I've had some interesting luck (not great, but good).  I won second prize in a short story contest about dogs sponsored by the American Kennel Club.  Publication wasn't included so I thought I'd post it -
"What Would Vera Wang Wear to Pet-co.  Additionally, a friend of a friend asked for poems to post on her web site - www.artforbarks.org where she posted my poem about my dear dead dogs.
Arf. Arf. 
So enjoy (everybody tells me fiction is more popular than poetry).

Helen Ruggieri                                              

111 N. 10^th St.

Olean, NY  14760

hruggier@verizon.net

716-372-0935

 

 

 

WHAT WOULD VERA WANG WEAR TO PET-CO

 

           

            She went out to check the mail and found a large black dog sitting on the porch.  She wasn’t sure what to do.  He didn’t look angry or mean or even lost.

“Here, boy,” she called.  He got up and walked over, took the side seam of her jeans  in his mouth and yanked, not hard, but definite. 

What, am I in a bad Lassie movie? Candid Camera thing?  The dog pulled her gently but firmly across the street and through the open door, to the upstairs apartment.  “Hello!  I’ve brought your dog home.”   No answer.  The door was ajar. Of course, it was.  How else would the dog get out?  She walked in,  calling.  Two steps into the room, she saw the woman on the floor.  She felt her wrist; there was a soft,  irregular beat.

She found the phone, called 911, covered the woman with an afghan and waited in the doorway patting the dog  until she heard the ambulance screech to a stop outside. 

            She couldn’t answer any of their questions.  She did not know the woman’s name, the people who lived downstairs were at work and she only knew them to nod to.  She

told the ambulance people she’d take care of the dog until she heard.

            When the downstairs tenants came home from work, she went over and told them what had happened.  They didn’t want the dog, they said that first off.  She did find out the upstairs tenant was fairly new in the neighborhood and had given her name as Jane Fancy. Better than Plain Jane, she thought and was glad she’d kept it to herself because

at that moment a car pulled up outside and two plainclothes cops got out.  No wonder the criminals always spotted them.  It was that walk, that aggressive ambling. 

            “This where Jane Fancy lives?”

            “Yes,” they all answered together.

            “Who are you?” the taller one asked. 

“I’m Anita Kellner.  I’m the one who found her.”  Her hands were beginning to sweat and she wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. What was it about cops.  They made you feel guilty even if you weren’t.    

            The cop cut her out of the herd like a little doggie, moving her down the steps of the porch out to the cracked sidewalk under the shade of  an old maple.  “How did you happen to find the body? “

            She told him about the dog. 

            “And where is this dog?”

            She made a gesture indicating her house across the street. 

            “Let’s meet him.”  The dog sat up straight and looked at them intently. 

“Hey, boy,” he said.  The dog continued to stare.  “C’mere,”  he called.  The dog did not move. 

            “Go on,” she said, “go on.”  The dog looked at her and looked back at the detective. He did not move. 

            “Do you know this dog?”  he asked suspiciously?

            “Never met him before today,” she said. 

            “He seems to like you.” 

            “Many dogs do,” she replied.    

            “What was it?  I thought she had a heart attack of something.” 

            “She died shortly after arriving at County.  The doctor called us in

because of the suspicious circumstances.”

            “Suspicious circumstances?  The dog coming for me?”

            “She was hit in the face before she fell”   

            “The dog saw it,” she said. 

            “Maybe.”

            “He’s a witness.  Shouldn’t you check his teeth for DNA or something?”

“You watch too much TV,” he said.   

            She looked down and noticed that she was still barefoot.  He noticed the pearly pink toenails, not quite exotic enough to arouse,  but sexy  enough to get attention. 

            She saw him looking at her toes and blushed to match.  She suddenly felt naked.  He noticed that too. But that’s what detectives did.

            “What about the dog ?” she answered finally. 

 “We’ll call animal control,” he said.

The dog came to her side and nudged her with his back end.

Apparently, he understood English.  She said nothing.  He butted her again.

            “Ok, I’ll take care of him until this gets sorted out.  He’s a well behaved dog.

Maybe she has relatives or something.”

            “We’ll notify the next of kin about the dog, and if you want to dog sit, that’s fine.  I may have to come back and interview the dog again,” he said with the tiniest upturn in the corners of his mouth.  He had great lips, full but not pouty.  She had to blink to make herself stop staring at his lips. 

            “Where do you work? “

            “I’m self employed,” she said.

            “What do you do?”

            “I write mystery novels,” she said. 

            “Oh, God,” he said and walked off the porch shaking his head.

She knelt down and hugged the dog.  “C’mon,” she said and took him inside.

            She had written one mystery novel and it had been published to outstanding silence.  She had asked two friends to review it to no avail.  Royalty checks did not come until the advance was repaid.  So far, no royalties.  Her agent answered her phone calls with emails sometime later in the month.  They felt cold and the threat of closure wavered around them.  She was three quarters of the way through

her second one which she was hoping would score some points, with someone, somewhere.  The agent had suggested setting it somewhere glitzy and having the

heroine dress up some – readers like style.  They don’t want to read stories about poor people living in shabby apartments.  They want the bright lights, New York, Las Vegas, Frisco.

What are ya gonna do?  They tell you to write what you know.

Like I know a BMW from a Mercedes – that’s how far down the food chain I am.  And where would I find out about Vegas?  Watching poker games on TV?

            She started in where she’d left off:   “Wearing a Vera Wang (is that her name?) she opened the door and swooped (can you swoop in a Wang?).”  No way she could concentrate especially with the dog sitting by her chair – poised, as if for what. 

            Wait.  I get it.  Dogs need to be walked.  She could use a little exercise before dinner.  Dogs get fed too.  What can I feed him? 

            Her neighbor across the street pulled into the driveway as she was mulling dogness.  She ran over.  “Do you have the key to Jane Fancy’s apartment?  I’d like

to get the dog’s stuff  so I can feed him and walk him.” 

            “She didn’t have a dog.  No dogs allowed in the apartment.” 

            “She didn’t have a dog?  What about that black dog?” She

pointed across the street where the dog waited obediently on her porch.

            “I never saw him before.”

            She put him in the car and set out for Pet-co.  He liked riding in the car

with his head hanging out the window .  The breeze blew the drool across the window in silvery streaks.  Vera Wang, Vera Wang, what would she wear to Pet-co?

            She posted a found dog notice on the bulleting board and hoisted a bag of dog food into the trunk.  You’d think they’d sell it in smaller bags, she thought.   Wearing her Vera Wang, she hoisted the bag of dog food onto her left shoulder and gracefully exited Pet-co.

            Ruff, ruff, the dog said.  I think that means roll the window down further, she thought.   She stopped and attached his new red leash to his collar and set off along

the trail that followed the course of the river as it made its way to the Ohio.  The dog liked it, stopping at every other tree to unload.  What a set of  kidneys dogs have.

Not to mention . . . .Someone yelled, “You’re supposed to pick that up!”

“You’re kidding, right? “

            It was dusk by the time they wandered home.  So many lampposts so little time. Her door was open.  Had she forgotten to lock it?  She looked at the dog,  pulled the screen open and let him in.  “Kill intruders,” she said in a commanding voice.  “Kill.”   The dog looked at her and waddled into the house. 

            Someone had been there but nothing was taken, just stuff moved.  Should she call the police?  She smiled, of course, she should.

“Detective Lloyd,”  she asked.  He answered.  “This may just be a coincidence,” she began, but someone broke into my house and searched it.

            “Why would someone do that?”

            “I thought that would be your job,” she replied.

            “Have you eaten?”

            “No, I’m just feeding the dog.” 

            “I’ll pick you up in about 20 minutes.”

            What would Vera Wang wear for a dinner with a detective who thought she

was dotty. Tan slacks, brown sandals (he’s a toe man), a coffee colored tee shirt she shrunk in the dryer.  She knew it would come in handy.

            The dog acknowledged him and went back to snoozing on the rug in front of the doorway which he had ratted up to be suitably comfortable. 

He came, he looked, he said,  perusing  the

disorder.  “How can you tell?” 

            She gave him a long glance and batted her eyelashes. 

            The next morning the dog woke her at 6 a.m  with a few licks.  He picked up his leash and dropped it, several times, until she rose, muttering doggy threats.  You do this every day, she asked.

Might be a way to catch the killer – check everyone who was out at 6 a.m.

Afterwards, though, she felt good, energized.

 She thought about Him and smiled and sat at her computer and began: “As she sat waiting for his call, she turned her pave diamond bracelet around and around.”  Maybe that should be a brand name – a Tiffany, yeah.  “She turned her pave diamond bracelet from Tiffany’s around and around.

            A UPS truck stopped across the street and the driver, all in brown, got out and rang the bell of 113 next door.  Old lady Kline, the witch, took her time coming.  Anita watched.  She didn’t know if she should have the phone ring or move on to something else.

            She slapped the side of her head.  Yesterday, yesterday, she had seen a UPS truck stop almost in the same place.  The driver had gone in – but there were apartments –

that would be natural, to put the package into the correct box, not leave it in the hall

where anyone could pick it up.

            She stared at the phone.  She could call him with her idea or she could wait until he called her, if ever.  It had been pleasant, but not intimate.  If she had a Tiffany pave diamond bracelet she would be twisting it.

            Suddenly, the phone range, as if she had conjured it.  That’s great.  “As if she had conjured it.”  The phone will ring. 

            “Yeah?”

            It was he of the big brown eyes, the sleepy eyes, bedroom eyes, the untasted lips. She’d been alone too long.  She told him about the UPS man.  He could go anywhere.  Like the mailman, you don’t even notice him unless you’re waiting for a rejection letter.

            “I’ll check it out.  How’s the dog?”

            “He woke me up at 6 this morning.”

            “Humm,” he said and she could feel the smile in it, the insinuation.

Maybe I should make it a ring – she was twisting her diamond ring from Tiffany’s.  That made more sense.  The dog snored by her feet.  He was moving his legs, running in his sleep, having a doggy dream.  “Do you think a ring is better than a

bracelet,” she asked him.  He made a snort she took for yes.  Having a dog might be

very helpful she thought.  She stepped out onto the balcony which overlooked the bright lights of Manhattan.  Easier than Vegas.  She twisted on.

            After dinner, the dog brought her his leash.  They set off along the river path. 

She heard the thudding sneakers of a runner coming up behind her.  As she turned to

look, the lights went out.  The leash slipped from her hand.

            Someone was messing with her eyes.  “Leave me alone,” she said, trying to push them away. 

“Are you ok? “

            She opened her eyes. She was stretched out in the weeds alongside the path.

“Do I look ok,” she asked?

            “Did you have a spell, dearie,” the older woman asked. 

            She thought back to the thudding sneakers.

            “Where’s my dog?”

            They helped her up; what a headache!  Her brain rattled.   They looked for a bit, but there was no sign of the dog.  Dog gone.  She didn’t even know what to call

him.  She stumbled home.  No dog there either.

            She wanted to call Him, but it was after hours and she was embarrassed.

Was it part of the mystery ?  Or an irate runner whose stride she interfered with.

            She took two ibuprofen and fell asleep on the couch watching CSI.

In the dawn’s early light she called the SPCA.  No one had turned in a dog matching Dog’s description.  She twirled her imaginary ring waiting for the phone to ring.

She got online and searched Jane Fancy.  There was no record of her anywhere.  No birth certificate, no credit, no job history.  Why would a 40 something woman have no history.

She was running.  What do women in their 40s run from?  Bad husbands.  Bad, brutal,

abusive husbands.  They started over with a new name.  A great plot anyway.

She made an entry in her notebook.

            She took another walk down the river path carrying a maglite even though

it was full day.  She’d smack ‘em good. No sign of Dog.  When she walked in

the phone was ringing.  Him.  He was furious when she told him.  “You should have called me immediately,” he said.  He could have killed you.  He wanted the dog back, that’s what this is all about.  If we can find the owner, we’ll have something.” 

            He considered her idea about the battered woman.  The coroner had stated she had several broken bones over a long period of time, and she had been punched hard in the face, fallen back and hit her head on the sharp corner of a kitchen counter.  “Seems to fit,” he said reluctantly.

            “Can you check shelters?” 

            “If you can find them.  They don’t exactly broadcast addresses. And they’d be more likely to answer questions from a woman,” he said.

            “I’ll find them,” she said, and she did.  Armed with her small photo of Jane Fancy, she went from one to the next.  At the fourth safehouse, the look on the woman’s face as she saw the photo, gave it away.  Jane Fancy had stayed here hiding from an abusive husband.

 “Do you know his name?”

“No.  But he works for UPS.”

She called Him.  He’d been looking at dog license registrations and had a list of black labs registered in the area. 

“Check all the UPS drivers and see if anyone owns a black lab.”

And so he did.

That night he brought Dog back.  He has no family now and needs a home.

Dog gave her a butt with his butt.  His idea of an elbow in the ribs.  She saw something in his eyes -  a clock with the hands pointed at 6 a.m. 

            Him though, him, said, the case is closed.  He confessed.  “You’re no longer a witness.  You know what that means.“

            Him and Dog returned from their 6 a.m. jog.  After Him left for work, Dog stretched out on the ratted up rug for a nap and she sat at the computer.  “She wore a Vera Wang black taffeta eyelet jacket over a blouse of cotton tulle with a rough leather belt and skinny black linen ankle bangers.   She walked into the Manhattan Pet-co, the sleek Russian wolf hound at her heel.”  Is there a Pet-co in Manhattan?  Check.