![]() ![]() ![]() I managed to stop the flow-not easy-and save some for dampening the rock at the end of the driveway and the wooden fence that separated our property from old man Heydrich’s next door, plus a squirt or two between the slats. The night filled with splashing sounds and I zoned out a little, listening to them. Hadn’t realized I was that close to desperation. There were three trees out front, my favorite being a big shady one just perfect for napping under. How about a little more, down the back of the neck? I hunched my shoulders a bit, giving him the idea. He scratched between my ears, really digging his fingers in, the way I like. Why would that be? Just because my back teeth were floating? But then I thought, What the hell, the poor guy, and I went over and pressed my head against the side of his leg. I raised my tail and let it thump down on the rug, just so, sending a message. The door opened and in, with a little stumble, came Bernie Little, founder and part owner (his ex-wife, Leda, walked off with the rest) of the Little Detective Agency. The key scratched against the lock, finally found the slot. I could smell him-or rather the booze on his breath-before he even opened the door, but my sense of smell is pretty good, probably better than yours. ![]()
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