Sherlock Dog Read online

used the same words to describe cheese. It's not many things in the world that are as good as cheese.

  Sherlock is cheese and so John Watson is crackers. Sherlock and John Watson are like me and Mommy: we are two things that are one thing. If the neighbours were ever to see Mommy out walking without me, they would be confused, like I was when I saw the bald Yorkie. If they were to see me wandering around without Mommy, they would think I was lost, and they would be right.

  Martin Freeman is John Watson, emphasis on the verb. I mean Martin Freeman is John Watson. Mommy told Ubu that nowadays when she sees John Watson in her head, she sees Martin Freeman's John Watson. Before nowadays, she would only see a vague Britishy shape: taller but a lot less Real.

  Mommy says, Martin Freeman made the Sherlock world Real. Mommy has explained how Martin Freeman did this, but her explanation was full of the words "real" and "really" and "realer," as in "really real" and "really really real," and "realer than real," and I think maybe it wasn't really the best of explanations. So instead of telling you that Sherlock feels really really real because Martin Freeman is so real as a real person who got sucked into the orbit of an extraordinary person's world, with archenemies and supervillains and mad peril swirling all around him; yet he kept his feet planted in the real world, and has real values, and just really real reactions, and ohmygoodness he is realer than a lot of real people Mommy knows: instead, I will tell you what Mommy thinks about when she is walking with her Sherlock Dog.

  Now unlike real Sherlock, I, Sherlock Dog, have weight issues. (Though Sherlock may have mental issues with weight, the way he quizzes Mycroft about "the diet"(o) and observed that Molly had gained precisely 3 lbs.(v)) I, Sherlock Dog, have the real kind of weight issue: I swing rapidly between 75 and 100 lbs., and am more often on the high end where I'm not supposed to be. So my vet has talked seriously to Mommy about my diet and exercise. Mommy is lousy at cutting out my peanut butter cookies and cheese, but she is very conscientious about the exercise. Rain, snow, sleet, hail or horrible baking sun, she takes me out on three 20-minute walks every day.

  You will remember that Mommy is not at all observant. While I am busy noting who has preceded us, about when, and whether they were also eating food, Mommy is wrapped up in her John Watson coat and her thoughts. Her thoughts are usually about things like the gas bill, the car mileage, or the piece of wood that is peeling off from the bottom of the front door. Sometimes she thinks about imaginary people on our walks, but only those who have become Real: meaning she can easily see in her mind what they might be doing on this Thursday afternoon, as clearly as she can see the front door.

  These are the people Mommy thinks about on our walks:

  1. Batman

  2. Frodo and Sam

  3. Sherlock and John Watson

  That's everybody.

  There is a very real danger in mixing imaginary Real people too closely into the really real world. I will tell you how I learned this, that is the main story, but first I will tell you how me and Mommy became One Thing. This is important to the story, because if we hadn't, if there had been no Sherlock Dog in Mommy's life, there might now be no Mommy.

  Before Becoming Sherlock Dog

  I was born approximately three years ago. My teeth told my veterinarian so, and my veterinarian told Mommy. I have vague memories of a warm mother dog, and many siblings. My siblings were all adopted as small puppies, but I was no longer a small puppy when I was taken to the animal shelter. My mother's Daddy told the shelter: "last of the litter; eats too much; can't keep him."

  The shelter was a miserable place. I was a silent, thoughtful dog myself, and the constant noise from the yappy, jumpy dogs (and the whiny cats) had a rapid fraying effect on my nerves. The food was poor, and water was rationed so we wouldn't need to go out very often. I was never taken outside for very long; as soon as I had relieved myself I was taken back to my cage. Once, I tried to delay relieving myself, thinking I would get to spend the extra time outside. Instead, I was taken back to my cage without having relieved myself. It was an agonizing eternity before I was taken out again, and this time I couldn't relieve myself soon enough. Humans are more cunning than dogs, I'll give you that.

  I was adopted on the shelter's next Black Dog Day. My adoption fee on that day was the same as a cat's, and my adopter was given a coupon that would Fix Me for free. My adopter was a gentle, soft-spoken old woman, and I would like to have stayed with her, really; but that was not to be.

  My adopter intended me for her son, Deke. She explained to her Man that I would be good protection for Deke, and she was worried about Deke being so alone all the time, and I could help Deke hunt. Her Man explained to my adopter that Deke was alone all the time because he was an alcoholic loser. So I was very nervous when Deke came for me, because I didn't know how to protect or hunt; and I didn't know what an alcoholic loser was, but it had sounded pretty bad.

  I did like Deke's pickup truck: I had a fun ride to Deke's place, circling 'round and 'round the large truck bed; while cans rattled and rolled around my feet and the wind flipped my ears inside-out and then right way back again; and a storm of scents and sensibilia swirled around me.

  Deke put me in his backyard, which was fine at first. There were more cans to smell; and I could relieve myself as soon as I felt the urge. Very soon, though, the yard filled up with my leavings, which I did not like the smell of. It also became very boring.

  I assumed I was there to protect Deke, but I did not know what that required. Once, I tried barking at an approaching stranger. "SHUT UP!" Deke yelled from the house, very loud. I decided I would keep my preferred silence. I decided if a stranger ever did enter the yard: I would block the door and growl. If he came closer, I would bite him. But no stranger ever did enter the yard. So I was very bored.

  I can't say that Deke neglected me. He would come out many times every day and smoke his cigarettes. I would lean against him, and he would put his arm around me and scratch my neck. But he never smoked as long as I'd have liked. And as soon as he had finished smoking, he would go into the house; and I would again be bored.

  He took me hunting just once. I think I messed up. I should have stayed by his side and waited for instructions, but I was so astonished by the bigness of the world that I jumped out of the truck as soon as it had parked and ran off on my own. I ran about on my own for a long while, smelling everything that stayed still, and chasing everything that moved. When I finally found Deke again he slapped and shook me until I was groveling on the ground in fear and shame. Then he dragged me to his truck and locked me into the cabin. I lay on the floor of the truck and whimpered with regret. I had lost my one chance to learn to hunt. Deke could have no more use for me now.

  The day Deke left the gate ajar, my senses were horribly fogged up with the scent of my leavings, so that I could hardly think. Deke had also neglected to Fix Me, though he had a coupon: I was filled with an urgent feeling of seeking, though I didn't know for what. When Deke left the gate ajar, I slipped through it and ran off for one last time on my own.

  I found what I was looking for, so that was fine. Afterwards, I wandered about for only a short while, and then a van parked alongside me and a man got out.

  "Here boy," he said. "That's a good boy."

  I approached him, and he took me by the collar and led me gently to the back of the van. I smelled the scent of many dogs even before he opened the doors, and began to whimper and prance about. But I let him gently push me into a cage in the back of the van. I swayed with the van for a very long, dark, scary time; when it stopped I sank to the floor in despair. I was back at the animal shelter.

  Becoming Sherlock Dog

  Plato said: everyone is looking for their other half. Not everyone finds their other half, and those who do sometimes meet in the strangest places: like a ship that's about to be scuttled by an iceberg; or a laboratory in a teaching hospital; or the South Valley Animal Shelter.

&nbs
p; Mommy drove to the South Valley Animal Shelter because she was frustrated with Ubu. Ubu is a fantastic man: tall, dark, handsome, strong, smart, funny and kind. But he also has commitment issues: meaning he doesn't wish to become One Thing with Mommy quite yet.

  Mommy had never heard of a dog with commitment issues. She drove to the animal shelter thinking she would get a beagle and name him Sherlock Dog (beagles being one of the classic detection dogs). She walked into the small-to-medium-sized-dog room and there was not one but two beagles, barking non-stop. This gave Mommy pause for thought: Sherlock could be talkative, certainly, but his words were always substantive. The sounds from the beagles seemed more like—just noise.

  She walked into the large dog room, and that room immediately erupted into barks and cage-rattling. But one dog (me) wasn't taking part: I was lying still on my stomach with my side pressed against the front of my cage. I was looking into my cage: thoughtfully, Mommy thought.

  I wasn't thinking: I was being hopeless, and with good reason. I had been abandoned twice. I had picked up on the fact that I was too old, big and black for most people's tastes. I simply saw no point in trying to ingratiate myself with this new person.

  Mommy stopped