Sherlock Dog
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Carolyn Wada
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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SHERLOCK DOG
Perspicacious Dog
Perspicacious: it means keenly discerning, and Mommy says I am. One morning, we were walking down the Big Hill, with the trees on one side and the road on the other. Mommy was wrapped up tightly in her John Watson coat, looking and walking straight ahead; to her, they were the same trees and road as from the night before and the day before and the morning before. I was zigzagging, giving attention to grass and pavement and air in turn, reading the dozens of tales they told of Who and What and Approximately When.
Mommy did notice when I suddenly darted six feet to the right and then six and six feet to the left and then six and six feet to the first spot on the right and began to lick the road. "What is it Sherlock Dog, what is it?" she said, in the bemused voice with which she always reacts to my shows of doggy genius. Mommy, loved but appallingly unobservant Mommy, couldn't know: that at some point since our last walk, someone had dropped a hot dog in the road near the curb; and it had been lying there for Some Time; and then a cat had run from a yard, snatched up the hot dog and carried it up a tree; and he (yes, it was obviously a he)(I) had made a sloppy job of eating it in the tree and had come down to eat the fallen bits in the grass.
After our walk that morning, Mommy took off and hung up my lead, scratched me under the ears for a few moments, took off her boots, gave me a biscuit, hung her John Watson coat on the back of a chair and sat down before her computer. This is what she does every morning after our walk.
Mommy's computer told her the Word of the Day.
"Perspicacious: it means Sherlock Holmes," said Mommy to Ubu.
"'Nuff said?" laughed Ubu.
"'Nuff said," said Mommy.
Mommy loves Words. As I like to chew on a meaty bone, so Mommy likes to chew on a meaty word. Word-of-the-Day sends a new word to Mommy's computer each morning. Mommy uses the word in a sentence "that might possibly appear in the Sherlock universe," and saves it in her computer in her Sherlock folder. I know she does this because she told Ubu so.
Ubu is Mommy's Man. He is very big and strong. Once, Ubu was slobbering on Mommy's face, and I stuck my nose between theirs, wanting to slobber on Mommy's face too. Ubu effortlessly picked me up and tucked me under his arm, as if I were the cat and not a 90-lb. Labrador. He carried me outside, closed the door and resisted the most plaintive whimpers I could muster: he is strong in that way, too.
If you are perspicacious, you may have wondered: how did a dog know he had traveled six feet to the right to sniff the site of the Stolen Hot Dog? It is simple: I know my lead is six feet long. I had swerved laterally each time, and each time I was brought up by the jerk that tells me when I'm at the end of my lead. I know my lead is six feet long because Mommy once debated the merits of four-foot, six-foot and retractable leads with Ubu, settled on the six-footer as best, and put the others in storage.
Mommy tells Ubu everything she thinks about everything. Sometimes Ubu tells Mommy he thinks differently; sometimes he just listens; and sometimes he says, "I'm watching the movie!"
I always listen to what Mommy tells Ubu: and that is how I know how far six feet is, and who Sherlock Holmes is, and what obsession means, and why Mommy's obsession with Sherlock Holmes got her into trouble from which I got her out. That is what this story is about.
Britishes and Mericans
As a dog, my work is to observe and understand humans and particularly Mommy. I can usually do this very quickly. After my first day with Mommy, I knew nearly everything important about her. When I meet a new human, I can know the main points about him in seconds.
Figuring out about Britishes and Mericans, though, took many, many days. It was my greatest challenge and my best work. I had to make so many observations and connections. It was such a fine process: so I would hate to present the result as an obvious statement framed in a simplistic doggy metaphor, such as, "Britishes and Mericans are different breeds of humans that can be differentiated by the sound of their barks." Let's go on a longer walk.
Mommy is a Merican: she lives on a purple mountain majesty. She is proud to be a Merican because at least she knows she's free. I learned these things and many others from songs. Songs are very important to Mommy; she will sometimes study a song as intently as I study a shoe in the road: she wants to know where it's been and what flavours are in it. Her investigation excites her as mine excites me.
Once, Mommy figured out the chords to the song Mazing Grace. Chords are the flavours of a song all stacked up on top of each other. Mommy figured them out and then ran to where Ubu was; she was jumping up and down. Ubu followed Mommy to the piano and Mommy played Mazing Grace without written music. Without written music because she had figured out the chords with observation and knowledge: that was what made her so proud. I was proud of Mommy too, and jumped up and down.
Mazing Grace is a British song. It was in a movie with Benedict Cumberbatch. Note that name; it will be important later.
Britishes, like Mericans, make songs and movies. They also make books, News, and television shows. Most of Mommy's favorite books writers are British. Every so often, Mommy will tell Ubu what her favorite things are, in case he's forgotten. When she talks about books, she will always say, "It's funny, but most of my favorite writers are British."
At first, I couldn't figure out what was funny and what the "but" meant. "It's funny" means something is funny, and "but" means something is somewhat contradicting something said before. But Mommy never said anything meaningful before "it's funny, but." I had to apply all my powers of logical reasoning to figure out the unspoken first part. Using clues taken from other contexts, I think this is it:
"I know Mericans are supposed to love Merican stuff best and think Mericans are the greatest at everything, so it's funny, but most of my favorite writers are British."
I will list Mommy's favorite writers:
1. Jay Arrr Arrr Tolkien
2. Jay Kay Rowling
3. Douglas Adams
4. Roald Dahl
5. James Herriot
6. Charles Dickens
7. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
8. Rex Stout--*A Merican
Mommy listens to British News in the car, because British News is actually world News, whereas Merican News is mostly Merican News. If you are perspicacious, you will now know how I figured out that Britishes sound different from Mommy and Ubu, and the other Mericans I know.
Sherlock is a British television show, and Mommy's favorite show of all time. It is about Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective,(l) played by probably the world's only Benedict Cumberbatch. Sherlock is tall and slender and has beautiful long fingers that look fantastic when he presses them together, which is what Sherlock does when he is thinking. Sherlock is a great thinker; that is how he became the world's only consulting detective: people who don't think as well have to consult him for help with their thinking.
Sherlock is also a great explainer. I must explain about explaining. Sherlock belongs to the crime drama breed of television show. A crime drama must always have explanations: the characters must eventually tell what they know and how they know it. Mommy can be very critical when it comes to these explanations: she thinks they too often come off as forced and artificial.
There is a character in another crime drama: I am not going to say who because I am a Labrador; and have you ever met a mean-spirited Labrador? But sometimes when this character is explaining something, Mommy will be growling at the television: "Speed it up! ohmygoodness, his delivery is awful. This explanation is going to take the whole episode! Look, he's messing up the timing of [the other actor] too! Aaaaaaah!"
But when Sherlock is explaining something: well look, this is what I do when I am anticipating a treat. I sit bolt upright and stare with rapt attention at the source of the treat, which is Mommy. When Sherlock is about to explain something, Mommy sits bolt upright and stares with rapt attention at the television. She watches the explanation and sometimes mouths the words with Sherlock. Then she will go back and watch the explanation again. Then she will go back and watch the explanation again. It's like peanut butter cookies; you have one and you think, "oh yes, that was really good; I would really like more of the same, please."
Mommy isn't even content to keep the explanations in the television. She has saved her three favorite explanations in her head: all the words, in the exact right order. Sometimes, she will recite her favorite explanations to Ubu; all the words in the exact right order. First she will say: "I can't do the [British] accents." Then she will recite the explanation. Then she will say: "Isn't that sharp? It's like totally organic." Mommy has used the same words to describe cheese. It's not many things in the world that are as good as cheese.
Sherlock is cheese and so John Watson is crackers. Sherlock and John Watson are like me and Mommy: we are two things that are one thing. If the neighbours were ever to see Mommy out walking without me, they would be confused, like I was when I saw the bald Yorkie. If they were to see me wandering around without Mommy, they would think I was lost, and they would be right.
Martin Freeman is John Watson, emphasis on the verb. I mean Martin Freeman is John Watson. Mommy told Ubu that nowadays when she sees John Watson in her head, she sees Martin Freeman's John Watson. Before nowadays, she would only see a vague Britishy shape: taller but a lot less Real.
Mommy says, Martin Freeman made the Sherlock world Real. Mommy has explained how Martin Freeman did this, but her explanation was full of the words "real" and "really" and "realer," as in "really real" and "really really real," and "realer than real," and I think maybe it wasn't really the best of explanations. So instead of telling you that Sherlock feels really really real because Martin Freeman is so real as a real person who got sucked into the orbit of an extraordinary person's world, with archenemies and supervillains and mad peril swirling all around him; yet he kept his feet planted in the real world, and has real values, and just really real reactions, and ohmygoodness he is realer than a lot of real people Mommy knows: instead, I will tell you what Mommy thinks about when she is walking with her Sherlock Dog.
Now unlike real Sherlock, I, Sherlock Dog, have weight issues. (Though Sherlock may have mental issues with weight, the way he quizzes Mycroft about "the diet"(o) and observed that Molly had gained precisely 3 lbs.(v)) I, Sherlock Dog, have the real kind of weight issue: I swing rapidly between 75 and 100 lbs., and am more often on the high end where I'm not supposed to be. So my vet has talked seriously to Mommy about my diet and exercise. Mommy is lousy at cutting out my peanut butter cookies and cheese, but she is very conscientious about the exercise. Rain, snow, sleet, hail or horrible baking sun, she takes me out on three 20-minute walks every day.
You will remember that Mommy is not at all observant. While I am busy noting who has preceded us, about when, and whether they were also eating food, Mommy is wrapped up in her John Watson coat and her thoughts. Her thoughts are usually about things like the gas bill, the car mileage, or the piece of wood that is peeling off from the bottom of the front door. Sometimes she thinks about imaginary people on our walks, but only those who have become Real: meaning she can easily see in her mind what they might be doing on this Thursday afternoon, as clearly as she can see the front door.
These are the people Mommy thinks about on our walks:
1. Batman
2. Frodo and Sam
3. Sherlock and John Watson
That's everybody.
There is a very real danger in mixing imaginary Real people too closely into the really real world. I will tell you how I learned this, that is the main story, but first I will tell you how me and Mommy became One Thing. This is important to the story, because if we hadn't, if there had been no Sherlock Dog in Mommy's life, there might now be no Mommy.
Before Becoming Sherlock Dog
I was born approximately three years ago. My teeth told my veterinarian so, and my veterinarian told Mommy. I have vague memories of a warm mother dog, and many siblings. My siblings were all adopted as small puppies, but I was no longer a small puppy when I was taken to the animal shelter. My mother's Daddy told the shelter: "last of the litter; eats too much; can't keep him."
The shelter was a miserable place. I was a silent, thoughtful dog myself, and the constant noise from the yappy, jumpy dogs (and the whiny cats) had a rapid fraying effect on my nerves. The food was poor, and water was rationed so we wouldn't need to go out very often. I was never taken outside for very long; as soon as I had relieved myself I was taken back to my cage. Once, I tried to delay relieving myself, thinking I would get to spend the extra time outside. Instead, I was taken back to my cage without having relieved myself. It was an agonizing eternity before I was taken out again, and this time I couldn't relieve myself soon enough. Humans are more cunning than dogs, I'll give you that.
I was adopted on the shelter's next Black Dog Day. My adoption fee on that day was the same as a cat's, and my adopter was given a coupon that would Fix Me for free. My adopter was a gentle, soft-spoken old woman, and I would like to have stayed with her, really; but that was not to be.
My adopter intended me for her son, Deke. She explained to her Man that I would be good protection for Deke, and she was worried about Deke being so alone all the time, and I could help Deke hunt. Her Man explained to my adopter that Deke was alone all the time because he was an alcoholic loser. So I was very nervous when Deke came for me, because I didn't know how to protect or hunt; and I didn't know what an alcoholic loser was, but it had sounded pretty bad.
I did like Deke's pickup truck: I had a fun ride to Deke's place, circling 'round and 'round the large truck bed; while cans rattled and rolled around my feet and the wind flipped my ears inside-out and then right way back again; and a storm of scents and sensibilia swirled around me.
Deke put me in his backyard, which was fine at first. There were more cans to smell; and I could relieve myself as soon as I felt the urge. Very soon, though, the yard filled up with my leavings, which I did not like the smell of. It also became very boring.
I assumed I was there to protect Deke, but I did not know what that required. Once, I tried barking at an approaching stranger. "SHUT UP!" Deke yelled from the house, very loud. I decided I would keep my preferred silence. I decided if a stranger ever did enter the yard: I would block the door and growl. If he came closer, I would bite him. But no stranger ever did enter the yard. So I was very bored.
I can't say that Deke neglected me. He would come out many times every day and smoke his cigarettes. I would lean against him, and he would put his arm around me and scratch my neck. But he never smoked as long as I'd have liked. And as soon as he had finished smoking, he would go into the house; and I would again be bored.
He took me hunting just once. I think I messed up. I should have stayed by his side and waited for instructions, but I was so astonished by the bigness of the world that I jumped out of the truck as soon as it had parked and ran off on my own. I ran about on my own for a long while, smelling everything that stayed still, and chasing everything that moved. When I finally found Deke again he slapped and shook me until I was groveling on the ground in fear and shame. Then he dragged me to his truck and locked me into the cabin. I lay on the floor of the truck and whimpered with regret. I had lost my one chance to learn to hunt. Deke could have no more use for me now.
The day Deke left the gate ajar, my senses were horribly fogged up with the scent of my leavings, so that I could hardly think. Deke had also neglected to Fix Me, though he had a coupon: I was filled with an urgent feeling of seeking, though I didn't know for what. When Deke left the gate ajar, I slipped through it and ran off for one last time on my own.
I found what I was looking for, so that was fine. Afterwards, I wandered about for only a short while, and then a van parked alongside me and a man got out.
"Here boy," he said. "That's a good boy."
I approached him, and he took me by the collar and led me gently to the back of the van. I smelled the scent of many dogs even before he opened the doors, and began to whimper and prance about. But I let him gently push me into a cage in the back of the van. I swayed with the van for a very long, dark, scary time; when it stopped I sank to the floor in despair. I was back at the animal shelter.
Becoming Sherlock Dog
Plato said: everyone is looking for their other half. Not everyone finds their other half, and those who do sometimes meet in the strangest places: like a ship that's about to be scuttled by an iceberg; or a laboratory in a teaching hospital; or the South Valley Animal Shelter.
Mommy drove to the South Valley Animal Shelter because she was frustrated with Ubu. Ubu is a fantastic man: tall, dark, handsome, strong, smart, funny and kind. But he also has commitment issues: meaning he doesn't wish to become One Thing with Mommy quite yet.
Mommy had never heard of a dog with commitment issues. She drove to the animal shelter thinking she would get a beagle and name him Sherlock Dog (beagles being one of the classic detection dogs). She walked into the small-to-medium-sized-dog room and there was not one but two beagles, barking non-stop. This gave Mommy pause for thought: Sherlock could be talkative, certainly, but his words were always substantive. The sounds from the beagles seemed more like—just noise.
She walked into the large dog room, and that room immediately erupted into barks and cage-rattling. But one dog (me) wasn't taking part: I was lying still on my stomach with my side pressed against the front of my cage. I was looking into my cage: thoughtfully, Mommy thought.
I wasn't thinking: I was being hopeless, and with good reason. I had been abandoned twice. I had picked up on the fact that I was too old, big and black for most people's tastes. I simply saw no point in trying to ingratiate myself with this new person.
Mommy stopped in front of my cage and stood looking down on me. I looked up.
"Hello, Sherlock Dog," said Mommy. I wagged my tail. We had found each other.
(Yes, it was that easy. Even after years of being too "something" for most people, it's still possible to find the one person who finds you positively extra ordinary. Really)
Mommy took me home, and I set myself the task of learning everything about my new world as quickly as possible.
I learned my name by the first day; I would learn its significance a little later.
After my first few minutes of sniffing around, I knew that Mommy's house was also frequented by a male human and a male cat. You've met Ubu; Sir Bigglesworthiness is the name of the cat.
(I could have had a really long name too: the full name of Mommy's favorite television show is Brilyint Benedict Cumberbatch Sherlock. I'll admit I am glad my name is just Sherlock Dog)
It would be hard to teach commands to a dog named Brilyint Benedict Cumberbatch Sherlock Dog. This is not an issue with Sir Bigglesworthiness because his worthiness doesn't take commands. He has his own private door through which he comes and goes. When he comes, Mommy jumps up to greet him and rushes to serve him his food. Sir Biggy is the second most important thingy in Mommy's house.
It took me a few days to figure out what was the first most important thing in the house. My first clue was The Song. I observed that Mommy always used the same song to tell her when it was time to wake up, when it was time to go to work, when it was time to feed me, when it was time to walk me, when the eggs were done and when somebody was calling to talk.
Mommy would also play the song on her piano. One day she told Ubu: "I've made up words to the Sherlock song."
These are Mommy's words to the Sherlock song:
I love Sherlock.
Yes I do.
He's so awesome.
And I love
John Watson too.
Ubu said, "That's the corniest . . . "
"It's not any more corny than the Miami Dolphins song," retorted Mommy. (The Dolphins are what is most important to Ubu. That's all I'm going to say about that, because my story is about Mommy and Sherlock and Sherlock Dog)
I had now learned that the very important song was called the Sherlock song. I knew my name was Sherlock Dog. I deduced that this Sherlock, whatever it was, must be very important to Mommy.
Ubu says: a picture is worth a thousand words; he says this when Mommy is using too many words. I will now show you Sherlock's importance to Mommy by showing you Mommy's piano.
Mommy's piano is in her bedroom; as is Mommy's laptop computer, which is like a little television. Mommy keeps her Sherlock deevee-dee on the left side of her piano's music stand. Mommy's other deevee-dees are downstairs by the television; Sherlock is in Mommy's bedroom: so it can go quickly from her piano to her computer whenever she wants to re-watch a little scene.
"'Which is always,'"(e) says Mommy.
Mommy keeps her fold-out maps of London on the right side of her music stand. London is Sherlock's city: he knows every street in it.(S) Mommy intently watches Sherlock as he goes about London, then looks for the places he has been, on her maps.
"Look, Ubu," she will say. "This is exactly where Sherlock said, 'No, this way!' and John said 'Sorry!' and ran back across the right way."(h)
A Baker Street sign hangs from the side of Mommy's piano. Sherlock lives at 221B Baker Street, one of the most famous places in the world: as famous as 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., 10 Downing St., and Bag End, the residences of the President, the Prime Minister and the Hobbit.
Mommy keeps a Mini Cooper Ess with a Union Jack roof on the highest white keys of her piano (the ones only jazz musicians use). The Union Jack is not a kind of cheese, as I guessed at first, but is the British flag. The Stars and Stripes is not a kind of cake, but is the Merican flag.
The Mini Cooper Ess doesn't have anything to do with Sherlock, really, but Mommy has a Union Jack Mini because she is an Anglophile. An Anglophile is not a kind of lizard, but is a Merican who loves British things.
"You mean Benedict Arnold," said Ubu.
"Benedict Arnold has totally ruined the name 'Benedict' for Mericans," said Mommy.
"No!" said Ubu. "Veto! Veto! Don't even!"
I have no idea what that was about.
Pictures tell you things, but words tell things too. My mother dog's Daddy would use words from the Bible to help him talk about life and things. Mommy uses words from Sherlock. I will give you an example:
Mommy manages a drugstore. [Note to whoever needs it: Mommy's drugstore is a chemist's that also sells little televisions, propane tanks, amusement park passes (sometimes), and many other products in addition to medicines] Mommy likes mostly everything about managing a drugstore: ordering fun new things and designing pretty displays; receiving shipments and stocking shelves; the interesting characters in her community and the funny things they do.
But she hates it when silly people yell at her about things that don't matter. So when someone is yelling at Mommy because her advertisement has a picture of a blue Elvis Beanie Baby, and Mommy's store only has red and green Elvis Beanie Babies; when someone is waving the ad in Mommy's face and screaming, "false advertising!"; when someone won't let Mommy get a word in edgeways, to point out the little words in the ad that say, "selection may vary"; when someone is telling Mommy that Mommy's shop has single-handedly ruined her Christmas; Mommy will just tilt her head and look sympathetically at the customer, and nod her head from time to time in understanding; while in her head she is thinking, "round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it doesn't make any difference!"(e)
(I know what that means because I know about Sherlock)
After I'd figured out what Sherlock is and how important it is; and what a Merican is and what a British is and what's the difference; I settled into a nice comfortable life of being One Thing with Mommy. When Mommy goes up the stairs, I follow her up the stairs. When Mommy goes down the stairs, I follow her down the stairs. When Mommy goes to the bathroom, I try to follow her: though I keep getting my nose bumped by the closing door. She was right that I would have no commitment issues.
Only three incidents have disturbed our pleasant routine: I got fixed; Mommy and I were banned from walking in the town of Fountainville; and Mommy was kidnapped at gunpoint as a result of her silly obsession with Sherlock. I will tell each story in turn.
Ubu came with Mommy and me to the vet's, on the day I got fixed. Mommy had thought Ubu's muscles would be a help if I became fractious. (She needn't have worried, by the way) As we waited in the waiting room, Ubu and Mommy had a conversation:
"There is no such thing as asexual," said Mommy.
"Isn't there?" said Ubu. "Why don't you ask the dog after his procedure?"
"Sherlock is not a dog."
"You're right he's not a Dog," said Ubu. By Dog, Ubu meant tomcat. I am not a Dog because I've been fixed of that. Sir Bigglesworthiness is not a Dog because he's been fixed of that too. Ubu is not a Dog because he loves Mommy. Mommy is not a Dog because she's female. And Real Sherlock is not a Dog because he's married to his work.(r)
"There is no such thing as an asexual human," said Mommy. "Look, if Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen were walking down a London street towards Sherlock . . . "
(Tom Brady is a Merican football player. Gisele Bundchen is a Brazilian supermodel and Tom Brady's wife. Both are reportedly very attractive people. I wouldn't know: I'm a dog and I'm asexual)
"If Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen were walking down a London street towards Sherlock, which would he notice more?"
"He would notice both of them. He's Sherlock."
"No, who would he notice, notice. You know—notice."
"He wouldn't notice, notice. He would be like, 'that one's a Merican football player. That one's a Brazilian supermodel.' Then he would move on to the plumber and teacher behind them."
A door opened and the vet called us into the surgery. I woke up later with a plastic cone around my head, sick and in pain. Asexuality has felt better in the long run, but I would really like to forget those first few days. So we will move on to another day.
I have mentioned that Mommy is good about walking me. Nowadays we walk in the neighbourhoods around our house, but we used to walk in the neighbourhoods behind Mommy's drugstore. Mommy would park the car at the drugstore, and we would take a twisty route through streets of houses to the park with the duck pond. We would take the same twisty route every day, to make the walk longer and because it made her feel like John Watson, running after Sherlock along a squiggly route in the Greatest Chase Scene Ever.(l)
Mommy would sometimes try to run with me. Her family is all high school track stars; and Mommy could've been, too if she hadn't decided being a nerd was less work and more fun. My family is all Labradors with a propensity for obesity: so I would get tired and give up really quickly.
"Not Sherlockian," Mommy would say; but while slowing to a walk, kind Mommy.
Mommy is kind and soft-hearted and also a very small person, and in our earliest days together I was overly protective of her. Often during our walks, I would freeze and let off a single loud bark, to warn off an approaching strange human. It always worked, and I would feel very good and useful.
On the fateful day that was to relegate the duck pond walk to our memories, a strange human came towards us around a corner with a strange Husky dog on a lead. The Husky immediately began to strain against its lead towards Mommy and me. Its hackles were raised and its teeth were bared. Obviously, this called for a stronger warning than my usual single bark.
I tore my lead out of Mommy's hand and charged at the Husky, baying all the way. And what do you know, he was just a coward. As I looked severely down on him from my full height, he slowly and tremblingly fell onto his knees. You can't really blame him: my (body, of course) language had never been so taut yet fraught with meaning. I feel I really earned my Sherlock appellation in those moments.
I was still basking in my glory when we reached the duck pond. Two police officers were waiting there for Mommy and me.
"We've been getting complaints about your aggressive dog," an officer said to Mommy.
"He's not aggressive, sir. He's more like, defensive. Protective. And I don't want to discourage that."
"Did he or did he not just charge a leashed dog?"
"He did, but the other dog started it."
"Can I see your driver's license?"
The police officer looked at Mommy's license.
"You don't live in Fountainville. Why are you walking your dog here?"
"I work in Fountainville. I manage the drugstore on Fourth and Main. I park at the drugstore and walk my dog to the duck pond."
"Well that's fine, but stay out of the residential neighbourhoods or we'll arrest you for trespassing."
"Yessir. We're sorry, sir."
I was not sorry about defending Mommy, but I was sorry when Mommy abandoned the duck pond walk. Though we could have walked to the pond along the main road, that route would have been too short and too boring. So the duck pond walk was now just a memory, though a very important one.
You should really remember the story of the duck pond walk, too: it will be important to the story of how Mommy's obsession with Sherlock got her into the big danger from which I had to get her out. I will tell that story next: right after I explain the history of smoking.
The History of Smoking
Smoking was invented by Hobbits. The first real tobacco plant was grown in the Hobbit's Shire a few generations Before Bilbo Baggins.(o) Bilbo Baggins was The Hobbit. When somebody is The Something, you can talk about other somethings in relation to Him and most people should know what you're talking about. So now you know when smoking was invented without my having to do a lot of explaining.
If you don't know who Bilbo Baggins is, Martin Freeman will be Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit Movie, coming out on December 14, 2012. Or if you are reading this in the far future, Martin Freeman is Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit Movie which came out in December 2012. Mommy is going to see/will have seen The Hobbit Movie in December 2012, definitely. She told Rotten Tomatoes in July 2011 that that was her intention.
Smoking was invented by Hobbits and was quickly adopted by dwarves, wizards and men. Men, of course, eventually got greedy about smoking. Many ages after Bilbo Baggins, some men realised: if they enslaved a lot of other men, they could grow lots and lots of tobacco plants cheaper. So the Britishes started to sell slaves to the Mericans, until Benedict Cumberbatch, William Wilberforce, and others put a stop to that, in the movie Mazing Grace.
Ubu says, now you're just being facetious, dumb dog. I am not. I am doing my best to synthesize a history of smoking from my store of knowledge, stocked by months of very careful observation. Unlike Ubu, I listen seriously to absolutely everything Mommy says.
Men continued to be greedy about smoking. Hobbits, dwarves, wizards and men are a lot of people to sell tobacco to, but men wanted to sell them to children, too. First, though, they had to get camels smoking, because children are impressed by fancy animals, which camels are.
Speaking of camels, I have often wondered why deer continually get themselves hit by cars. Mommy lives on a purple mountain majesty. The road from Mommy's house to Mommy's drugstore cuts across the mountain's slope; and all winter long deer run across the road to get up the mountain or down the mountain. Even though many deer get hit by cars whilst running across the road, deer continue to run in front of cars to cross the road, all winter long.
I have often wondered: why hasn't the general deer population realised that running in front of cars will get many of them hurt? I suppose the causes of harm and death are often not obvious to an animal, even when it seems they ought to be.
Anyway, deer have yet to realise that cars kill deer, but men eventually realised that smoking tobacco kills men. They realised also that it can be a contributing factor to asthma, birth defects, bronchitis, cancer, catching colds, chronic cough, earache, heartburn, heart disease, hernia, high blood pressure, incontinence, osteoporosis, sinusitis, sore throats, stroke and ulcers.(c)
Now I must explain about governments. Governments are to humans as Mommy is to me. Mommy protects me from moving cars, electricity and chocolate; and prevents me from harming other dogs, cats, squirrels, birds, beanie babies and furniture. She does this by telling me what to do and what not to do, and she sometimes explains why.
Governments began to explain to people that smoking could kill them, their children and their future babies. You might think that as soon as people got this knowledge, they would all quit smoking Cold Turkey, to have one less thing to die from. (Quitting cold turkey means stopping something all at once: it is a fun phrase for something not very fun to do) But smoking is Dictive, like the One Ring, and lots and lots of people just couldn't quit at all.
Then the governments decided: let's make smoking really hard to do. If we continually make smoking harder and harder to do, eventually it will be harder to do than quitting smoking and people will choose to quit smoking because it will be easier.
The governments proclaimed laws that they thought would make smoking very hard to do. In Mommy's Town, you must be twenty feet away from a building when you're smoking. This means standing practically in the road, in some neighbourhoods; and in the wintertime it means being very cold while you're smoking.
"In London these days", according to Sherlock, it is actually "impossible to sustain a smoking habit."(k) London is Sherlock's City, and I deduce that its anti-smoking laws are draconian, since Sherlock is stubborn and selfish and doesn't abide rules well and doesn't use the word "impossible" lightly.
Draconian was a Word of the Day. It means harsh and severe but doesn't have anything to do with dragons. Benedict Cumberbatch is going to be/is a dragon in The Hobbit Movie.
The governments told people they would have to smoke in the cold and in the road, and then crossed their fingers and hoped people would stay inside with hot cocoa and warm blankets instead. But many people pulled warm hats over their ears and wrapped warm scarves 'round their necks and put a coat over their sweater and went out into the cold road and smoked.
Except Sherlock switched to nicotine patches.
So the governments decided to make smoking really expensive, by putting whopping, huge taxes on cigarettes. Taxes are a real bone of contention among humans. Now, I've contended over bones, and nothing lasting ever came of it. But the Britishes and Mericans split up over taxes, and shot and killed each other in a very big war. So big a deal was this break-up and war, the faces of the men responsible are still on Merican money. They are George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin. (Abraham Lincoln was responsible for the war over whether men could enslave other men to grow lots'n'lots of tobacco plants cheaper)
In Merica this past year, the Democrats and Publicans fought a word war over taxes. Mommy listened to news of this war on Beebee Sea radio in her car. She said it was such an embarrassing catfight. Taxes make people fight like dogs and cats. And when governments tax Dictive substances, like cigarettes, to make them very expensive: not all people turn into docile turtles and stop smoking. Some, in my experience, turn into vicious, sneaky raccoons: they sneak and steal and turn violent when cornered. And that, finally, is what this story is about.
THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING CIGARETTES
The Sherlock theme song woke me from a squirrely dream. I scrambled from my bed and stood at attention beside Mommy's, ready for action. Mommy was still flat on her back on her bed, her eyes shut and mouth slightly open, motionless except for the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
I nudged the back of Mommy's hand with my nose. Mommy flung her hand over her head and began to feel around the bedside table for her phone. The Sherlock theme song switched off, and a voice began to speak:
"This is Security calling. An alarm is going off at your store. The police have been dispatched . . . "
Mommy groaned. I pranced around excitedly: we were going to Mommy's store! Mommy rolled out of bed and started to stumble around the bedroom: pulling her boots on in one corner; looking for her keys in other corners and finally finding them on the piano. She found her John Watson coat on a chair in the living room and my lead hanging from the bottom of the stair railing. Finally: booted, keyed, coated and led—we left the house.
It was beautifully cold and very early in the morning. Mommy gives me a half open window even in wintertime, and I rode to Mommy's store with my ears and lips flapping in the wind and my nose checking off landmarks one by one. Gas station. Pizza shop. Flower shop. Burger shop. Chickens. Burrito shop. Gas station.
We arrived at Mommy's store. The parking lot was empty: there were no police. Mommy was supposed to wait for the police, or call the Security centre to ask if there was any change in the status of the call: but Mommy doesn't always do what she is supposed to do. Mommy has never waited for the police, actually.
She once explained why, to Ubu. "It's always a false alarm, anyway. The sensors are really sensitive: it's probably just the heat coming on a little too strongly; or a dustball falling from the roof; or a ghost."
It's not a ghost, I thought. I can tell when there's a ghost, and I sensed no ghost.
"The police have more important things to do anyway. That time of night, they're catching drunk drivers, and helping people who hit deer. They know it's always a false alarm: that's why they don't hurry."
"And I have a 95-lb. dog with me."
So without any hesitation, Mommy unlocked the door of the store, turned off the alarm, and walked right into the store with her 95-lb. dog. We walked past a candy display, another candy display, a popcorn display and a nuts display. The floor in Mommy's store is very shiny and slippery, and past the second candy display I lost my footing and scrabbled about for a few seconds.
Mommy giggled. "All right, Sherlock Dog?" she said.
We reached the first corner of the store. There was a long counter with oodles of different people smells in front of, and behind, and on it. I pulled up suddenly, to sniff a spot on the floor in front of the counter. Someone had been eating potato chips while he'd been waiting for whatever people waited for here. There were crumbs, which I picked up with one practiced swipe of my tongue.
"C'mon, Sherlock Dog."
Behind the counter were three big machines with blinking lights and inedible chemical smells all around them. We looped around all of the machines and peered into three Ubu-sized cabinets. Mommy may have believed the alarm was set off by hot air or dustballs or ghosts, but it was still her job to make sure there were no thieves hiding behind machines or in cabinets. I knew without looking that no one was there, but I am more perspicacious than Mommy. Which is why I am Sherlock Dog, and Mommy wears the John Watson coat.
I waited at attention before the door to the food storage area, which is forbidden to me because I am an animal. Mommy is an animal too, but . . . I'm sorry, I don't know what comes after this "but."
Mommy returned, and we walked past a long display of drinks and snacks and then a long array of medicines. We entered a room which had stored and sent forth many people throughout the previous day. There were no people in it now, except for Mommy.
We came to the second corner of the store. Here, more oodles of people had waited the day before: some sitting, some standing, and some walking around in little circles. They had waited for the special medicines that are in this corner of the store, now secured behind two locked doors and a gated counter.
Bip bip bip bip bip. Mommy pushed on the first door, to make certain it was locked. It was. She tried to push up on the counter gate; it was firmly closed. Bip bip bip bip bip: the second door was locked as well. We moved on.
The main storage room was situated behind a door in the middle of the back of the store. You should really pay attention now: this is important. Everything except drinks, snacks and the special medicines was stored in this room: on sturdy, deep, broad wooden shelves that sat in metal frames that climbed up and up to a very high ceiling. Again, the shelves were sturdy and deep and climbed up and up to a very high ceiling. Sturdy, deep, up, up, high ceiling: okay?
On this day, Mommy and I weren't thinking about these significant features. We walked down each aisle of the main storage room, Mommy looking and me smelling; and detected no human presence; and moved on.
There were a lot of little rooms in the third corner of the store. The workers did their eating in one room, male people peed and pooed in another, female people peed and pooed in the next room, and there was a little closet with supplies for cleaning. Of course, no one was eating or peeing or pooing in those rooms this early in the morning. I am Sherlock Dog: I can tell what people have done in a place even when they have left the scene.
Finally, we walked past a display of all of the different things people rub under their arms, splash on their faces, spray on their chests and slather on their limbs to mask their scents. Walking past the array, I picked out the scents of Mommy's favorite underarm rub, Deke's favorite face splash, and Ubu's favorite chest spray. Then we reached the last corner of the store, and the outer doors.
The police were waiting outside.
"Everything all right?" said the police.
"Just a false alarm, again," said Mommy. "Probably just a falling dust bunny."
The police laughed. "Have a good night. Try to get some sleep."
"You have a good night, too," said Mommy. "Thank you."
Mommy drove home, and we got some sleep.
This story happened during the Long Winter, when Mommy was waiting for Series 2 of Sherlock to come out. The first part of the Long Winter was very dreary. Mommy was re-watching her favorite scenes from Series 1 about as often as our neighbours went out into the cold road to smoke. This made me think Mommy was dicted to Sherlock, which worried me. It didn't help that when Mommy got to the end of the pack, she would say "Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!" and then throw a tantrum like a dicted person. (see Smokers; or Gollum, after Bilbo stole his precious: "we hates it, we hates it, we hates it for ever!")(y)
One problem was that at the beginning of the Long Winter, Mommy didn't even know when Series 2 would be vailable. She'd asked everybody: Google, Wikipedia, Amazon, I Em The Bee: and nobody could tell her exactly when Series 2 would be vailable. So she would stomp about the living room, screaming at the info-deficient world.
"Early 2012? What does early 2012 even mean? Does it mean January 1? March? Peabee Ess knows it's getting Season Two in May, but I can't wait 'til May! I absolutely cannot wait until May! And if Peabee Ess knows it's getting it in May, why doesn't the Beebee Sea know when they are showing it? It's their show! If they had advertisers they would know. Right? The whole set-up is Unuh-Merican!"
If that didn't make much sense to you, I can't help, because it didn't make any sense to me. I only knew Mommy was upset, which upset me. As Mommy stomped about, I looked up at her with deepest sympathy; and when she flung herself in despair onto the couch, I rushed to her and nuzzled her hand with my nose.
Mommy, and everybody, had been suffering from her shortage of Sherlockian excitement for very many days, when one day she came home from work in a state of real excitement.
"Cigarettes have been disappearing from my store!" she told Ubu. "I did a count this morning, and in the past month we've lost two thousand dollars in cigarettes!"
"Is that a lot?" Ubu asked Mommy. Silly Ubu: even I know when a number ends with thousand it's probably a lot.
"It certainly is," said Mommy. "There are always a few counting errors each month, but a discrepancy like that, there's no way it's a counting error. No, a large number of cigarettes has actually gone missing in the past month."
"So, stolen," said Ubu.
"Definitely," said Mommy.
"Have you alerted your boss?" asked Ubu.
"'Four people are dead, there isn't time to go to the police,'"(e) said Mommy. Ubu groaned: Mommy was quoting Sherlock. I looked over at Ubu; he looked over at me. We knew: Mommy was going to attempt to solve "The Case of the Disappearing Cigarettes" herself.
A very few days later, a dust bunny fell from the ceiling again, and the security company called us out to Mommy's store. We did our requisite walkthrough; then Mommy stopped in front of the cigarette counter to make a few observations. A heavenly scent of popcorn was wafting past me from beyond Mommy, but I planted myself in a firm Sit and listened supportively.
"Now listen, Sherlock Dog," said Mommy, unnecessarily; "what we have to do is eliminate the impossible until we're left with one option which, however improbable, must be the truth."(s)
I wagged my tail. Yes.
"Cigarettes are undoubtedly being stolen, and in large quantities: very large quantities."
Yes.
"Could the cigarettes be stolen at any point before they reach this cigarette counter, where they are sold?"
I wagged my tail. I don't know.
"No, definitely not. I receive them myself at the receiving door. I scan each carton individually into the store. There are never any discrepancies, so the delivery men are not stealing cigarettes."
I wagged my tail. Delivery men not stealing the cigarettes.
"I immediately wheel the stack of crates from the receiving door to behind the cigarette counter. Unless I am stealing cigarettes, which I'm not, they are not being stolen before they reach the cigarette counter."
I wagged my tail. Mommy not stealing cigarettes. Cigarettes being stolen after they reach cigarette counter.
"Customers sometimes steal cigarettes. The only way for a customer to steal cigarettes is by a Jump, Grab and Run. A customer could hop over this bagwell here, and be behind the cigarette counter in one second." Mommy demonstrated: she hopped over the bagwell and continued to explain from behind the counter.
"A tall customer could hop right over the counter itself," said Mommy, rapping on the counter with her knuckles. "Like when Sherlock went to give the homeless woman 50 quid in 'change,' he hopped right over the railing; whereas John Watson sort of swung himself over, because he's shorter."(I)
I wagged my tail. Mommy not rambling at all.
Mommy hopped back over the bagwell. She couldn't hop over the counter because she's shorter than John Watson by more than John Watson is shorter than Sherlock.
"The thing with the Jump, Grab and Run," said Mommy, "is somebody always witnesses these thefts. Even if every employee and customer in the store had their back turned at the instant of the Jayjee Arr, it would have been picked up by the security camera. The whole back of the cigarette counter is covered by video camera."
Mommy took her phone out of her pocket and did some calculations.
"Also," she observed, "Approximately 33.33 cartons have gone missing, which is about 1.11 cartons every day. There is just no way a customer has been stealing a carton of cigarettes every day via Jump, Grab and Run."
I wagged my tail. No. Yes. What? (I have observed that humans use fancy numbers to sound sure when they're not really sure of their numbers)
"So," said Mommy, "we have eliminated the delivery men and the customers. That leaves the employees. An employee or employees has somehow stolen two thousand dollars worth of cigarettes in one month."
"But how?" queried Mommy. "How how how how how." She did the thing Sherlock does when he's thinking: she pressed her fingers together and held them up in front of her face. She doesn't do this in front of Ubu because it makes Ubu roll around on the floor laughing. Supposedly it looks funny because Mommy has really short fingers. She can span an octave on the piano and that's it. Myself, I think Mommy looks just fine.
"Again," said Mommy, "the entire back of the cigarette counter is covered by video camera. The cigarettes travel directly and immediately, via me, from the receiving door to this cigarette counter. How is an employee stealing 1.11 cartons of cigarettes every single day, under those circumstances?"
I wagged my tail. Excellent question!
" How would he or she even get them out of the store?" Mommy wondered. "Even with a big winter coat, a carton of cigarettes . . ."
"Hang on . . . , " said Mommy. I wagged my tail with great enthusiasm: Mommy had a big Thought!
"Employees are here only five days a week. That's . . . 1.67 cartons of cigarettes a day."
I wagged my tail. It wasn't actually that big a thought, but that's okay!
"That's a lot to sneak out of the store every day. I don't think they make inside coat pockets large enough to stick a carton of cigarettes into. And someone would have noticed the employee standing funny or walking funny or hugging himself to keep the cigarettes from falling out of his coat. Or hers."
I wagged my tail. Certainly: to all of that.
"Uh, Sherlock Dog?"
Wag.
"It's all impossible."
Oh.
"Really going to have to think about this," said Mommy. She picked up my lead and we walked, rather dejectedly, to the outer doors. Mommy set the alarm and we left the store.
"Everything all right?" asked the police officer.
"Sure," said Mommy.
The next many days were miserable. On one day, Mommy would be very excited, talking to Ubu at length about how she was going to catch the cigarette thief.
"I can't search employees: that's illegal; this is Merica, and it's a store, not an airport. But I can—oh, oh—I'll make sure to say goodbye to each employee as they leave the store for the day. I'll be rebuilding a display around the doors as each employee leaves. I'll look busy with my display, and the employee will be leaving, and I'll look up and say, 'See you, Bill! Have any fun plans for the afternoon?' Or I'll say, 'Thanks, Sandra! Off to pick up your kids?' And while I'm saying those few words I'll be using my powers of observation . . . "
Ubu giggled.
"Shut up!" said Mommy.
"You're near-sighted, Dubu," said Ubu. "Sherlock probably has really good eyesight. Like 20/8 or something."
"20/8? Is that even possible?"
"I think that's what Superman has."
"Sherlock's a homo sapiens. Look, it's not what you have: it's how you use it. Like John Watson didn't even know how many steps led up to their flat because he sees but he doesn't observe."(d)
"I thought you said you're John Watson and the dog is Sherlock."
"John Watson can learn from Sherlock. He can try to use his methods."(o)
"And he's usually wrong. Or very incompletely right."
"How hard can it be to decide whether someone has or has not got two cartons of cigarettes on their person? Seriously!"
Apparently it's pretty hard. Mommy tried her strategy for a few days, until she had said goodbye at the doors to every employee at least once and a few of them twice. Then she ran out of displays to sensibly rebuild. You don't rebuild a display just for the exercise: the rebuild needs to look like part of a grand marketing plan. Mommy's employees understood this concept, and she feared blowing her cover.
Out of displays and ideas, Mommy fell into a deep sadness. When she wasn't working, she just slept and slept and slept. I slept beside her, right on her bed, with my back pressed firmly against hers. Sometimes she would roll over and hold me as she slept. This made me uncomfortably warm, but I stuck with Mommy anyway.
"She's as bipolar as Sherlock," said Ubu.
"Stop it, that's a real condition," muttered Mommy. "I'm just thinking."
Mommy was still on the South Pole when the security company called after yet another alarm. Mommy wearily trudged through the first part of the walkthrough with me trotting alertly alongside. We arrived at the door of the main storage room; Mommy yawned as she keyed it open.
I froze. What? Yes! Yes!
I launched into a full sprint, tearing the lead from Mommy's hand. I zipped between aisles to the far left corner of the room.
The main storage room had always smelled faintly of cigarettes. The few minutes the cigarettes spent in the room twice a week definitely left their trace. But this was not a trace. This was a dense cone of scent leading to . . .
I pointed my nose at the corner of the ceiling and began to bark. I don't bark often, but when I do it's a fantastic sound. Sound explodes from me with mazing force, shattering the air around me. I barked. And I barked. And I barked.
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