The Mad and the Macabre

- 3 -

Charlie smiled as he carried the dog downstairs to his basement. He'd lived in this house for five years, and the dog would be his first guest that wasn't going down into the basement to die. At least he hoped it wasn't--the dog didn't seem to be dying, but Charlie couldn't be certain. He'd never even met a veterinarian.

Actually, as embarrassing as it was to admit to himself, Charlie was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of the dog seeing the scene of his many crimes. Not that he thought the dog was going to run barking to the police, but still, dumb animal or not, it was another pair of eyes on the table where he'd killed almost twenty women. Maybe he was being less than meticulous about his secrecy.

However, that irrational feeling wasn't enough for him to let the dog bleed all over his upstairs furniture. He'd upholstered that couch himself.

He placed the dog on the metal table. It looked as if it wanted to jump to the floor but lacked the strength. He pressed down on its back to keep it from moving, and counted the wounds. Five different gashes: two long ones on its back, two smaller ones on its left side, and one on its back left leg. None of them were bleeding profusely.

Charlie had plenty of experience tending to wounds. No medical training, and nothing fancy--just bandages and antiseptic. He assumed this would work for a dog, too.

Normally his patient was strapped down. Unfortunately, though his ankle and wrist bracelets could adjust to accommodate various heights, they were still only designed for a human. He'd just have to hold the dog down while he applied the alcohol.

The dog yelped and thrashed and almost got free. "You'll break your leg if you jump off," he warned it as he pressed the dog more tightly against the metal surface. Instead of his usual precise touch, he settled for pouring the antiseptic over the wounds, and then held the dog against the table for several more minutes until it calmed down. The bandages didn't stick very well because of its fur, so Charlie wrapped tape around its legs and torso, which kept them affixed well enough.

The basement had a sink that Charlie primarily used to rinse blood off his tools. He found a small plastic bowl, emptied out the screws and nails that were inside, filled it with water, and placed it in front of the dog. The dog frantically lapped up the water, drinking so vigorously that Charlie had to hold the bowl steady to keep the dog from knocking it off the table. When the dog finished, he refilled the bowl and let it drink some more.

He lifted the dog off the table, causing it to yelp in pain, and set it down on the floor. "Stay," he told it in a firm voice, as he walked toward the staircase.

The dog followed him. Slowly and shakily, but it followed.

"I said, stay." Charlie pointed to the dog. "Stay."

The dog barked.

"Don't bark at me," he told it. "Stay." He decided to try something else: "Sit."

The dog did not sit. It barked again.

Charlie walked up the stairs and shut the basement door. He didn't want blood and dog hair upstairs. The only untidy part of his house was his basement, and then only when he had a victim down there. That dog was lucky it wasn't still freezing in the park; it would just have to deal with being kept downstairs until he returned it to its rightful owner.

He opened the cupboard and looked through the shelves. He didn't have any dog food. What was the next best thing?

Breakfast cereal? That sort of looked like dog food.

He filled a bowl with dry cereal, then reopened the door to the basement. The dog sat on the bottom step, looking up at him expectantly. Charlie walked down the stairs and placed the bowl on the floor next to the dog. It sniffed the cereal, looked back at up at him, and whined softly.

"Eat it," Charlie said.

The dog continued to stare at him.

"Eat it," Charlie repeated. "They're Cocoa Puffs."

The dog sneezed. Charlie wasn't sure if it was a derisive sneeze or just a regular sneeze. Either way, he didn't have a lot of sympathy for a starving creature that wouldn't eat the food that was right in front of it. If it wanted to die, he'd let it die. If it expired in his basement, his only regret would be that it had sneezed all over his perfectly good Cocoa Puffs.

Maybe he was being unfair. Charlie wouldn't eat a bowl of dog food, so perhaps it was unreasonable to expect this dog to eat a bowl of human cereal, especially without milk. It was only around eight o'clock, so the pet store was probably still open. He'd pick up some real dog food and then bill the cost to the owner.

"Stay," he told the dog, then walked back upstairs and shut the door.

* * *

Before he went to the food aisle, Charlie stopped at the revolving metal book rack. He looked at the various covers, trying to figure out what kind of dog he had in his basement. It wasn't a schnauzer, dachshund, beagle (That was a beagle on the cover? They didn't look anything like Snoopy!), pit bull, shih tzu, Japanese chin...there it was. Caring For Your Boston Terrier. He knew it was named after a city or a state.

He didn't take the book off the rack. He had no intention of learning how to care for the dog--he was just curious about what kind it was.

He wandered over to the food aisle and frowned. There were several dozen different varieties. Were they breed specific? Was it all the same garbage with different packaging? What was wrong with just having one bag and labeling it "Dog Food?"

Charlie decided to make this into a much easier decision. He scanned the aisle, searching for the lowest price.

"Looking for something in particular?" asked an employee, a young cute brunette, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.

"Just food."

"How old is your dog?"

Charlie shrugged.

"Is it a puppy?"

"No." Charlie picked up the closest bag of food, hoping that the employee would think he'd made his final decision and go away.

"If you're looking for anything else, toys, treats, or whatever, just let me know," said the employee with a friendly smile.

"Okay."

After she left, Charlie put the bag of food back on the shelf and traded it out for a cheaper one. Actually, for some reason he'd expected dog food to be a lot more expensive; still, no need to risk spending unnecessary money in case he never found the owner and had to abandon the dog.

He walked past the toy section on his way to the checkout counter. Maybe he should buy something to keep the dog occupied during the day. He picked up a bone-shaped squeak toy, decided against the expenditure, then paid for the food and went home.

* * *

The dog gobbled the bowl of food as if it hadn't eaten in months. It didn't even seem to be taking time to breathe, which was funny to watch because it had a flat little nose that didn't seem like it would be easy to breathe through.

It finished off the contents of the bowl in no time, ate the pieces that had spilled over the side, then looked up at Charlie. He shrugged and filled its bowl again. This time it finished half of the food, then let out what sounded like a happy bark.

Charlie had nothing to say to the dog, so he went back upstairs to make some signs.

* * *

Charlie wrote "Found Boston Terrier" and his phone number in black magic marker on twenty pieces of paper. The notice would probably be more effective if he attached a picture of the dog, but he didn't own a camera. The whole idea of photographs made Charlie uncomfortable. Not that he believed that they'd steal his soul or anything like that--he just didn't like them. He might have owned a cell phone with a camera, if he ever had anybody to call.

After he finished making the twentieth sign, he questioned his judgment in putting "Boston Terrier" on there. If those were valuable dogs, people might try to falsely claim the one in his basement. Though he could certainly figure out a way to make potential owners prove that the dog truly belonged to them, he didn't want to be bothered with scam artists.

He crumpled up all twenty signs and began the process again, writing simply "Found Dog" and his phone number. Then, armed with his signs and some scotch tape, he walked around the area for about half an hour, taping the signs to streetlamps, mailboxes, and newspaper boxes, as well as on the park bench where he'd found the dog. He returned home, turned up the heat, and went to sleep.

* * *

Charlie woke up out of a sound sleep and glanced over at the alarm clock. 1:21 AM.

There was a strange noise in the house. He listened carefully for a moment, and then figured out what he was hearing: scratching.

Why was that stupid dog scratching on the basement door? What could it possibly want at this time of night?

He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but the scratching didn't stop. The dog had food and it had water--did it just have an attitude problem? Charlie was a big believer in the merits of a good night's sleep, and if this dog didn't knock off the scratching, he'd kick it in the face.

He counted slowly to five hundred. The scratching continued. With all the soundproofing, scratching on the door was pretty much the only sound he would hear from the basement. Figured.

Charlie cursed, got out of bed, then walked in his underwear through the kitchen over to the basement door. He opened it and glared at the dog, which sat on the top step.

"Don't do that," he said.

The dog barked.

"Don't do that, either," he told it.

The dog pushed past his leg and ran into the kitchen. Charlie cursed again and went after it. If that dog wrecked any of his things, he was going to withdraw his objections to torturing a dumb animal. With Charlie in hot pursuit, the dog ran into the living room and jumped up on the couch.

Charlie pointed to the floor. "Get down."

The dog lay down in the crevice between the two couch cushions.

"Get down," Charlie repeated, more sternly.

Charlie realized that he'd left the basement door open. It wasn't as if he had a victim down there who might escape or be discovered, but still, he liked to keep the door closed at all times.

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you," he said out loud, closing the basement door and causing a waft of cool air to brush against his face.

It was pretty cold down there, he supposed. He couldn't blame the dog for wanting to come upstairs where it was warmer. The basement was surely a lot better than being outside in the park, but if the dog was used to a warm home with a rich master...

Charlie poured himself a glass of milk, drank it, rinsed out the glass, and then returned to the living room.

"Hey," he said to the dog. It looked like it was about to fall asleep. "You can stay up here, but if you..." He trailed off. Why in the world was he trying to speak a complete sentence to a dog? He was losing his mind. Many of his victims had claimed that he was insane, and now he was trying to prove them right!

The dog closed its eyes.

Charlie watched it for several minutes until he was sure that the dog was asleep. Then he returned to bed.

* * *

Charlie woke up and glanced over at the alarm clock. 4:29 AM.

Woof!

Stupid dog.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

Charlie got out of bed and stormed into the living room. The dog stopped barking and started panting happily. At least it looked happy--it was just a dog, so he couldn't tell for certain.

"What?" Charlie asked. "What do you want?"

A horrifying thought occurred to him. He quickly rushed over and peeked out the front window to make sure the dog wasn't trying to alert him to potential danger.

No police car was waiting outside. Apparently no watchdog duties were being performed. He returned his attention to the animal.

"What the hell is your problem?" he asked.

The dog continued to pant happily.

"I have to sleep! I have to get up early to go to work! You can't bark like that!"

Then he noticed that the dog had somehow worked the bandages off its legs. There were a few small blood spots on his couch. Charlie cursed again, setting a personal profanity record.

"You had your chance, but you blew it," he said, picking up the dog. "That's the way the cookie crumbles."

He carried it into the kitchen, shifted the dog in his arms so he could open the basement door while still holding it, gasped as he nearly dropped the dog, regained control, then got the basement door open and placed the dog on the top step.

"It's your own fault," he said, closing the door.

He didn't know if it would start scratching again, but he could sleep through that a lot more easily than the barking. He'd be okay for work if he got in a couple more hours of rest before the alarm went off. Charlie was perfectly fine with not getting much sleep on a night when he had a plaything in the basement, but he was much less fine with the idea of losing sleep over an idiot dog.

* * *

Charlie woke up to the alarm at 6:30. He had a banana and a piece of toast for breakfast, then opened the door to the basement. The dog bounded up the stairs toward him as he walked down, nearly tripping him as it nipped at his feet. He braced himself against the wall and told the dog to knock it off. It had a lot more energy now than when he'd first found it, that was for sure.

He reached the bottom without falling and breaking his neck and then refilled the dog's food and water bowls. By now it had lost its torso bandages completely, so he took a few minutes to redress its wounds. The dog licked his hand, and he wiped the slobber off on its fur. He didn't see the point in explaining to the dog that it would be spending the entire day in the basement while he went to work, so he simply went back upstairs to shower and get dressed.

* * *

As Charlie drove to work, it occurred to him that he should have taken the dog for a walk before he left. Oh well. It was far from the first mess he'd have to clean up in that basement.