The human talk came to an end. The professionals—Ed and Wagatha’s human—agreed that Tom and Livvy would probably be back later, but they’d check in anyway. No one wanted to sniff them out at their day job—might cause embarrassment—but they’d call if they had to, maybe just to tell them they forgot to lock the back door, but Dude was okay because he was with Wrigs.
“They’re employed by one of those strange places where the people all sit around on multicolored plastic blocks, like it’s preschool,” said Ed, laughing.
Wagatha looked at me. It was her grave look, the sort she has when the smell of something amiss is under her nose. We knew—we’d all got the vibe—that the strange place right now was our street. And it was our duty to protect it. Semper Fi.
Samba, the Rhodesian Ridgeback/Great Dane, who lives closer to town, reported that there was nothing to report. He’d ambled up the road to find out what was going on and said he’d post lookout—he can see right into the local police department from his living room. There was nothing doing. Samba wants into the Alliance, so he’s been providing intel lately. I don’t blame him—he’s alone sometimes when his human goes off on business trips, though on the other hand he kinda likes it because he gets to walk with Wrigs, and he’s got that Ridgeback independent thing going on. But his human lets him have the run of the house, so he hangs out in the living room, watching. Wagatha says he’ll probably make it in the next recruitment go-round, after I’ve given my field performance report.
At 1200 hours we met under the redwoods. We were all there—the boss, me, Penny, Hank, Dude, Wrigley, Maya, Ella (coat by Stella McCartney), and, yes, right there in my shadow, Angus. Ladybird crawled out of the bushes. Angus gave a yap and began circling.
“Angus. Angus, will you just get over here now!” My lip was curled above my gums.
Ella went for him and he yelped.
“Ella! No!” said Wagatha, hackles up. Ella opened her mouth to complain, but Wagatha had already turned to me. “He should begin his lessons, Reb—he can’t go on like that.”
“I know. I’ll start him tonight.”
“On what?” said Dude. “Lassie Come Home?”
“I said I’d deal with it,” I snarled.
“I’ve some information,” Maya piped up. She was a dog who liked to get the job done. No messing around. “I heard my people talking this morning—about Livvy and Tom. Before we knew they were gone.”
Ella snarled at Angus again. I felt him lean into me.
“Go on,” said Wagatha.
“Talk was that they’ve been doing well—and I mean real well. My man works in the same biz, and met Tom for lunch. Couple days ago. Little bistro south of Market.”
“What’d they eat?” Hank pushed forward.
“Hank, would you shut up?” said Penny.
Wagatha took down Penny and Hank with one look.
“There’s this stuff called VC money. Means venture capital, and it’s a lot of cash given to someone to invent something, or when they’ve invented it, for the big-money guys to buy in,” said Maya. “There was a lot of interest in what Tom and Livvy had. Whatever it was.”
“Dude—Tom and Livvy ever mention anything to you?” Wagatha knows people talk to their dogs—tell them a lot they wouldn’t tell their best friend. Or their doctor.
Dude shook the shades off his nose, let them drop. Eyes filled up. “I knew they’d had some serious cash coming in. All those Embarcadero Center treats—they don’t come cheap. They bought me a new bed. Memory foam. Thick and soft. And another for the crate, so even if I’d been a bit, well, bad, I wouldn’t suffer.”
“When did you ever suffer, you shit,” said Ella.
Maya rolled her eyes. “Ella, don’t mind me saying, but—”
Angus came closer. If I was a kangaroo, he’d’ve climbed into my pouch.
“Go on, Dude,” said Wagatha.
“There was new furniture—and I don’t mean Ikea. Top-of-the-line stuff—real comfy couch. And last week a Sub-Zero refrigerator was delivered.
“Sub-Zero!” Hank shot over to Dude. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He looked at Wagatha. “New refrigerator means major grocery shopping. I’ll watch the Dude at his house tonight.”
We all growled. Hank backed off.
Wagatha nodded, taking in Dude’s description of the change in Tom and Livvy’s fortunes. She raised her head, shot a look at Ladybird. “Are you ready for the coyotes?”
Ladybird seemed to slink lower. She was ready.
“Okay,” said Wagatha. “Ladybird, you go up the hill, but I want Reb and Hank as backup a few paces behind. Maya and Ella—on the banks either side of the path so you’re flanking the team. Watch Ladybird like a pair of hawks—any trouble and you go in.” She paused. “Ella—lose the jacket.”
“Pen, pull this thing off me, would ya?” said Ella.
“Angus, you stay here,” she added in a soft voice. “And do not move at any point. Unless you want to be coyote chow.” She went on. “Dude, you’re emotionally involved, so you stay with the boy. Penny and Wrigs—second tier behind Hank and Reb—and keep your distance. If they’re down, you go in—understand?”
They nosed the ground. They were ready.
“As soon as Ladybird gives the signal, I’ll approach.”
Wagatha pawed the tarmac and we started up the hill, just like she said. Ladybird first, then me and Hank. I heard him breathing hard.
“You’ve gotta get some cardio going, Hank—you’ll be dead before you see a Sub-Zero.”
“It’s my undercoat. Needs combing out—it’s like I’m wrapped in a duvet.”
Ladybird turned. Lifted her right front paw, the signal to stop. “Wait until I’ve made contact.”
Four more paces and she began to yip, just like a coyote. I could feel everyone’s hackles go up. Ladybird was not of this world. She was—well, she was weird. Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw Maya and Ella take up position. Any trouble, and we would all go in.
A big red-and-gold coyote crept out of the undergrowth, his snout like a dagger topped with coal.
“He ain’t missed any rations,” whispered Hank.
“And you have?” I snipped.
Ladybird and the coyote circled each other, and we heard her yip and he yipped back, and then four more coyotes came from behind. Ella and Maya moved closer, crawling down the banks toward the path—just one false move, that’s all it would take.
“What’re they saying?” said Hank.
“Would you shut the f—” I started to say when Ladybird turned.
“They’ll talk. Signal Wagatha to come forward.”
Penny and Wrigley moved aside, then fell in behind Wagatha. Hank and me, we kept real close to her, so she was protected. Ladybird crouched nearer the ground, exposing her neck—she was demonstrating Wagatha’s standing in the Alliance.
Our leader put her head to one side, then the other. “We come seeking wisdom from you.”
“WTF?” said Hank, real low. “What wisdom does that mange bucket have?”
I ignored him. It’s the only way sometimes.
“Ladybird says you were seeking sustenance in the trash cans on our street in the early hours. We want to know if you saw something unusual—humans lurking.”
The coyote nodded, his eyes on Wagatha. “We might have. Depends upon what’s in it for us.”
“Of course,” said Wagatha. She let the silence hang. Five seconds. “We’ll leave rations near every trash can tonight. Good stuff. High quality.”
The coyote looked around at his pack, then back at Wagatha. “Agreed.” He paused. “There was a black moving monster with four round paws.”
“WTF is that shit talking about?”
“SUV. A sport utility vehicle, Hank,” I snarled.
“Outside the house of the one with black eyes and wheels on his legs,” added the coyote.
“That’s Dude’s house.” I heard Wrigley behind me.
Wagatha was calm. She was a cool one—all those narcotics busts, you need to be real easy with the trigger.
The coyote started again. “The humans spoke in an unfamiliar tongue.” He coughed, his red coat shimmering as the sun shafted through the redwoods. He coughed again, yipped, and described what he’d heard.
My ears went back, and I cleared my throat. “I know the rhythm of that language, ma’am.”
Ladybird cast me a look—I hadn’t been approved to speak.
“What is it, Reb?” said Wagatha.
“It’s Russian, ma’am,” I said.
I heard the collective whining behind me. There was muttering, a few growls, and I could have sworn I heard Ella cussing from her place on the hill. That Ella’s got a potty mouth.
“You know what that means, don’t you, Reb?” said Wagatha.
I pawed the ground. “Yes, ma’am.” I could hardly speak. “The Borzois. It means we’ve gotta go talk to the Borzois.”
“Oh heck,” said Hank. Only he didn’t say “heck”—it just had the same sort of sound. “Those skinny Russian sh—”
Wagatha glared, then motioned Ladybird to come closer. “We must secure safe passage through the coyote grove to see the Borzois. Can you do it? If anyone has intel on Russians, it’s the Borzois—it’s imperative we speak to them.” She uses words like “imperative.”
Ladybird walked back to the coyote. The pack yipped and Ladybird returned.
“We can move on through the coyote grove at 1800 hours. They’ll be resting before nightfall hunting. It’s our best chance.”
“But that’s freaking dinner time!” Hank whined beside me.
“Listen, you big-assed lug, if you want to get chucked off the Alliance, you’re going the right way about it.”
That shut him up.
Ladybird agreed on the terms—more food left by the trash cans over two nights—and we all backed up down the hill without turning around. Never, ever turn your back on a coyote.
When we were clear of the redwoods and home on our street, we reconvened.
“The Borzois! That’s a whole new bowl of kibble,” said Wrigley.
“I’m scared,” whimpered Dude.
“You’ve got to watch those Borzois,” said Ella. “Foreign to the core.”
“Pedigree all the way through, though,” said Maya, which was probably the wrong thing to say to Ella.
“It’s certainly an unforeseen impediment,” said Wagatha. She was thoughtful. “Ladybird, Rebel, and I will range into the coyote grove, and Hank, we need you there, too—there’s always the chance of a renegade coyote. Ella and Maya—as before, you keep to our flanks on the hills either side of the path. Wrigley and Penny—go no farther than the line into the grove. Dude—keep watch on Reb’s house and make sure Angus remains inside. This is no place for a child.”
She looked up at Samba, who had kept back. “Samba, if you’re with us, I want you to make your way up around the other side of the hill, in position above the House of the Borzois. Keep watch from there and give the alert if anything is amiss.” She looked around the circle. “This case has only just started, and already we are in dangerous territory. Let us give the signal for danger, so our collective voice memory is refreshed.”
We pointed our noses to the sky, to the clouds above us, and we howled. Even little Angus looked up and was doing his best to howl, one paw raised like a true member of the Alliance. Then, as one, our emergency siren-call ended. That’s when Angus started running circles around the pack.
“That boy needs some sheep,” growled Samba.
Angus was down for his nap when I left to meet the Borzois. Ed was home, in front of the TV watching the game—sort of. He was asleep in the chair. And we’d taken in Dude for the night. You guys think you know where we are at all times, but really, you are so in the dark about what your dog is up to.
Maya and Ella fanned out as Ladybird went ahead and spoke to the coyote sentry. We were cleared for safe passage through the grove. And I can tell you, it’s not for the faint-hearted. Every cracking twig sounds like a leg breaking. Every branch caught by the breeze could be a coyote ghost. We moved with speed, but stealth. From the track through the grove there’s a staircase up to the Borzois’ dacha—140 wooden steps to the perimeter of their territory.
They were waiting for us when we got there—Vasily and Nina. They leaped toward us. If you didn’t know them you’d be terrified, but these two are like a pair of dancers from the Bolshoi Ballet. Borzois do not walk or run. They prance.
“Comrade,” said Vasily. “What brings you here?” One word slid into the next, in the Russian way.
Wagatha raised her nose. “We come to ask for help. One of our pack has lost his people—taken from him. And we believe there was some…some interference from humans of your kind.” She took her time, let the words sink in. “If you have any information at all, we would be grateful.”
“How grateful?”
“Not again—tell them we’ll leave out a couple of dead coyotes.”
“Hank!” I nipped his flank. Got hair in my teeth—jeez, that undercoat!
“Tell the Canadian to leave,” said Nina.
“What?” said Hank. “Oh yeah, I know—they’re still sore about that hockey game at the Olympics. And what about Labrador? That’s Canadian.”
“Hank—move on back a few feet,” said Wagatha. Hank sloped back three paces.
She turned again to the Borzois. “That’s as far as he’ll go—we only return through the grove as a pack.”
Nina nosed the air. “There is something we’ve learned. I cannot reveal our sources. We were at a show yesterday—a meeting of Russian dog owners. There was talk.”
“What kind of talk?” asked Wagatha.
Nina and Vasily looked at each other. Vasily spoke. “About people in your ranging zone. Specifically, the humans belonging to the one who has wheels.”
A low growl went through the Alliance.
“Where are they?” That was me, cutting to the chase.
“We don’t know—but it seems they have come to the attention of some powerful people,” said Nina. “And it’s all to do with something called….” She turned to Vasily and they jumped around a bit.
“What’s that all about?” said Wrigley.
“He’s telling her to keep her mouth shut, no more telling, and she’s asking why and saying it’s only fair to help us,” said Penny.
“Hold on a minute. How the heck do you know that?” I had my eye on Pen now.
“I’ve heard ‘Back in the USSR’ in Russian—my people have got Beatles recordings in all sorts of languages. They started learning some Russian, and I just kinda picked it up.”
“Now she tells us,” I growled.
Vasily and Nina stopped prancing. Vasily approached. “Okay. Here’s a morsel. We overheard the Samoyeds. The words I heard were ‘data collection.’ I know no more.”
And with that the Borzois turned and danced away, but not before we’d heard the words: the Samoyeds.
“All I can say is, I think the Russians were poor losers,” said Hank.
“Shut up, Hank!” we howled in unison.
Wagatha growled us to attention. “It’s time,” she said. “It’s time to bring in the humans. Tomorrow we see Dr. Lacey and Bill.”
No one argued. Not even Maya and Ella, who had joined us for our return to the ’hood.
And just so you know, Dr. Lacey Cashman is our veterinarian. She’s ex-army, so she’s seen action—taking care of our kind deployed in Afghanistan. At the end of her military service, she became our vet, and all I’ll say about Dr. Lacey is that she has a heart of gold—but she knows when you’re faking it, and she doesn’t like sass. You don’t mess with the good doc. She also understands us. And then there’s Bill—the only mailman who loves dogs, and the dogs love him right back. Go figure. He understands, too. Some humans are gifted that way.
Maya and me were earmarked to find Dr. Lacey in the morning. I stayed with Wagatha for a few minutes to talk strategy.
That night, after Ed had turned in, and—I should add—after a formal “missing persons” report on Tom and Livvy had been filed with the local police department, I settled down for the night. I was tired and my shoulder hurt. But my day wasn’t finished yet.
I called Angus from his crate and pulled a book from the shelf. The 101 Dalmatians by Dodie Smith. The little fella’s education had begun. I’d get him onto Call of the Wild as soon as it was age-appropriate.
I went with Maya to see Dr. Lacey. We skipped out in the morning while our people slept. Josie came over last night so, well, you know, she and Ed wouldn’t be getting out of bed anytime soon. And Dr. Lacey gets into the office real early. She said it was on account of being in a war zone—incoming kept you awake at night, so you learned to catnap. I didn’t like the sound of that—never met a cat I could trust. Well, with the exception of Delderfield but she’s gone, and sadly missed. Honorary member of the Alliance, and even Ella howled when the big C got that little calico. She served us all her days. Oh, and if you’re wondering how me and Maya got out before sunup—hey, you’ve gotta be kidding! A dog can always get out, if it wants.
We barked at the back door of the veterinary office until Dr. Lacey answered our call.
“What’re you two doing here?” she said, kneeling down to ruffle our ruffs. Maya curled into her—she was one tough rescue dog the good doc had helped tame. And because of their bond, the doc can see Maya’s pictures real clear. “Looks like you’re on a mission.” She closed her eyes as she touched us, and we pulled up the pictures into our heads. That’s the only way to describe what we do—like running a movie behind our eyes, and Dr. Lacey can see the same thing. It’s how she knows when Hank has been at a slice of banana bread with chocolate chips—he cannot get that stuff out of his head.
“Tom and Livvy gone? Is that it?”
Maya yelped, going all paws down.
“Has Ed been to the police?”
Maya and me, we yelped together.
“But what’s this about Nina and Vasily—which reminds me, they both need their leptospirosis shots and anal glands attended to.”
That was way too much intel.
“Oh—Russians—you think it’s something to do with Russians!” She was getting there.
We yelped again.
“Okay, I’ll talk to Ed. Make up a story about how I know.”
Thank Dog for the doc. Maya and me, we barked our thanks, snuggled in for a hug, and ran home. We split up on the street.
“I’ll report to Wagatha,” I said. “Thanks, Maya—we needed your pictures to get Dr. Lacey on board.”
“Part of the job, Lieutenant,” said Maya. “But what was that about the Borzois and their anal glands?”
“Don’t even go there, Maya—don’t even go there.”
Dr. Lacey called Ed and shared her intel. Maya found Bill delivering letters on a neighboring street, and brought him up to speed with her mind-pictures. She reported that Bill said he’d delivered an official-looking document postmarked “Russia” to Tom and Livvy last week. But who uses snail mail with two techies? The plot was definitely getting thicker.
I heard Wagatha’s call, and snuck out the back door to meet her between the two big cypress trees.
“We need a lot more information, Reb. We must expand our investigation,” she said. “I’m sure the Borzois know more than they’re telling. And I don’t like the fact that they mentioned the Samoyeds. They can be ruthless.”
“Ed’s going down to the town PD with what we got from the doc and Bill—Doc spoke to him, so he’s in the picture. But the clock is ticking—Dude could lose his people.”
We agreed to expand our reach, which would mean some serious roaming. Easy for Ladybird, who was always on the prowl, but long-term absence can be noted. Ed wanted to check out Tom’s workplace. I leaped into the car as soon as my partner opened the door. Angus started whimpering about being left for Cruella de Ville to find him. It was time to elevate his education, so I went back inside and pulled The Art of Racing in the Rain off the shelf—you know, the one about Enzo, the dog who comes back as a…wait, better not tell you. It’s a bit of a tough story for a pup, but I think he’s ready for it, and it’ll distract him until I’m home.
Oh, and just so you know—dogs can read, but we don’t do words. No, what we see is pictures. We turn a page and we see pictures in our heads. You know that old saying about putting your nose into a good book? Came from a dog. True.
Tom’s company was way cool. Guy at the reception desk—called a greeting circle—took us into what he called a “meeting pod.” Didn’t even bat an eyelid about me being there, because they are a dog-friendly environment. His words. And as if to prove it, a big fluffy Goldendoodle comes out to say hi. Now, I’m not one to cast aspersions, but a Goldendoodle asking me if I’d like some refreshment feels a bit strange. I wanted to say, “No, let’s go outside and lay in puddles, then we’ll see what that coat looks like.”
But back to the pod. So, we’re in this transparent sort of round tube, like being in a big fat water glass, and a “human resources parent” (I know—the names they come up with, like all these people need another mom!) joined us to ask if we had news about Tom, because he’s not been in the office, and they assumed he was working from home. I mean, Hello! What sort of place is this? Wasn’t it cool to call Tom to find out?
Ed asked a few more questions, but didn’t get very far. I think he was thinking the guy was keeping something back. I just thought he was a bit, well, dopey. And I wanted out of that pod!
By the time we were back in the ’hood, some big stuff was going down. I heard the call—the Alliance was in the Redwood Grove. Wagatha brought me up to speed. Nina had danced down the hill earlier and met Penny, who was rocking out to Sergeant Pepper in the front yard. Nina and Vasily had been taken to another Russian dog show last night, after we’d seen them, and they’d discovered that there were people “staying” at a house in the city owned by some Russians—real Russians, from Russia, not just people into Russian dogs or whose ancestors came through Ellis Island, like, one hundred years ago. And apparently those Russians don’t live in that house—they just use it.
“Where is it?”
“Russian Hill,” said Wagatha. She looked down. “I should have considered the possibility earlier.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” I said. “Who knew Russians lived on Russian Hill?”
Wagatha cast a grateful look in my direction—what good is a lieutenant if he can’t support his leader? She pawed the ground.
“Dude, I want you to go home—just for as long as it takes for some pictures to come into focus. I believe you were too upset to receive any before, but now we must have a clearer vision of what happened in the house. Hank and Samba—go with him; he’ll need your support.” Our leader gave Samba a special look before turning to me. “Reb, Nina gave Penny a picture of the house on Russian Hill, so she’ll know it when she sees it. Bill should be along to deliver our mail in half an hour. That gives Dude enough time to receive pictures while Maya and Ella go to Dr. Lacey. Is Ed at his desk in the city?”
“Planning a special conference on violence in schools,” I said. “Getting kids, teachers, and police involved.” I sighed one of my big-dog sighs. “Sad, that’s what it is. Plain sad that it even needs to be talked about.”
“Can we get him?” asked Wagatha.
“We’ll ask Dr. Lacey to call him.”
“Okay, Reb. Let’s go over the plan.”
We closed our eyes, put noses together, and to a dog we saw Wagatha’s pictures in our heads. We knew what to do.
“I can get you all in my van,” said Bill. “This street is last on my route today, but don’t get your paws on the outgoing mail.”
We were loading up when Dr. Lacey came down the street in her truck, Maya and Ella riding shotgun. She leaped out, dogs following. She knew Bill was like her—could see a dog’s thoughts.
“Looks like they’ve done a lot of work, Bill. Can you get everyone in?”
“Almost, Doc. You following?”
“I’ll take Hank and Samba so you have more room. I called Ed. Made up a story about an emergency patient coming in and the owner mentioning a house on Russian Hill. I’m sure he suspects something.”
“I’ve some pictures to share,” said Dude. You can tell his people are of that strange generation, you know, everyone’s sharing and all that stuff. No one can just give someone a call anymore—they have to do this reaching out thing. Really confuses a dog, I mean, our language never changes.
We all concentrated on Dude, and the pictures started coming. The doc gasped. “They had guns! Oh dear—and they took the computers, too.”
Bill was shocked. “They didn’t even let them change out of their pajamas.” He turned to Dude. “Any idea what was in those files they took with them?”
Dude shrugged. “I tried not to get too involved. I thought it was best I didn’t know what they were doing—because I knew it was something important.”
Wagatha licked his ear. He liked that.
“Okay. Time to hit the road,” said Bill.
Our mailman drove fast toward the city. Me, Maya, Penny, Dude, Wrigs, and Ella were aboard with Wagatha. I’d managed to lock Angus in his crate, and threw in a copy of Oogy: The Dog Only a Family Could Love. It was time he was introduced to memoir, and there’s nothing more inspiring than a dog who’d made it up from the streets to become a beloved family pet. It’s a tear-jerker, but Angus needs to know that he’s got it good—no one is asking him to be a bait dog for the fighters. Maya and Ella wept when they read Oogy’s story—they know how it goes when you’re a rescue dog.
“This is it—stop!” barked Penny.
We were first to the house on Russian Hill. The street was quiet, just a few cars parked.
Maya whistled. “Check out this pad,” she said. “How many rooms do you reckon they have. Twenty?”
“This ain’t the Tenderloin, that’s for sure,” said Ella. She growled.
Dr. Lacey pulled up, releasing Hank and Samba.
“All he talked about was freaking food!” said Samba.
Wagatha called us to attention.
“We have to follow the humans now,” she said. “But as soon as we’re in—spread out fast. I can see there are three floors, so Maya, Ella, take the third. Dude, Penny, and Wrigs, take the second, and Samba comes with Reb and me to the first. Hank, you stay on guard at the front.
Dr. Lacey checked her phone. “That’s a text from Ed. He’s on his way in a black-and-white with another guy from the PD. Busy day—it’s all he could get.”
My heart sank. I knew what happened. He’s a wounded desk jockey now—no one listens to him. It’s like he’s an old guy—at forty.
Bill rang the doorbell, a package under his arm and his signing device in his hand. We waited behind his van with the doc. I felt hackles go up along the line. We were all trembling, ready to roll. No answer. He hit the bell again. The door creaked, then opened to reveal a tall guy, bald, dressed in a suit, blue, and his jacket bulged at the chest. He was carrying. I’d say it was a Magnum.
“Your lucky day, sir. Anyone’s birthday?” Bill smiled at the guy, who frowned.
“Nothing was ordered. We are not expecting a parcel.”
Russian. Definitely Russian.
Dude whimpered. “It’s him. It’s the guy in my pictures.”
“Well, I can’t take it back with me, sir. You gotta sign for it right here.” Bill was firm, and held out the device.
The guy opened the door a little wider and reached for the package, which Bill conveniently dropped.
“Oops,” he said.
That was our sign. The pack moved with lightning speed, knocking the Russian over. Doc Lacey ran to Bill’s side, a roll of Vetrap in her hand—you know, that bandage stuff they use to keep a dressing in place—and a cone. Before the guy could utter, “Privet, tovarich,” we were in the house, splitting up like Wagatha instructed.
Hank sat on the Russian, who started going on about Canadians, so Hank sat harder, putting a paw on his face while the doc coned and tied him. I heard the black-and-white’s siren in the distance: Ed was on his way. Maya and Ella had taken down another Russian on the stairs, and he wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon—knocked out cold. Wagatha, Samba, and I searched the first floor—couple sticks of furniture, and crates stacked everywhere. Wagatha yelped at the crates—she knew what was in there: fentanyl. We could hear Wrigs, Penny, and Dude above us, so we launched up the stairs. That’s when we heard a commotion coming from the third floor. Doc Lacey was right behind us.
“WTF is going on?” That was Ed in the distance, as he reached the doorstep.
What followed happened fast. Maya and Ella had taken down another two guys, and Wrigs and Penny were keeping them there. Dude was scraping at the foot of a door, the last in a long hallway. Wagatha went to his aid, and I was right there with them. Doc Lacey told us to stand back, then—I swear to Dog, I would never have believed this—she took a flying kick at that door and it caved right in. And there they were, Tom and Livvy tied to chairs, their mouths bound, and they were still in their jammies. Dude rushed up, but Wagatha and me, we turned around—we’d been on enough busts between us to know it couldn’t be this easy. And it wasn’t. Big Russian guy was pointing his piece directly at the doc.
“One move, just one step, and she dies.”
“Does this guy know he’s talking to dogs, and that he sounds crazy?” I whispered to Wagatha.
I could see a shadow in the hallway. It was Ed, pacing toward the room real slow. With one swift move he held his gun against the Russian’s temple.
“Drop that piece now or your foreign brains will be all over my dog, and I really, really don’t want to bathe my dog tonight.”
And he don’t want no bathing either, I thought.
The Russian dropped his weapon. Doc Lacey went straight to Tom and Livvy, pulling tape from their mouths. But before they could speak, Ed’s partner came into the room.
“Whoa there, this is really so freaking weird. We got a mailman at the front door having a smoke while what looks like Big Foot is pinning down a Russian guy with a cone on his head. And we got dogs sitting on Russians all over the place, and now you got dogs in here. Oh, and don’t tell me—she’s a veterinarian!”
“You got that right, Sherlock,” said Ed. “Let’s get everyone down to the precinct and we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
And here’s the bottom of it. Turns out Tom and Livvy had developed an app to make it easier to process and ship stuff throughout the U.S. of A. and overseas. Kinda like Uber for packages. Not sure of the finer points and how it all works, but anyone can sign up to take packages if they’re going to another place—gives them some pocket money when they get there. Sure, there’s companies doing the same thing, but this is different. Bigger. And it could seriously dent the coffers of your FedEx and your UPS, to say nothing of putting Bill out of a job. Suddenly, anyone could be a part-time delivery person, and without having to wear brown shorts.
They had documentation and security issues resolved, and serious interest from all the big online outlets. We’re talking Amazon, Walmart—and they’d landed what they call “first round funding” from one of those venture capitalists. It was, as Ed said, a slam-dunk straight into the billionaires’ club, brunching with Jeff Bezos and Warren Buffett. Who knew? Trouble is the Russian Mafya knew—and don’t correct me. It’s not Mafia, because they’re not Italian.
Anyway, they figured it would be easier to ship contraband—there’s an old word for you—across the seven seas. And the Russians not only wanted in, they wanted it all, and in a very big way. So they decided to nab Tom and Livvy and get their hands on everything they knew, or would know in time, holding them hostage until they were no longer useful—and we don’t want to even think about what they’d do when they were done. But what the Russians got right was knowledge of the human-dog bond. “As soon as they took us away from Dude,” said Tom, “I told them we’d do anything to get home. No decent person leaves their dog.”
“Even if that dog chews brand new trail runners,” cooed Livvy, her arms around the Dude.
It was enough to make a dog roll in something bad.
So, it’s been kinda quiet ever since Tom and Livvy came home, except for the celebrations. There was a big old street party, with dog treats from that cool place in the Embarcadero Center. Dr. Lacey and Bill received medals, and so did every dog in the Alliance—nice ceremony at the SFPD. Ed got a promotion.
That night, I settled down in our living room and looked out the window. I was reading Suspect by Robert Crais for the hundredth time—jeez, I love his Maggie, the German Shepherd who never left her partner when he was down. I’d given Angus The Call of the Wild, and told him Jack London was turned away by a lot of publishers after he’d written that book, and then it became a bestseller. Humans love a dog story.
As the moon lit up our street, I could hear the strains of “Hard Day’s Night” coming from Penny’s house. I saw Maya’s person take her for the last-thing-at-night amble. They stopped and chatted with Ella and Wrigs and their people. Wrigs absconded into Penny’s yard, so Maya and Ella brought him back. We all know Hank’s sleeping by the refrigerator. Samba went home happy because he passed his review, and Ladybird was in the shadows, slinking toward the coyote grove for a midnight yipping. And Wagatha Labsy was at her window, keeping watch. She looked across and our eyes met. We raised noses.
All was well in the ’hood. For tonight, anyway.