Police Sgt. Exner, the chief's brother, was the quietest man in town. No doubt about it. We kids never learned his first name. Everybody in town, however, knew the chief's first name: Rudolph. We called him Rudy. Behind his back. He wouldn’t mind, though, because he was kind of short and bald headed.
His brother was the opposite, tall and lanky. Also, he had a full head of black hair that he combed front to back. Any time I saw him, Sgt. Exner looked as if he had just put on clean and pressed uniform gray trousers and blue shirt with dark blue tie. His pant legs were on the inside of black leather motorcycle boots. Their tops reached just below his knees. And, boy, did they shine. Everything about him was perfect. His hat's bill was so shiny, the light reflecting off it nearly blinded a guy.
One thing everybody knew about him. He hardly ever said anything. Fact is, he didn't talk. He whispered. Well, almost whispered. Besides, he seemed to chop off each hardly-heard-word with shiny teeth that were as large as a beaver's yellow front teeth. But the sergeant's teeth were shiny white.
Most of the time, he'd just stand there, waiting for you to say something. Or he'd wait for somebody next to you to speak up. That is if somebody else was alongside you. And if nobody was there, you didn't know what to do. Or say. And was he serious? As a heart attack. The sergeant hardly ever smiled. Doc told me he was "reserved." Reserved for what? I don't know. Truth is, I don't think I ever saw the sergeant smile more than twice.
On the day I was sitting on our couch in the parlor, looking at the brand new, just out, "Hot Rod" magazine that my parents gave me as one present for my ninth birthday. The others were an Abbey and Imbrie fiberglass fly rod and a Pflueger fly reel.
I became really interested in a story about the Bonneville Salt Flats. I hardly heard the knock on the front door. "Yeah, who is it?" I yelled. I thought it could be Crazy Annie's best friend, Hen House Helen Kell, Bobby's sister.
No answer. Mustn't have heard me. I got up from the couch and walked out to the front porch. And there stood Sgt. Exner. Outside, of course. On the top step of the front stairs.
Opening the door, I said "Hi." Boy, did I ever feel stupid. I mean, saying "Hi" to a cop? I waited. So did Sgt. Exner. I couldn't take it any longer. I turned to face the kitchen. "Mother," I yelled.
"What do you want?" she yelled back.
"Sergeant Exner's here."
"What does he want?"
I turned to him. "What do you want?"
He waited. I didn't know what to say. So, I said nothing. Finally, he whispered. "It's about your dog." The teeth chomped every single word. Then, he waited for a long time. Finally, he said, "Again."
And you know what? I think he smiled. Really. I wouldn't bet you more than a nickel that he did, but I think he actually grinned.
Finally, Mother made it to the front porch. She was wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
"Ma'am," said the sergeant. He took off his hat with extra shiny chrome eagle badge on the front. His hat was now held between arm and body. "We've been getting complaints about your dog again."
"Which one nitpicked this time, Haertel, the banker, or the Fahls? Mrs. Hahn next door told me she doesn't mind the dog, even when he chases her chickens. So, it wasn't her. And he doesn’t go anywhere else as far as I know."
The sergeant waited. Mother waited. Naturally, so did I.
Then, he whispered a moment before I thought Mother would faint. "We're not allowed to divulge names."
Divulge. I like words a lot. Maybe it's because I won first, second, and third grade spelling bees. Other kids booed me because I'm such a good speller. I remember the word divulge being used by a G-man. Actually, it was an actor on Sunday afternoon's "FBI in Peace and War" radio program. I looked up the word in my Thorndike. It means, "To reveal." So, the sergeant couldn't reveal to Mother the neighbor or neighbors who complained.
He put his hat back on. "I've done my duty," he whispered. Turning around, he headed for his Harley Davidson three-wheel motorcycle. He kick started it, almost grinned, but not quite,. The engine went, “potato, potato, potato,” and Sgt. Exner was on his way. Out of sight.
'It's your fault, Gordy. You opened the back door this morning and let Bones out."
"Honest, Mother, I didn't let him out. He flew by me. And that was that."
"You should watch each time you go out the back door."
"He just waits for me to open the door and then skedaddles outdoors."
"You've got to be more careful, Gordy."
I've already told you. I'm a reject. It's nearly impossible to be careful when I leave the house. I hit the door. It opens. And out I go. Sometimes, that darned Bones leaves just before me or slightly after. And no matter what, he always wants to play, "Try to catch me if you can." And Let me tell you, it's nearly impossible for anyone to catch him if Bones doesn't want to be caught. He's as fast as a rocket.
And guess where the first places he's going to go? Where people don't want him. Either old man Haertel's back yard which is separated from ours by tall bushes. Bones is low enough to scoot between them. I'm not. Or else Bones goes into the Fahls' garden and starts digging. I sometimes think he hears moles just like robins hear worms as they tip their head sideways and stab the ground. Lunchtime. I thought maybe Bones was hungry for mole meat.
Not too long after Sgt. Exner's visit, our dog wasn't himself and just lay around. He wasn't even interested in playing games. He didn't try to sneak outdoors anymore either. He even started peeing on the kitchen floor. Mother ground his nose in it and threw him out. Strange. He didn't yip.
"Our dog is sick," said Doc one late afternoon before we ate supper. Doc was petting him. Bones could hardly lift his head. "Very sick."
"Will he be okay if you give him an aspirin?" asked Crazy Annie.
"You don't give dogs aspirins," declared Dork.
"The vet's office is closed now. We'll take Bones there tomorrow," said Doc.
As usual, I was the first up the next morning. I peed the bed. I went out into the kitchen to see how Bones was doing. He wasn't. He lay there with a pool of dark, black liquid under his opened mouth. I knew. I knew for certain. It was blood. And Bones was dead. I started to cry.
"What are you howling about?" It was Dork. He looked down at Bones. "Oh, God. He looks dead."
"He is," I whimpered. Soon everyone in the whole family was up, even my three year old brother, Peter. Just about everyone called him Pete.
Doc stuck his index finger in the blood and examined what was on it very carefully. "Somebody fed him raw hamburger with ground glass in it," said Doc. "Poor dog. Didn't have a chance. Did any of you kids see anyone other than family members feeding him?"
We all hunched our shoulders.
"Gordy," ordered Doc, "you and your older brother will put him in a wagon and take him to the Old Grove.'
"I'm not going with that chump," said Doc, the Third.
"Did I tell Gordy that he and his oldest brother would take the wagon?" demanded Doc.
"No."
"Well, then." Doc turned to me. "Get a shovel from the garage. Dig a hole somewhere deep in the Old Grove and put poor Bones in it. Then, cover him. Okay?”
“He’ll get cold,” I moaned.
“He'll be warm in that throw rug,” said Doc. “Jean, which rug can they take?'
"Any one, I guess," said Mother. "It doesn't matter."
I was still crying. "Poor Bones. The Fahls did it," I screamed. "I'm sure they killed Bones."
"Now, Gordy," said Doc, "we don't know who killed him. You may think they did, but nobody here saw anyone feed Bones raw hamburger, right?"
"Right."
"So, don't make accusations you can't back up with facts."
Dork and I hauled our dead pet on top of the Radio Flyer hearse with squeaky wheels. When we got to the Old Grove, mosquitoes were already whining and whirring around my ears. "Let's not bury him but just cover him with the rug," suggested Dork.
I started to change my mind about my older brother. "Yeah, why don't we? I think Bones would prefer to be above ground—like Indians."
"Yeah," agreed Dork.
When we made it back home, Mother still wasn't finished with cleaning the floor. "There was so much glass," she said. "So much. That poor beast didn't have a chance."
Later that morning, the Fahls were in their garden. They seemed ever so happy. That was surely a sudden change from the way they had always acted.
That night, before I got into bed, I got down on my knees, made the sign of the cross, and placed my hands together. "God, this is Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman. I know you'd rather have me pray for my soul, but you and I both know the Fahls killed Bones. I can't prove it. You can. I only hope you'll repay them with the eternal fires of hell. Amen."
I started to get up. But down on my knees I went. "And another thing, God. I know Bones wasn't human but he was a good dog. Please tell Saint Peter to let him pass the pearly gates. I don't think he'll play 'Catch me if you can' with your saints because he's only a dog's soul, not a real dog anymore. Thank you. Amen."
His brother was the opposite, tall and lanky. Also, he had a full head of black hair that he combed front to back. Any time I saw him, Sgt. Exner looked as if he had just put on clean and pressed uniform gray trousers and blue shirt with dark blue tie. His pant legs were on the inside of black leather motorcycle boots. Their tops reached just below his knees. And, boy, did they shine. Everything about him was perfect. His hat's bill was so shiny, the light reflecting off it nearly blinded a guy.
One thing everybody knew about him. He hardly ever said anything. Fact is, he didn't talk. He whispered. Well, almost whispered. Besides, he seemed to chop off each hardly-heard-word with shiny teeth that were as large as a beaver's yellow front teeth. But the sergeant's teeth were shiny white.
Most of the time, he'd just stand there, waiting for you to say something. Or he'd wait for somebody next to you to speak up. That is if somebody else was alongside you. And if nobody was there, you didn't know what to do. Or say. And was he serious? As a heart attack. The sergeant hardly ever smiled. Doc told me he was "reserved." Reserved for what? I don't know. Truth is, I don't think I ever saw the sergeant smile more than twice.
On the day I was sitting on our couch in the parlor, looking at the brand new, just out, "Hot Rod" magazine that my parents gave me as one present for my ninth birthday. The others were an Abbey and Imbrie fiberglass fly rod and a Pflueger fly reel.
I became really interested in a story about the Bonneville Salt Flats. I hardly heard the knock on the front door. "Yeah, who is it?" I yelled. I thought it could be Crazy Annie's best friend, Hen House Helen Kell, Bobby's sister.
No answer. Mustn't have heard me. I got up from the couch and walked out to the front porch. And there stood Sgt. Exner. Outside, of course. On the top step of the front stairs.
Opening the door, I said "Hi." Boy, did I ever feel stupid. I mean, saying "Hi" to a cop? I waited. So did Sgt. Exner. I couldn't take it any longer. I turned to face the kitchen. "Mother," I yelled.
"What do you want?" she yelled back.
"Sergeant Exner's here."
"What does he want?"
I turned to him. "What do you want?"
He waited. I didn't know what to say. So, I said nothing. Finally, he whispered. "It's about your dog." The teeth chomped every single word. Then, he waited for a long time. Finally, he said, "Again."
And you know what? I think he smiled. Really. I wouldn't bet you more than a nickel that he did, but I think he actually grinned.
Finally, Mother made it to the front porch. She was wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
"Ma'am," said the sergeant. He took off his hat with extra shiny chrome eagle badge on the front. His hat was now held between arm and body. "We've been getting complaints about your dog again."
"Which one nitpicked this time, Haertel, the banker, or the Fahls? Mrs. Hahn next door told me she doesn't mind the dog, even when he chases her chickens. So, it wasn't her. And he doesn’t go anywhere else as far as I know."
The sergeant waited. Mother waited. Naturally, so did I.
Then, he whispered a moment before I thought Mother would faint. "We're not allowed to divulge names."
Divulge. I like words a lot. Maybe it's because I won first, second, and third grade spelling bees. Other kids booed me because I'm such a good speller. I remember the word divulge being used by a G-man. Actually, it was an actor on Sunday afternoon's "FBI in Peace and War" radio program. I looked up the word in my Thorndike. It means, "To reveal." So, the sergeant couldn't reveal to Mother the neighbor or neighbors who complained.
He put his hat back on. "I've done my duty," he whispered. Turning around, he headed for his Harley Davidson three-wheel motorcycle. He kick started it, almost grinned, but not quite,. The engine went, “potato, potato, potato,” and Sgt. Exner was on his way. Out of sight.
'It's your fault, Gordy. You opened the back door this morning and let Bones out."
"Honest, Mother, I didn't let him out. He flew by me. And that was that."
"You should watch each time you go out the back door."
"He just waits for me to open the door and then skedaddles outdoors."
"You've got to be more careful, Gordy."
I've already told you. I'm a reject. It's nearly impossible to be careful when I leave the house. I hit the door. It opens. And out I go. Sometimes, that darned Bones leaves just before me or slightly after. And no matter what, he always wants to play, "Try to catch me if you can." And Let me tell you, it's nearly impossible for anyone to catch him if Bones doesn't want to be caught. He's as fast as a rocket.
And guess where the first places he's going to go? Where people don't want him. Either old man Haertel's back yard which is separated from ours by tall bushes. Bones is low enough to scoot between them. I'm not. Or else Bones goes into the Fahls' garden and starts digging. I sometimes think he hears moles just like robins hear worms as they tip their head sideways and stab the ground. Lunchtime. I thought maybe Bones was hungry for mole meat.
Not too long after Sgt. Exner's visit, our dog wasn't himself and just lay around. He wasn't even interested in playing games. He didn't try to sneak outdoors anymore either. He even started peeing on the kitchen floor. Mother ground his nose in it and threw him out. Strange. He didn't yip.
"Our dog is sick," said Doc one late afternoon before we ate supper. Doc was petting him. Bones could hardly lift his head. "Very sick."
"Will he be okay if you give him an aspirin?" asked Crazy Annie.
"You don't give dogs aspirins," declared Dork.
"The vet's office is closed now. We'll take Bones there tomorrow," said Doc.
As usual, I was the first up the next morning. I peed the bed. I went out into the kitchen to see how Bones was doing. He wasn't. He lay there with a pool of dark, black liquid under his opened mouth. I knew. I knew for certain. It was blood. And Bones was dead. I started to cry.
"What are you howling about?" It was Dork. He looked down at Bones. "Oh, God. He looks dead."
"He is," I whimpered. Soon everyone in the whole family was up, even my three year old brother, Peter. Just about everyone called him Pete.
Doc stuck his index finger in the blood and examined what was on it very carefully. "Somebody fed him raw hamburger with ground glass in it," said Doc. "Poor dog. Didn't have a chance. Did any of you kids see anyone other than family members feeding him?"
We all hunched our shoulders.
"Gordy," ordered Doc, "you and your older brother will put him in a wagon and take him to the Old Grove.'
"I'm not going with that chump," said Doc, the Third.
"Did I tell Gordy that he and his oldest brother would take the wagon?" demanded Doc.
"No."
"Well, then." Doc turned to me. "Get a shovel from the garage. Dig a hole somewhere deep in the Old Grove and put poor Bones in it. Then, cover him. Okay?”
“He’ll get cold,” I moaned.
“He'll be warm in that throw rug,” said Doc. “Jean, which rug can they take?'
"Any one, I guess," said Mother. "It doesn't matter."
I was still crying. "Poor Bones. The Fahls did it," I screamed. "I'm sure they killed Bones."
"Now, Gordy," said Doc, "we don't know who killed him. You may think they did, but nobody here saw anyone feed Bones raw hamburger, right?"
"Right."
"So, don't make accusations you can't back up with facts."
Dork and I hauled our dead pet on top of the Radio Flyer hearse with squeaky wheels. When we got to the Old Grove, mosquitoes were already whining and whirring around my ears. "Let's not bury him but just cover him with the rug," suggested Dork.
I started to change my mind about my older brother. "Yeah, why don't we? I think Bones would prefer to be above ground—like Indians."
"Yeah," agreed Dork.
When we made it back home, Mother still wasn't finished with cleaning the floor. "There was so much glass," she said. "So much. That poor beast didn't have a chance."
Later that morning, the Fahls were in their garden. They seemed ever so happy. That was surely a sudden change from the way they had always acted.
That night, before I got into bed, I got down on my knees, made the sign of the cross, and placed my hands together. "God, this is Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman. I know you'd rather have me pray for my soul, but you and I both know the Fahls killed Bones. I can't prove it. You can. I only hope you'll repay them with the eternal fires of hell. Amen."
I started to get up. But down on my knees I went. "And another thing, God. I know Bones wasn't human but he was a good dog. Please tell Saint Peter to let him pass the pearly gates. I don't think he'll play 'Catch me if you can' with your saints because he's only a dog's soul, not a real dog anymore. Thank you. Amen."