PAWS FOR REFLECTION

by Charles Schaeffer  

“Not all is lost,” Mickey Foster declared, slumping into a chair in the cramped kitchen.Turning from the sink, Verna with a weary look slipped the last dirty breakfast dishes into the drying rack.  

“Not all is lost!” she echoed. “You drop $800 at the dog track and just like that ‘not all is lost'.”  

“Whoa, baby,” Mickey countered, sipping the dregs from a cup of morning coffee, two lumps, no cream.

“I shoulda been saying ‘ much is lost, but I know how to get it back'.”  

Verna's face, not unattractive even without makeup, took on stoic resignation. After all, she'd endured a dozen failed get-rich schemes. Not only that. She'd stuck out the marriage for three years, three lonely years while Mickey stamped out license plates at the State's facility for the incorrigible.  

Mickey Foster never tired of veering from the straight and narrow, casting baleful eyes on the shortcut to happiness. Never tired enough, that is, to get a real job. Why Verna hung around was one of those stories for Jerry Springer. Someday maybe.  

Claws clicked-clicked behind Mickey on the kitchen's cheap tile. A cold nose thrust itself into Mickey's hand. At his feet a sleek brindle greyhound sat, looking into Mickey's pudgy face with adoration only a dog can bestow.  

“Hello, Champ,” Mickey said, changing to dog-talk. “Howsa boy, huh?”  

“I'll tell you how he is,” Verna said. “He goes after that pricey box store dog food like a track rabbit.”  

Mickey shifted his stocky frame in the fragile-looking chair. “Aw, Verna, you know we gotta do our best when we're dog-sitting for the Greyhound Rescue Program. And bad joke about the track rabbit. I know Champ's on early retirement for catching up and wrecking the bait rabbit. Track owner went ballistic. Fired poor champ. Don't make it any easier that it happened on Easter Sunday. Now, they're calling him the Easter Bunny Killer. Hey, don't forget, the rabbit almost knocked off Champ. The vet had to save him from choking to death on a mechanical part.”  

Mickey took on the chore of finding Champ a new home, despite the dog's moniker. Volunteers at the center played fair with Champ, making sure that he-- like all dogs waiting for adoption-- was released only to a qualified animal lover. Mickey and Verna passed the test, Mickey with higher marks than Verna, opening up a whole new world to both of them.  

The shift in their lives started earlier when Mickey felt pangs of guilt about the future of greyhounds too old to race. Sure, he had lost dough, plenty of it, but he didn't blame that on the animals, whose fate worried him after a notice posted at the track caught his eye. The note sought, “foster parents,” so to speak, for greyhounds. Mickey had scribbled his name on the list. Before Mickey could say “they're off”, volunteers from the shelter had knocked on his front door, checked out the lay of the land, and verified the couple's true interest and intent. The volunteers either overlooked Mickey's time in stir, or figured it didn't matter since he was now gainfully employed on minimum wage at the lumberyard.  

A week later Champ arrived and soon bonded with Mickey. To Verna's annoyance, the dog whimpered much too long each morning after Mickey left for work.  

Now at the breakfast table, Mickey smirked and said: “Guess what happened yesterday?”  

“They kicked you up to Board Head at the lumber yard.”  

Mickey slipped Verna sly approval of the repartee. “Almost as good,” he said. “I stopped by the greyhound adopto-thon, you know, the one they hold each week to let people paw over the dogs--that's a joke. Who else was there but Mr. Manfred Collins and his wife?  

Verna scrunched her face in puzzlement.   “The real-estate tycoon. Big bucks. Demands rents like no tomorrow. A wife with more diamonds than a deck of cards.”  

“And this is supposed to make me cheer,” Verna mocked.  

“Just maybe, ” Mickey pressed on, grinning. “I overheard Collins is a dog track regular. Now wants to help retired greyhounds that have seen their day. Yeah, a regular saint. Wants to adopt a brindle, nothing else. And...we got a brindle, the only one on hand.  

“Sooner or later somebody will adopt Champ. M'ize well be a family that makes sure he lives more than a dog's life.” Mickey smoothed his “night work” latex gloves and moved them from the table to a shelf.  

“Just because he's rich ,” Verna went on.  

“Naw, we've got to give up Champ anyway when the right match comes along. But why not a bonus for our trouble?”  

Verna shrugged, uncomprehending.  

“Stay with me. It's our job--our duty--to visit his digs, to check the layout. You know. Is he a responsible owner? Does he have room for Champ, a dog run? Stuff like they told us to spot in our training course as temporary sitters.  

“Now, the good part. When Collins was building his new McMansion, I was on the lumber-delivery crew. Got a look at the blueprints. Well, call off the dogs, if the plans didn't show the space for a combination safe. Not in big print--but it was there---”  

Verna frowned “You told me the last job was the last job.”  

Mickey looked pained. “This time it really is. We'll be out of this cracker box. Maybe in Spain, the Caribbean . And all you gotta do is the honest job of leading Collins and wife around outside to make sure things are up to snuff for our beloved Champ. Inside, I case the safe, what type etc. Then some night when we're sure Collins and bride are out for the evening--they're opera buffs. Season tickets. Well, then I spin a few dials, bingo, we're rich.”

  Verna's mind clouded with worry from the time they made the appointment until they rang Collins's door, brandishing official greyhound records. Collins was the image of a tycoon, all right, portly in a one-K designer pinstripe, his wife Dora, blond, trim, fashionable, bedecked with gold baubles.

The tilt of the Collins' noses said it all, as they beckoned the inquisitors into the vaulted living room. Minimal chit chat. Then Mickey came to the point. The Manfred and Dora Collins sat, ill at ease, while Mickey grilled them on their qualifications to adopt a noble greyhound and provide for the animal in its golden years. At length, Mickey ended the interview and said: “Tell you what, while I catch up on all this paperwork, we'd appreciate it you'd both give Verna here an outside tour. You know--just to make sure you've got room for a lively dog. A gander, for instance, at the outside fencing and canine accommodations. We say that instead of dog house.”

The couple switched from mild annoyance to outright irritation, but they complied. After the three exited the back door, Mickey examined the alarm system for eventual disarming. Checked the doors and windows for the easiest point of entry, then took just five minutes to locate the safe behind a painting.

“That old wheeze,” he chuckled, then with rubber gloves, slid aside a not-bad reproduction of the Mona Lisa in the den. The safe was the type with numbers on a cylinder, only a notch better than the lock boxes in hotel rooms that tourists imagine are worthy protection. Five minutes, max, to crack it, Mickey figured.

When the trio came back in, Mickey was lounging on the plush living room couch, frowning over the paperwork. “Everything looks okay to me,” he said. “If Greyhound Rescue agrees, we can have Champ here in three days. Oh, yeah, you don't have to call him Champ, but he's used to the name.”  

True to his word, Mickey delivered Champ that Wednesday. Champ didn't want to stay, whimpering the way he did at home when Mickey made motions to leave.”He's attached. He'll get over it,” Mickey reassured the pair as Mr. Collins clasped the greyhound's leash in the open doorway. Striding down the walkway to his relic Chevy, Mickey could still hear Champ whining. “Poor guy,” he thought.

Mickey let several weeks pass, checking the opera schedules, hitting upon the night “Die Fliedermaus” was due to take wing. Mickey went so far as to wait until moments before the opening curtain, then feigned the figure of a delivery man to gain entry to the Opera House. Sure enough, there sat the Manfred and Dora Collins in their box, all gussied up. Mickey thought, glancing at Mrs. Collins's necklace, he was going to have to sacrifice that eye-catcher--but why be greedy?

Mickey's serious time in the State Prison gave ample opportunity to prep for a life of crime outside. He knew he had plenty of time for the safe job itself. But the exact moment the patsies would discover their missing goods was the puzzler. Could be a week. Could be tonight if she puts the diamond choker back in the safe. In any event, it would take Their Highnesses (and the cops) time to connect the dots, if they ever did.

Any one of the coveted gems (not counting negotiables in the safe) could be turned into cash--midas-like--in the morning. Enough to pay for the trip to Mexico , where he would convert the rest of the haul into a nice little nest egg.

Verna was already under Mickey's orders to stay at home in the dark. After the safe job, he'd pull into the driveway, headlights off. They'd sleep over, then in the early a.m. head out, humming “South of the Border.”  

Verna heard Mickey's car wheels crunch on the driveway. Wide-eyed, she met him at the door.

“Piece of cake,” he bragged.

Next morning with everything packed, he loaded the Chevy, kicked over the engine, and dropped into gear. Verna said, “You know, I could only find one of the latex gloves you used last night.” She draped it over the dashboard.

Mickey frowned, then smiled. “I know. I took one glove off to get a better feel for the safe tumblers. Forgot. Left it behind. Not to worry. I wiped the safe clean. And what's to find on a rubber glove. Millions of them sold every year."

A black sedan with two big antennas sat idling across the street. Mickey didn't like the look of it. A door opened and out bounded a brindle greyhound, Champ, who in seconds bounced with happiness all over Mickey. A uniformed sergeant stepped out of the unmarked sedan and approached, dangling a latex glove like dead bait. He glowered through the window at the glove's mate, draped on the dash board.

“Look what the Easter Bunny Killer brought you,” the officer said, snickering. “Found it at Collins's house. Actually, the mutt sniffed it out. Started whimpering, Collins said, just like the day you dropped the dog off.”