Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay, Gordon Carroll [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

showing the pain. “A real cop? That hurts. What makes you think we aren’t real? I have a badge and everything.”

“A badge, huh? Do you have handcuffs…a gun?”

“Everything,” I said, wagging my eyebrows, preening my suave essence of masculinity, although it probably looked more like Groucho cracking a risqué joke.

“Can you arrest people?”

“Of course. I do it all the time, and I don’t even have to read the bad guys their rights.”

She looked at me, hands on her hips, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “It’s boring, isn’t it?”

I sighed. “Like the Maytag repairman.”

She laughed that sweet, musical laugh again. “Poor baby.”

I shook my head sadly. “Not everyone is cut out for the exciting life of the real men in blue.”

“So no car chases or getting shot at or stabbed?”

I shook my head. “None of the fun stuff.”

My order came up and she put a napkin and salt and pepper into the bag. “Still, I bet the pay is better.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, doing my best Will Smith. “Of course. Way better. Sheesh. No contest.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Barely enough to buy a gyro sandwich and a soda.”

“Well, there better be enough for a starving waitress’s tip.”

I bowed. “Always.”

“You look kind of tired, though,” she said.

That one really did hurt. I’d awoken dreaming of my wife and daughter again last night and couldn’t get back to sleep. It was becoming a regular occurrence. Guilt has an evil way of messing with one’s subconscious. The sheriff’s office’s shrink I’d seen after their deaths told me my rage was fueled by guilt over not being able to save them. He was probably right; didn’t help much though.

I said, “I didn’t sleep well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. She gave a slight curtsy, handing me my order. “A gyro for a hero.”

I laughed.

“Drink some warm milk with a little vanilla before you go to bed. It’ll put you right out. My grandmother gave me that one; it works every time.”

I thanked her, slipped a five into the tip jar, gave her a last Groucho eyebrow-wag and walked to a table by a big window that looked out on the street. Outside, I watched people walk by. The sun was just high enough to erase the shadow from the street and the temperature was hovering around eighty. Two young men dressed in suits and ties, one of them holding a styro cup with a straw, talked excitedly. A lone woman dressed smartly and sporting a short, saucy hairdo walked the other way. Both men continued past her without breaking stride or their conversation until she was behind them, then both turned and looked admiringly before continuing on as though beauty had never interrupted them. The male mind on autopilot. Another man, this one somewhere in his late twenties, strolled along wearing a baseball shirt and shorts. His legs were snow white, still in the courting stages with the new spring sun, and his black socks and brown loafers seemed badly out of place. Two Hispanic boys and an African American girl of about twelve were kicking a soccer ball back and forth as they walked along the street. They were pretty good.

This was downtown, the mean streets of Denver. Scary.

I took a bite of the sandwich, a tender lamb-beef combination exploding with mideastern spices. The pita was fresh-baked, the pop ice-cold. Heaven.

When I finished the gyro I called my secretary and had her start checking the local hospitals and law enforcement agencies for Mrs. Franklin’s wayward son. Then I called a friend of mine who works high up at Master Charge and asked her to run a check on any recent transactions on Shane Franklin’s Squeeze-ya card. She reminded me that she doesn’t work for Visa and I told her I knew that but that I didn’t have any friends at Visa. She said she was sorry, but that she couldn’t help. I didn’t give up. I have a way with women. She finally told me to stop begging and she’d see what she could do.

I smiled, finished my soda, tossed the trash and waved goodbye to the blond with the musical laugh. I’d planned on going to my office, but now that I’d eaten, started the records and hospital checks, and still had plenty of time before I was due at the Franklin’s I decided to head home and give the dogs some time out.

I have two dogs, a thirteen year old German Shepherd who acts like a puppy, and a two year old Belgian Malinois who acts like a grumpy old fart. Pilgrim’s the Shepherd, the Mal is Max. Pilgrim was my last K9 partner back when I worked the streets. He’s a hundred and twenty pounds of fun loving fur, and in his day was the best partner a man could ask for.

Max though… Max is different.

5

Max

In the distance the dog watched as the car made its way up the thin winding road. The dog’s name was Max and he was a miracle of nature. His body was about the size of an average German Shepherd, smaller than the Alaskan Gray Wolf, but large for his breed, the Belgian Malinois, with a graceful build, lighter bone construction, sleek, short fur — blondish, with black, upright ears. His muscle structure, lean and powerful — the perfect combination of speed and strength. But it was more than his physical prowess alone that made him a miracle of nature. Max’s reflexes were lightning fast, his agility incredible, his drives and character traits all finely honed toward one thing and one thing only — the hunt. Centuries of selective breeding had slapped together the raw materials of flesh, muscle, bone, heart and spirit, arranging them in exactly the right order to create a faultless predator, capable of incredible carnage and destruction. All that was needed was the right training ground, and Max’s past had afforded just that, bringing together all the elements for the perfect storm of genetic and environmental manipulation, resulting in an unstoppable, fearless creature.