know it was Opal Stokes’ cookies that sent me on an emergency mission to the mall’s grassy outdoor potty paradise. There’s no such thing as coincidence. Any dog worth his Pup-Peroni knows that.
Wait! What’s this I see “Tip Toeing Through the Tulips?” A teenager with an iPod sprouting from her ears and a foxy beagle on a leash. That little beagle cutie would have me singing “Rock-a-Hula Baby” if I weren’t still enamored of a certain pheromone-loaded French poodle.
The beagle yelps when she sees me. Naturally. In addition to being the King, I’m the sexiest dog alive. The teenager pulls the plugs out of her ears, and I go straight into my act. When she claps and says, “How cute,” I put my front paws on the door and whine—the pièce de resistance of the doggie con.
“Poor thing,” the teenager says. “Did somebody forget about you?” I do my best mournful howl, and she opens the truck door.
I bound out like I’m headed to the “Promised Land.” Being the gentlemanly dog I am, I pause long enough to take a little bow in their direction, then streak toward the back yard like there’s a heated dog house and a big dish of Kibbles ’n Bits in my immediate future.
Once I’m out of sight, I put my famous nose to the ground. Listen, I’m the only one in the Valentine family who picked up the scents in the costume changing room, and I intend to see if one of them belongs to Opal Stokes.
What’s this I smell? Rabbits in Audubon? Squirrels I expected, but not the Easter bunny. These critters must be getting smarter. They must have found out that it’s illegal to shoot a gun in the city limits. No wonder they’re migrating from Ruby Nell’s farm south on 371 to a neighborhood with Jesus on the roof.
All sorts of smells assault my noble nose. I’m just getting ready to sort through them when my human mom calls, “Elvis! Where are you?”
Drat. Busted. If she didn’t sound so panicked I’d ignore her for a while. I’m onto something big here.
But when she calls my name again, she sounds like some lonely soul singing “It Won’t Seem Like Christmas (Without You).” When it comes to a choice between being a star detective and comforting my human mom, Callie wins every time.
I ditch my detection and show my handsome self around the side of the house. Before I get back on her good side with a little turn of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” she scoops me up, runs to the truck, and peels out like we’re being chased by an ill-tempered Doberman pinscher.
She doesn’t even scold me.
I’m not long finding out why.
“Holy cow, Lovie. I thought that mean old woman was going to kill us.”
“And you said she was sweet. I never did fall for that cute little old cookie lady act.”
“She keeps Ex-Lax in her cabinet. It appears she put more than sugar in her cookies.”
“I knew it.”
“And you’ll never guess what I found in her basement.” Callie starts recounting a scene of Christmas mutilation that makes me glad she caught me before I finished my snooping. Listen, I may be a premiere dog detective who goes the second mile, but I draw the line at sacrifice.
“It figures,” Lovie says. “Anybody who would put a laxative in Christmas cookies would steal and torture the neighbors’ Christmas decorations.”
“But all that still doesn’t make her a killer.”
“Why not? Some people get the Christmas spirit. Opal gets Christmas rage.”
“But does she get mad enough to kill? And if she does, how would a former school teacher know how to turn Santa’s throne into an electric chair?”
“Just because I’m a caterer doesn’t mean I can’t re-wire a lamp.”
“You’re right, Lovie. Did you make a connection between Opal and either one of the victims?”
“Wayne was one of her students.”
“You’re kidding me! But why would she want to kill your fiancé?”
“I don’t have a clue. Why would she put Ex-Lax in cookies and hand them out at Santa’s
Wait! What’s this I see “Tip Toeing Through the Tulips?” A teenager with an iPod sprouting from her ears and a foxy beagle on a leash. That little beagle cutie would have me singing “Rock-a-Hula Baby” if I weren’t still enamored of a certain pheromone-loaded French poodle.
The beagle yelps when she sees me. Naturally. In addition to being the King, I’m the sexiest dog alive. The teenager pulls the plugs out of her ears, and I go straight into my act. When she claps and says, “How cute,” I put my front paws on the door and whine—the pièce de resistance of the doggie con.
“Poor thing,” the teenager says. “Did somebody forget about you?” I do my best mournful howl, and she opens the truck door.
I bound out like I’m headed to the “Promised Land.” Being the gentlemanly dog I am, I pause long enough to take a little bow in their direction, then streak toward the back yard like there’s a heated dog house and a big dish of Kibbles ’n Bits in my immediate future.
Once I’m out of sight, I put my famous nose to the ground. Listen, I’m the only one in the Valentine family who picked up the scents in the costume changing room, and I intend to see if one of them belongs to Opal Stokes.
What’s this I smell? Rabbits in Audubon? Squirrels I expected, but not the Easter bunny. These critters must be getting smarter. They must have found out that it’s illegal to shoot a gun in the city limits. No wonder they’re migrating from Ruby Nell’s farm south on 371 to a neighborhood with Jesus on the roof.
All sorts of smells assault my noble nose. I’m just getting ready to sort through them when my human mom calls, “Elvis! Where are you?”
Drat. Busted. If she didn’t sound so panicked I’d ignore her for a while. I’m onto something big here.
But when she calls my name again, she sounds like some lonely soul singing “It Won’t Seem Like Christmas (Without You).” When it comes to a choice between being a star detective and comforting my human mom, Callie wins every time.
I ditch my detection and show my handsome self around the side of the house. Before I get back on her good side with a little turn of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” she scoops me up, runs to the truck, and peels out like we’re being chased by an ill-tempered Doberman pinscher.
She doesn’t even scold me.
I’m not long finding out why.
“Holy cow, Lovie. I thought that mean old woman was going to kill us.”
“And you said she was sweet. I never did fall for that cute little old cookie lady act.”
“She keeps Ex-Lax in her cabinet. It appears she put more than sugar in her cookies.”
“I knew it.”
“And you’ll never guess what I found in her basement.” Callie starts recounting a scene of Christmas mutilation that makes me glad she caught me before I finished my snooping. Listen, I may be a premiere dog detective who goes the second mile, but I draw the line at sacrifice.
“It figures,” Lovie says. “Anybody who would put a laxative in Christmas cookies would steal and torture the neighbors’ Christmas decorations.”
“But all that still doesn’t make her a killer.”
“Why not? Some people get the Christmas spirit. Opal gets Christmas rage.”
“But does she get mad enough to kill? And if she does, how would a former school teacher know how to turn Santa’s throne into an electric chair?”
“Just because I’m a caterer doesn’t mean I can’t re-wire a lamp.”
“You’re right, Lovie. Did you make a connection between Opal and either one of the victims?”
“Wayne was one of her students.”
“You’re kidding me! But why would she want to kill your fiancé?”
“I don’t have a clue. Why would she put Ex-Lax in cookies and hand them out at Santa’s
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