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Fiction, © Copyright 2000, Jim Loy
Rover was an Irish Setter who belonged to my neighbor Mrs. Harris. He was an Irish Rover, in case you need a laugh. You see the Irish Rovers are... Never mind. You may think that Irish Setters are pleasant dogs. But Rover never let me see that lighter, more jovial side of his personality. No, the impression that I got was teeth, snarls, saliva, a kind of miniature Jaws that barks with an Irish accent. And so, I began to plan Rover's death.
Don't get me wrong. I do not think that a dog deserves death just because he rubs me the wrong way. I never allowed Rover close enough to actually rub me. But if he could rub me, I know that it would be the wrong way. Let us assume that there are some vile creatures on this earth who deserve to die, the short list being Hitler, the Devil, Rover. Did Rover belong on the short list? I cannot offer any hard evidence, I'm afraid. But I know that he was evil. It's just a feeling.
Oh, I'm sure that you can offer much evidence that Rover was not evil. He had never killed and/or devoured any children, for example. I would respond, "He had never killed and/or devoured any children, yet." And I would add, "... as far as we know." I have seen Rover watching children at play, and he showed a kind of suppressed excitement much like that which the Boston Strangler might have felt just before he strangled some female Bostonian. I could see Rover's mind working. I could deduce his thoughts by looking at his eyes. He was planning horrible and gruesome murder. I could feel his repulsive thoughts intruding upon my own brain. Murder! Death! It was with great difficulty that I remained the pleasant person that I am.
I wanted an untraceable poison. But I am neither a pharmacist nor a scientist nor a South American Indian. Does this frog have deadly skin? Is this flower the deadly curare flower? I could not tell you. Well, what poisons were available to me? Aspirin! Clearly a large dosage was required. Ah, here we go, Drano®! That was more like it. But maybe Rover would be able to detect the smell of Drano® in his dog food or dog water. How does Drano® smell? Whew, terrible! Rover, assuming he was equipped with his quota of canine olfactory equipment, would surely detect that awful smell.
I was surprised to find that the supermarket carried rat poison. Although Rover did not officially qualify as a rat, he did possess many of the less attractive attributes of one. I disguised myself, and bought a loaf of bread, a bag of Rover's favorite brand of dog food, and a can of rat poison, paying cash. I don't think the cashier suspected. I emptied the entire can of rat poison into the bag of dog food, and resealed the bag by bending the industrial strength staples with a pair of pliers. I disposed of the empty rat poison can in a dumpster far from my apartment. I used a different disguise for this operation. And I doubled back several times, in case I were being followed. I already knew that the porch, where Rover's food was kept, would be unlocked as usual. I substituted the poisoned bag for Rover's next bag of dog food. I didn't want an extra bag of dog food to be noticed. So I disposed of the unpoisoned bag in yet another dumpster, using yet another disguise. This went smoothly.
Then I waited.
A couple of days later, a policeman showed up on my doorstep. I would be calm and suave. Was I not a kind of master criminal who had assumed three separate disguises in the execution of my crime? Surely this would confound the efforts of the police. Surely the police would never unleash their full investigative resources to apprehend the murderer of a dog. Surely this policeman was a flunky, and not an expert investigator.
"Hello, Mr. Wright?"
"Yes, can I help you?"
"I'm Officer Willis. I'd like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?"
I restrained myself from confessing, right then. "Certainly, but the place is a mess... Sit there if you like. What is this about?"
"Your neighbor, Mrs. Harris, died sometime last night. We suspect poison."
I was stunned. My mind raced. Mrs. Harris ate dog food? I'll get the electric chair, or whatever they use to execute murderers in this state. They'll never believe that I was just trying to kill Rover. Just trying to kill Rover. Justice is more like it. The electric chair, or whatever, is what I deserve. The electric chair, or whatever, is too good for me. I nearly confessed. But wait! Maybe someone else has murdered Mrs. Rover, I mean Harris. So maybe I am innocent, relatively. But they will find poison in the dog food. But it can't be traced to me, unless I left fingerprints on the bag. Oh no, I had forgotten to wear gloves. And how can I tell if someone else is the murderer. Maybe the autopsy, surely there will be an autopsy, if the autopsy shows rat poison, I will never know if it was someone else who killed Mrs. Harris. What are the odds that someone else used the same kind of poison that I used? And this policeman, Officer Willis is it? Yes I see Willis on his name tag. Officer Willis is probably not a flunky. He's saying something.
"Mr. Wright? Mr. Wright, are you OK?"
"Yes, sorry. It was quite a shock."
"Oh, you and Mrs. Harris were friends?"
"No, I hardly knew her, actually. I knew Rover, however."
"Rover? Oh, the dog."
"How is Rover, by the way?"
"He's fine. We've got him down at the station. If you'd like to take care of him, maybe that can be arranged."
Take care of Rover. Yes, that is how I could gain access to Rover's food. I could then dispose of the poisoned bag. But no, if they turned Rover over to me, I would have to wear ice hockey goalie pads. Surely the police would find that suspicious. "No. No thank you. Rover and I didn't actually get along very well."
He was eyeing me suspiciously. I had blurted out too much information. He looked like he was reading my mind. I had to hide my thoughts. I started thinking of the Gettysburg Address. Four score and seven years ago. How long was that? Let's see, eighty-seven years. Why didn't Lincoln just say eighty seven? Anyway, four score and seven years ago, our forefathers, or was it fathers? I think it was fathers. Officer Willis is saying something.
"... Mr. Wright?"
"Sorry. Sorry I can't help you." I almost pushed him out the door. I had to think. I had to remove that bag of dog food.
That night, I waited in the dark for 3 AM to arrive. I would just enter the porch, and take the bag of dog food. Then I thought, what if they have locked the door? What if they have counted the bags of dog food? What if it's a trap; what if they are waiting for me. There's a car on the street. I don't know if I've seen it there before. Doesn't look like anyone's in it. How can I tell? Anyway, I chickened out.
The next day, Officer Willis came to see me. "The autopsy showed rat poison and dog food in Mrs. Harris' stomach. I think someone tried to poison the dog, and Mrs. Harris ate the dog food (Who knows why?) and she died. I think you tried to kill the dog."
Was that how easy it was to catch a master criminal who had used three different disguises to cover his trail? I confessed. "I tried to kill Rover. I didn't mean for Mrs. Harris to die." I felt great relief, sort of like Rolaids®.
They later told me that they had considered charging me with involuntary manslaughter. Instead, Mrs. Harris death was ruled an accident. I never saw Rover again. I miss him.