Irontown Blues Read online

  Misconception: Dogs have no sense of humor. Once more, it is true that normal dogs do not. CECs, however, have a well-developed sense of humor. Their notion of a good laugh tends to be quite basic, and often bawdy. They love a good pratfall, a pie in the face, or frightening a cat. Most people do not realize this, because even CEC dogs do not laugh. They are not physically equipped for it, just as their faces are not equipped to show many emotions. (They use their tails or their whole bodies to express their feelings.) But they are laughing inside.

  One more word about CEC humor. To the astonishment of everyone involved in their creation and in interfacing with their minds, it is indisputable that some of the very smartest CECs appreciate puns. They do not experience them quite as we do. They enjoy the tension between two words that sound the same (homophones) but can have two different meanings. When a human barks “hair,” meaning threadlike strands growing from the skin, and “hare,” meaning a rabbit, CECs find this deliciously funny. They cannot distinguish between the spellings, of course, because they cannot read. (So far, but tune in tomorrow!)

  That should do as an introduction to the account you are about to examine. And though I was urged to make all my remarks in the third person, I am finding this far too stilted and impersonal, so from now on I will appear in the first person. From time to time in this account I will insert parenthetical remarks when I feel clarification is needed.

  —Penelope Cornflower

  Certified CEC Adept (TEB 96%) Translator

  Sector 54, 1700 Leystrasse, Suite 120

  King City, Luna

  * * *

  —

  Hello, my name is Sherlock. Bark! Arf-arf! Bow-wow! Ha-ha-ha! That is a dog joke. I do not really bark any of those things. I do not know why humans say dogs do bark those things. Humans can be very stupid.

  (A note already: This is what I meant by dog humor. The joke is probably best understood by another dog. You will discover as you go along that Sherlock does not have a very high opinion of humans.—PC)

  I am Sherlock, and this is my tail. I am telling it or wagging it. You figure it out. Humans can be very stupid.

  (See what I mean about puns! And I will omit Sherlock’s opinion of humans most of the time, as he follows most of his statements with that thought.—PC)

  Hello, my name is Sherlock. I will now tell you some things about myself.

  I am five years old. I remember things very well, but I do not remember being born, and I do not remember when I was very young. The first thing I remember is when AlphaChris picked me up at the kennel for the first time. AlphaChris smelled good. I remember licking his face. I remember him smiling and scratching my ears. I liked being picked up. I like having my ears scratched. I do not like being picked up anymore.

  (Sherlock knows the man’s name, but his thoughts about him are more complex than just a name. People with dogs are usually called owners or masters. Neither word seems appropriate in the case of the relationship between Christopher Bach and Sherlock. It might be more accurate to say they are partners, but the word that best describes Sherlock’s place might be “sidekick,” in the sense of fictional stories. In such stories there is always a subservient or second-fiddle figure, a Sancho Panza to the protagonist, Don Quixote. So, ironically, Sherlock best fills the role of Dr. Watson in the Arthur Conan Doyle stories.

  (It must be emphasized that the important thing, in Sherlock’s eyes, is that he accepts Chris as alpha in his pack. The pack is small, consisting of just the two of them, but that is of no consequence to Sherlock. The alpha male of the pack makes the decisions and gives the orders.—PC)

  I am five. I have trouble with numbers. I can count to ten but I lose track after that. I have my own number system, though. It goes one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, many. After that there is a lot, a whole lot, one hell of a lot, and a shitload.

  I am five. I have learned that a big dog like myself might live as long as fifteen years. That is a ten and a five. I have learned that fifteen is not as long as humans live. I have learned that everything dies. I do not completely understand what it is to not-be, but I have seen dead things. They do not move and they are cold and they smell of death.

  Living fifteen years does not seem fair to me. I am beta male. When I am gone, αChris will have no one in his pack. I think this will make him sad. But αChris says life is not fair. He is alpha, so he is probably right. αChris also says that maybe I can go to the vet and get treated so I live longer. Humans live a lot longer. Maybe a shitload longer. I would like that. I do not want to not-be.

  I am the breed known as bloodhound. I have learned that all dogs are ninety-nine percent wolf. Ninety-nine is a large number. I have seen wolves in the zoo. They are not smart like me. I am very smart. But they smell like dogs.

  My coat is brown and short and very beautiful. My ears are loose and hang down and they are beautiful, too. People want to touch them because they are pleasant to touch. I do not mind being touched on the ears. I have a big beautiful nose. I do not like my nose to be touched. I have big beautiful jowls, but I do not slobber like some dogs do. Much.

  (Dogs have no modesty, and do not lack self-confidence. CECs are especially aware of their talents.—PC)

  I cannot read. I have tried to read but the little black spots of different shapes begin to move like bugs and crawl around the page. I would like to read. Maybe they will fix me someday so I can read. αChris likes to read old books. They are made of old paper and old ink and old glue. I like the way they smell. For now I enjoy looking over αChris’s shoulder as he reads. Then I fall asleep.

  (The issue of what to call Mr. Bach in this account is one I debated internally for some time. In a formal story he would be “Bach,” just as one of his pulp-fiction heroes was always known as “Marlowe.” But Sherlock is anything but formal.

  (Then there was Christopher, or just Chris, and I almost went with the latter. But it did not convey the flavor of what was going on in Sherlock’s mind when he thought of his partner.

  (Finally there was the standard way of looking at a human-canine relationship, which would be to call him “Master,” or “Master Chris.” That one stuck in my craw even worse because although it was true in a way—Chris was certainly the boss in their relationship—Sherlock felt himself entitled to more leeway in that regard than a normal canine.

  (In the end I went with the Greek prefix, α, and Chris: αChris. Every time Sherlock thinks about Mr. Bach, his status as alpha dog in the pack is uppermost in his mind. One’s standing in the pack is paramount, it trumps everything. Sex, in comparison, is relatively unimportant . . . except at certain times of the year, of course. He never thinks simply “Chris.” His rank is always in the forefront. So I have chosen to present Bach in that manner every time Sherlock thinks of him in this story.—PC)

  I like watching movies. I do not always understand what is going on, but I like to watch, anyway. I wish they had a scent. That would make them much better. αChris prefers movies from long ago. These movies are usually about humans trying to find something. Detective stories. We are detectives, me and αChris. I like finding things. Sometimes the movies have dogs in them. I have seen Lassie Come Home many times. I always worry that Lassie will not find her way back to Joe, who is portrayed by Mr. Roddy McDowell, but she always does. I would like to sniff Mr. Roddy McDowell, but αChris says he has passed on. That makes me sad. I would like to sniff Lassie’s ass. What a beautiful bitch!

  (Sherlock obviously does not know that Lassie was a male dog. I have been careful not to let him learn that.

  (By now you may have noticed that Sherlock shares a trait with most other CECs, and that is difficulty sticking to the subject at hand. He is apt to go haring off along side trails and only get back to his story when he feels like it. I have made decisions as to what to include and what to omit. I will leave in most of his observations regarding odors,
since they are so important to Sherlock. At other times some judicious editing seems the best idea. Here, for instance, he tells in great detail of the movie dogs he likes. He covers all eras, from Grayfriars Bobby and Rin-Tin-Tin, through Astro, the first dog created from the gene bank after the Invasion, right on to contemporary dramatizations of the lives of Hildy Johnson’s bulldog, Winston, and Sparky Valentine’s Bichon Frisé, Toby.—PC

  (BTW: In the category of dog movie classics, Sherlock is a big fan of Pluto, but thinks Goofy is kind of creepy, even scary. His thoughts on Goofy would translate as “What the fuck is he?” I agree with him.—PC)

  I do not like taking baths. But when αChris takes me to the groomer I like the smell of the other dogs there. I can tell who has been there in the last five or six days. There is a nice groomer there named Alice. She is gentle with me and never gets soap in my eyes. I would like to hump her leg, but I have learned that humans do not like that.

  (Leg humping is another example of dog humor.—PC)

  Sometimes I wish I had hands like humans. I could throw my own balls and chase them! Not my ass balls, but balls for throwing like tennis balls. Ha-ha! But then I remember how slow humans are, and I know that dogs are the best possible animal. No one could improve on CEC dogs. Then I feel sorry for humans, who cannot smell for shit. But I get over it.

  I like meat. Any kind of meat, but ground dino is the best. I like vanilla ice cream. I like Bowser Bow-wow’s Bacon-flavored Doggie Snacks. I like cheese puffs, especially if they are extracrunchy. I like broccoli. Other dogs think I am crazy to like broccoli, but I do. Fuck them.

  I still have my balls. αChris says I can keep my balls as long as I am a good dog. He is joking. I think. I am always a good dog anyway, just in case. I like to lick my balls. I like to lick them even when they do not need licking. I like to do it when αChris is with someone else because it “embarrasses” him. Ha-ha! I do not understand what embarrass means, but I think it is funny the way he smells when he is embarrassed. His skin grows damp. He smells of hot sausage. I think αChris would lick his balls if he could. I think all humans would lick their balls if their spines were not so stiff, except for human bitches, and they would probably lick themselves, too. Why not?

  (If you have ever seen a dog, you will know that they have no sense of modesty or embarrassment. They don’t care what they do or what they look like or who sees them.—PC)

  Well, that is me. As you can see, I am a good dog, and I am very smart. I like the way Miss Penelope Cornflower smells. She does not smell like corn, but she does smell of certain types of flowers. Since I met Miss Penelope Cornflower I have been ’facing with her to tell my story of what happened to αChris and me. So I will start now.

  Any mistakes in the telling are her fault, not mine.

  * * *

  —

  The bitch blew into our office like the stink of things rotting on a sandy beach. αChris has taken me to a sandy beach in a disneyland called Hawaii. I liked running on the sandy beach but I did not like to get too close to the water. There were rotting dead things on the sandy beach. I liked the smell of them. I was not so sure I liked the smell of the bitch. Maybe I would like her smell better if she was among the dead things on the beach. Bitch on the beach. Get it? Ha-ha!

  (And with that joke I will cease referring to females as bitches. I know it is the term breeders use, but many people find it offensive, including myself. Male dogs are not romantic, neither normal ones nor CECs. They do not fall in love, they do not wish to start a “family,” they merely get the urge to have intercourse. From then on it us up to the females in the pack to tend the young. Very much like some dedicated human males if I may venture an editorial opinion!—PC)

  I knew at once that there was something wrong with her. I knew I had to investigate. I got up from my comfortable rug and ambled over to where the female was sitting. I sniffed at her glove and smelled something I had never smelled before. This was very interesting to me. I filed the scent away where I keep such things in my mind. It was related to certain things I knew that were like putrefaction, but it was not the smell of the dead. This was even more interesting. It was a little like some stinky cheeses, and a little like sweaty gym socks that have not been washed in a while.

  With a few more sniffs I was able to learn more things about her.

  For one thing, when she told αChris that her name was Mary Smith, I could smell the lie. The lie smelled like heated metal and garlic.

  I could also tell that she had had a shrimpoid cocktail with extra horseradish for lunch, and a salad of bibb lettuce, radishes, croutons with Parmesan cheese, lemon juice, olive oil, pepper, and crushed anchovies. She had washed it all down with a harsh red wine. I do not like wine. I like a bowl of beer now and then.

  (I am never totally sure if Sherlock is showing off or pulling my leg. But I suspect he would not kid around with smells. Smells are serious business to Sherlock.—PC)

  I could also tell that “Ms. Smith” had been in heat two or three days ago. Human females come into heat a lot. She had also taken a shit not long before she came to our office. She had no hair in her armpits or in her pubic region. I do not know why humans shave off their hair. Hair is good.

  (Sherlock did not use the term “pubic region.” I thought it best to tone down his rather rougher image.—PC)

  I decided that was enough information for now. I could do a more detailed examination of her later if αChris wanted it.

  I returned to my rug and got comfortable. I am not nearly as lazy as αChris thinks I am. I patrol our apartment at night, investigating interesting sounds. I sometimes go out and snoop around while he is sleeping. I just close my eyes when life gets boring. I daydream, but I am not asleep.

  I kept “one ear open” to listen to them. That is a human expression, one ear open. Humans often say things that are not real. I am still learning how to tell when they are doing that. I like it when they do that, most of the time. It tickles my mind in a pleasant way as I try to figure out what they are really saying. But sometimes it is confusing.

  “Ms. Smith” wanted us to find someone. I like finding people. I am very good at finding people!

  She took off her gloves. I opened one eye to see what I already knew. The ends of her fingers were missing. And I heard a word that described what had happened to her. “Leprosy.” I filed it away in my scent file.

  I was not sure of what I was hearing, but it sounded like someone had given her the disease. On purpose! What a bad person! When I found him, it would be very hard to stop myself from biting him. Hard. In the balls. I have never bitten anyone in the balls, but I have thought about it. I think I might enjoy it if it was a bad person.

  I have only bitten a human once, and he was a very bad person. I liked biting him. But it was not in the balls. It was on his ankle. I tasted blood. The man was hitting me on the head, but I did not let go until the police came and carried him away. I like to think about biting that man as I am going to sleep. I dream about it, too. Does that make me a bad dog? Just in case, I have never let αChris know about it.

  “Ms. Smith” said the man who poisoned her had a blister on his mouth. I would remember that and keep my nose open for the smell of a blister. There are different kinds of blisters. I wanted to see what kind of blister this man had and take a good sniff of it.

  “Ms. Smith” was becoming upset. I could tell from the tone of her voice and from a smell of a kind of fear. There are different kinds of fear. Each smells different. All fear smells intriguing. When I smell fear something exciting is usually about to happen.

  Then αChris got out his bottle of poison and poured some into glasses. αChris thinks I do not like the smell of bourbon poison. This is not true. There are no bad smells. Bourbon is a powerful smell, and that is interesting. But I do not like to see αChris poisoning himself. Sometimes he poisons himself into a stupor, or sleep. This is not good for
him. When I smell him the next morning, he smells of sickness. I am thinking that αChris may be an “alcoholic,” but I am not sure of this yet. I will think on it some more.

  I left our office. I could still hear them clearly through the wall.

  “Ms. Smith” said she thought I was beautiful. This showed she was intelligent because I am beautiful. I decided I did not dislike her as much.

  αChris said my name was Watson. He does not want our clients to know that his partner is a dog even though I am a CEC and very smart. I do not mind this. One of the principles of private detecting is to “never show all your hand.” That is another expression that is not real. I do not have hands.

  I wished they would talk more about me, but they went back to telling and learning about the case. I was a little sad to hear αChris say we would not harm the man when I found him. My partner does not believe in violence except in self-defense. I am never quite sure what self-defense is, and I sometimes want to bite a bad person because biting him would feel good. But I do not bite him.

  “Ms. Smith” said she would like to tear the man’s balls off. I liked her even more. But she would be satisfied with taking the man to court. Court is a place where humans are taken when they have been bad. Then they are put “in the doghouse.” That is another joke. Ha-ha!

  They talked for a while about things that confuse me. They spoke of a virus. I have learned that there are tiny animals that live inside us. Humans and dogs, too. They can make us sick. I do not know if they live in cats or birds or fish. I hope they live in cats. I do not like cats. I hope the kind that make you sick live in cats. I am not sure I believe these little animals are real. I have wondered if αChris is “pulling my leg.”