Mayhem and Mischief Most Foul

The reflection of the full moon lay on the water like a golden flapjack on a china plate; the syrupy ripple of the water’s surface an infinitesimal whisper against sides of the pool. The edges of the pool framed the image like the warm glow of a Terry Redlin print. In another time and another place and there might have been romance in the air—but not tonight. Tonight there was murder in the air.

Somewhere, a street or two away, a dog barked. Judging by the yapping tone, a small dog, one that would as soon sink its needle teeth into the back of your ankle as let you pick it up. Fortunately, the barking was probably an ordinary part of the cacophony of the evening. Otherwise Bud might have picked up his head, cocked an ear, raised a wrinkled Basenji brow, and started barking.

Russell thought about that for a moment. Not that Bud’s barking would be a big deal. A couple of soft “Woof … woofs,” not much more. He wasn’t so much worried about that as he was about what those “Woof … woofs” might start with the other dogs in the neighborhood. That could be disaster.

Surveying the backyard moonscape, Russell sensed rather than saw that Bud was probably laying somewhere near the backdoor with his head resting on his forepaws, like always, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Bud was a good watchdog. He wasn’t much worried about Bud’s watchdog capabilities either.

Even at such a great distance from home, in this strange new place, Russell knew there was that old familiarity between them that would always be there between dog and master. If not for that, there’d be hell to pay. If he had been an intruding stranger, Bud wouldn’t start barking. No, Basenjis don’t exactly bark. Bud would start yodeling then, like some fool coyote revved up on locoweed, the way he always did when he heard a fire engine or police car siren. There’d be hell to pay then and Russell’s world would come crashing down around him like a house of cards.