Curiosity Killed The Cat Sitter

I keep my clients’ security codes in a little black book that I guard as if it held vital secrets to the planet’s survival. To make it even more difficult for a potential code thief, I have given each client my own personal pseudonym. Anybody reading my little codebook will therefore not find a security code listed for Judge Powell. Instead, he’s listed as Flip Wilson—as in “Here come da judge, here come da judge!” It may be a goofy way to keep records, but it works for me.

After I punched in the appropriate code, I knelt to pet Mame and let her lick my hands. Then I got her leash for her morning walk. Old dachshunds don’t absolutely need walking, but I thought it was good for Mame to begin her day with a little adventure.

As Mame and I got to the end of the driveway and started to step into the narrow street, Conrad Ferrelli’s silver BMW came tearing toward us down the tree-darkened lane, going so fast that I grabbed Mame and jumped back. I recognized the car because I sometimes took care of Conrad’s Doberman pinscher, Reggie. I couldn’t actually see Conrad, but I saw the silhouette of Reggie’s triangular head, with his ears cocked up.

I liked Reggie. I liked Conrad Ferrelli. I liked his wife, Stevie. And so as the car drew even with me, I waved and smiled. I may have even chirped, “Hey!”

The car disappeared around a curve, its license plate winking in the shadows, and I led Mame out into the street as if nothing unusual had just happened.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

I heard the roar of Conrad’s car as it pulled onto Midnight Pass Road and sped south toward Crescent Beach and the village. His breakneck speed seemed odd, but then Conrad wasn’t known for being a conformist. People sucked up to him for his money, but when his back was turned they snickered and elbowed one another because of the way he dressed. He wasn’t exactly a cross-dresser, but he was a weirdly flamboyant dresser. His preferred getup was a pair of wild flowered shorts worn with a tailored coat and tie and mismatched transparent plastic slippers, maybe turquoise on one foot and yellow on the other. And he always, without fail, wore huge garish clip-on ear bobs.

Since I come from a long line of people who marched to the beat of their own drums, I’d always sort of admired Conrad for wearing whatever he damn well pleased.

That’s why I waved at Conrad’s car. That’s why I probably said, “Hey!”

That’s my excuse.

Mame and I walked slowly, because her legs were short and she was so old. We stopped to let her do her doggie business. We stopped to let her sniff at a tree. We stopped to watch a great egret take flight. At the place where the lane curves sharply to form its bayside stretch, one of my Keds had come untied, and I knelt to tie it, releasing the leash briefly to use both hands. Mame suddenly took off into the forested area, nose stretched, tail straight out, moving as if she’d dropped half her years. I made a grab for the leash but missed it. I called to her, but she ignored me and disappeared. I called again and heard a rough scratching sound behind the trees.

Mame was digging at something, and when a dachshund finds a place it wants to dig, you can’t change its mind. The word dachshund

means badger dog in German, and the scent of a rabbit or a field mouse triggers their badger-seizing instincts. Mame couldn’t actually tunnel into an animal’s underground home, of course, but she could have fun thinking she might. In a way, I was pleased for her. At her age, this might be her last hunt. But I couldn’t let her dig willy-nilly in that thicket because all kinds of unfriendly critters live in places like that. I called a few more times, even though I knew it was useless, and then gritted my teeth and stepped into the dark morass of ferns and potato vines, and saw grass, and palmettos under the trees.

I found Mame next to a long funky-smelling mound of pine needles and dead leaves at the base of a live oak dripping with Spanish moss. She was growling deep in her throat and tugging on something with her teeth. Gingerly, bracing myself for a rat’s tail or a baby snake, I leaned to see what she’d found. When I saw what it was, I let out an involuntary yelp.

She had a human finger in her mouth. The finger was attached to a hand. The finger was grayish blue, and so was the hand. The hand disappeared about mid-palm under the loose mulch.

I grabbed Mame’s leash and tried to jerk her back, but she stiffened her front paws and arched her head to resist me. She didn’t let go of the finger, and the hand came out higher, up to the wrist.

I whispered “Mame!” as if she and I were complicit in some kind of crime and I didn’t want anybody to hear. She growled. It was her finger and she wasn’t giving it up.

Grimacing, I lightly smacked the top of her nose.

“Let go, Mame! No!”

She growled again and shook her head angrily, but she didn’t let go. The shaking loosened the hand, creating a ring of space between wrist and pine needles.