It Won't Be Long

It had been a long week and I was looking forward to relaxing at home with a cold beer and maybe a pizza. I put my suitcase by the door and wandered into the kitchen for my first brew. The house seemed unusually quiet to me as I popped the top on a Bud Lite.

That's when I realized that the damn dog wasn't around. That was pretty unusual. Normally she would have met me at the door, growling and threatening me with exposed fangs. I had started carrying treats in my pocket so I could persuade her to let me into my own house.

Why did I have a dog that pretty much hated me? I considered that situation as I began looking for the dog. I thought back to the day that my wife brought the dog home about six weeks prior.

"This is Margie. She's Tim's bitch, but we're going to be keeping her for awhile. Once you get to know her, she's really sweet," insisted my loving wife, as the dog sniffed my leg.

"I guess the obvious question is 'why?'. If I wanted a dog, I'd get a Labrador," I groused as I gave the dog a kick to get it away from my ankle.

"Margie! Out!" ordered my wife, Margaret, as our house guest clamped down on my calf with considerable pressure. At Margaret's command, she released me but kept her face uncomfortably close to my now bleeding calf.

"Tim has her trained very well. She'll listen to me perfectly. I think she's going to make me feel a lot safer, especially at night."

"Why the hell doesn't Tim keep her at his house?" I demanded as I pulled up my trouser cuff to examine the puncture wounds in my leg. "I don't want this mutt here and it's not going to stay. It bit me, for Christ's sake!"

"She won't bother you if you just behave civilly. Tim says that Pit Bulls have received a bad reputation because of a few jerks that didn't train their dogs properly. He can't keep her because he has a big male. He was preparing to mount Margie this morning when Tim stopped it. He said it would be best to keep them separated until he wants the bitch bred. He'll decide when he feels Margie is ready."

"I don't see why we have to have a damn vicious dog in the house because your boss is dumb enough to have both a male and female Pit Bull. Tell Tim that I put my foot down!" I demanded.

"Yeah, you put it down and Margie clamped onto it so fast your head swam," chuckled Margaret. "The dog stays. I promised Tim we'd take good care of it."

So began another reign of terror by yet another miserable bitch in my house. I had to be careful to not make any quick movements, or get too close to my wife. The dog was always watching me. She seemed to be waiting for me to slip up and give her an excuse to bite me. I had practically become a prisoner in my own home.

I took a swig of my beer and looked around the entire downstairs, but found no sign of the dog. My wife didn't respond to my calls either. When I reached the master bathroom, things began to take form. The floor was covered with dried blood. There were numerous places where blood had sprayed a few feet up the wall.

I looked around and found a small overnight bag next to my side of the bed. It contained men's toiletries and clothing. There were bloody footprints on the carpet and a fair amount of blood stains on the linens on the rumpled bed.

My beer was about gone, so I went back downstairs for another. As I popped the top, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a frumpy looking man in a cheap suit.

"Mr. Moore? May I come in and ask you a few questions? I'm Detective Cook. This will only take a few minutes."

"Are you with Interpol?" I quickly asked.

"No, and I don't give a damn about copied DVD's. I'm trying to get to the bottom of the vicious attack that took place here this morning."

"Well, since you put it that way, come in. Aren't you the cop that solved the Robert Morgan murder? He was killed by a guy that thought Morgan was banging his wife, while actually a different guy was hammering Morgan's wife as well as the murderer's wife, out of revenge because they were both nailing his wife?" I asked as I recalled the strange situation that had been all over the local papers.

"I didn't exactly solve it, but I did play an important role in the investigation," admitted the detective modestly. "Right now, I'm more concerned about the brutal attack that transpired in your bathroom this morning. It was my understanding that you weren't going to be back until tomorrow."

"Yeah, that was my original plan, but I wrapped my business up early and flew in this morning. How did you know my travel plans, and what exactly did happened here this morning?" I questioned the detective.

"One thing I've learned is to not ask two questions at a time," chuckled the detective as he reminisced about times gone by. "Besides, I'm asking the questions. How long have you owned a vicious dog?"

"I've never owned a vicious dog."

"You don't think that damn Pit Bull you had is vicious? What the hell kind of guy are you?" demanded the detective.

"That's two questions," I pointed out. "Fucking Pit Bulls are vicious as hell and I'm a pretty smug guy at the moment."

"If Pit Bulls are vicious, why do you think your dog wasn't? Is he part Rottweiler or something?" asked the flustered cop.

"That's two questions again. You seem to make it a habit," I observed calmly. "I don't have a dog. That should answer both of them."

"So what the hell chewed the shit out of that guy today? A cockroach?" yelled Cook as his face turned a bright red and sweat broke out on his brow.

"Two questions again? You can't break the habit, can you?" I laughed. "Since I wasn't here and have no idea to what you're referring, I can't answer either question, although I am pretty certain any cockroaches in the area are fairly small and mild mannered.

"Mother Fucker!" yelled the detective. "Why do I get all the assholes? Why can't I get a normal case with normal people?"

"Those two questions are rhetorical, are they not?" I responded with a grin.

"Listen to me, Smart Ass. I want straight answers to my questions. No more games or I'll drag you down to the station to continue this!" countered the cop as he pulled a pill container from his pocket and popped a couple small tablets.

"Why don't you just ask me a straight question without opinions and observations tossed in? Do you want to know about the miserable fucking dog that lives at this address?" I shot back at the red-faced detective.

"Yes! You admit you have a dog?" replied Cook with obvious relief.

"No, I don't. You're not very good at asking follow-up questions, are you?"

"Son-of-a-bitch!" screamed the detective as spittle flew across the kitchen.

"To answer the question you seem unable to pose, my wife was taking care of a nasty bitch owned by her boss, Tim Conrad," I responded softly as I wiped some of the detective's froth from my forehead. "It wasn't my dog and I hated it almost as much as it hated me."

Understanding slowly spread across Cook's face. "So you did have that miserable mean bitch living in this house?"

"Yes and she insisted on letting the dog stay, so there was little I could do," I responded as my questioner once again showed signs of being agitated.

"Did you know that Conrad was in a sexual relationship with your wife?" asked the detective almost gleefully.

"Actually, I sort of figured it out when Margaret came home with a bitch named Margie that her boss was going to breed when he felt the time was right. There was a lot of symbolism there that made it pretty obvious. They must have thought it was quite a joke."

"That must have pissed you off, big time!" insisted Cook.

"Not really. I decided to make the best of the situation I found myself in. It appears to have turned out quite well, at least for me," I added.

"Tell me how you can make the best out of your wife getting banged by her boss while making you live with a fucking mad dog?" demanded the portly gumshoe.

"I quickly learned that the dog had no compunctions about biting me. I also noticed that she would be sniffing around my modest package every time I exited from the shower. That was a major source of concern for me. It also got me thinking. If the bitch was interested in my meager offering, how would she react to a larger specimen?

"About four weeks ago, I bought a big box of kielbasa at Sam's Club. I'd take one into the shower with me under my towel, to keep the dog from seeing it. Every time I emerged from the shower, I'd hold it by my crotch, pretending it was a big old schlong. Margie would snap it up in two bites every time. It became a routine we did every morning. I think the dog was starting to like me."

"Oh shit! What did your wife think of that training technique?" asked the squeamish detective.

I always showered in the morning while she was still sleeping, so she wasn't really aware of it. I was hoping to surprise her someday," I admitted.

"I bet you were. Did you happen to know that Mr. Conrad was blessed with an unusually large phallus?"

"Not really, but I suspected as much. The last few times I had carnal relations with my wife, she felt like the Holland Tunnel," I revealed with some embarrassment.

"Did it ever occur to you that if your wife had a lover, and if she had him sleep over at night, and if he took a shower in your bathroom, and if the dog was around, the poor bastard's sausage would be at risk?"

"No, that never occurred to me," I responded innocently. "Is that about what happened this morning?"

"Yeah, the dog bit the guy's wiener off and swallowed it. They killed the dog to remove the guy's cock, but it was too mangled to be usable. Now the dog's dead, the guy's got a two inch cock, and your wife's been exposed as a cheating slut. What in hell do you call a fucked up situation like that?"

"I think you must know the answer to that question already," I replied with a hearty laugh.