Good Boy, "A Murdog Mystery" 10x11
George had always looked up to Detective Murdoch. He admired his confidence. His attention to detail, and his creativity and ingenuity. The detective never spoke to him like he was beneath him in rank, but always like they were on equal footing.
But this…this was just unacceptable behavior. In ten years, George had never seen anything so appalling from Detective William Murdoch.
What kind of a man didn't like dogs?!
George patted Pistachio on the head. George had wrapped the leash around the arm of his chair, but surprisingly, the retriever hadn't moved, instead waiting patiently by his side. Good girl, he smiled. "How can the Detective not love a good dog like you?" he praised Pistachio quietly. The dog's tongue lolled out and big, bright eyes stared up at the constable.
George loved dogs. As a child in Newfoundland, he'd wanted one so badly that he'd resorted to having an imaginary one (Aunt Petunia was allergic, as was the reverend). He used to run up and down the cliffsides, Roger (a big, fluffy St. John's water dog) by his side. Roger slept under his bed at the rectory. Aunt Nettle had a couple of real dogs on the farm in Haileybury when George had lived with her for a time before coming to Toronto, and the happiest moments of his life had been running around outside on her property with her big golden retriever (King, he recalled fondly, so named because Aunt Nettle thought he looked regal when he sat in front of the barn doors), nipping at his heels.
He thought about Violet. Violet had been a wonderful dog, always greeting him at the door of his boarding house before Mrs. Keening had changed the policy to no pets allowed. George had kept her for nearly five years after taking over her care from Edna. It had been so devastating to lose her that he'd asked for time off to grieve. He'd given Violet to the Toronto Humane Society, and had checked in nearly every day on his rounds until he'd been informed that Violet had gone to a good home.
Dogs were wonderful. They were 'man's best friend' for a reason, George thought to himself. The clock on the wall showed it was nearly time to clock out for the day. He looked at Pistachio. Pistachio looked up at him, a big smile on her face.
George leaned back in his chair, a plan forming. He grinned down at the dog. "I have an idea, and you're going to play along," he told her. He got up, unwound the leash from the arm of his chair, and walked Pistachio back to the interview room, where Detective Murdoch was just coming out after talking to Miss Newsome. "Sir. How did it go?"
Murdoch looked perplexed. "There were no traces of blood on the grooming scissors."
"So…Ruth Newsome's scissors were not the murder weapon?"
"Not unless she did a very good job of cleaning them," Murdoch said.
Henry'll be pleased to hear that, George thought mischievously. He waited while the detective spoke to Detective Watts. Pistachio sat attentively next to him. He winked at the dog. It's almost our turn.
Watts walked away, and George seized the moment. "Sir. I'm, ah, wondering what to do with Pistachio now that her owner is dead." Pistachio perked at her name.
Murdoch eyed her warily. "Can't her handler take her?"
"I understand Mr. DuBois is still recovering from his recent poisoning," George explained.
"Right. Then…perhaps she could stay with you for the night?"
"Oh, sir, I would love to," George began, injecting a hint of sadness into his voice, "but my landlady no longer allows animals."
The detective was starting to look annoyed, or desperate, George couldn't tell which. "Well then, I'm sure one of the other owners can keep her until Mr. DuBois can reclaim her."
George looked aghast. "Sir, one of the other owners is likely the poisoner. We can hardly take that chance!"
"Right." George waited, watching the detective mull it over. He eyed George, who maintained a neutral expression. "What are you suggesting?" Murdoch asked him finally.
"Well…." George drew the word out into a couple of syllables. "I believe your hotel allows, pets, sir?" he suggested innocently.
Murdoch shook his head, looking offended by the insinuation. "They may." George wondered just what it was the detective had against they. They seemed to come up a lot in recent conversation lately. "I do not," he continued, and it was all George could do not to burst out with, For God's sake, man, what do you have against dogs?!
George sighed, maybe a little overexaggerated. "Oh. All right…I suppose…suppose I'll stay here with her."
"Here?"
George nodded. "I'll bunk down in one of the cells, I suppose," he suggested, patting Pistachio on the head.
Murdoch studied him, trying to decide, George supposed, if he was indeed serious about this. "Very well," he said slowly.
George pivoted, the dog instantly at his heel. He took a few steps toward the cells, then turned back to the detective. "I won't get much sleep tonight sir," he said carefully. "I may not be at my best tomorrow," he added, injecting just a hint of a whine into his voice. His younger self would be so proud of him.
As if picking up on his (albeit false) tone, Pistachio lay down on all fours on the floor, looked up at Murdoch, and whined sadly.
George shot the dog a sympathetic smile, then turned to leave.
"George."
It was all he could do to hide his smile. He handed the leash over to the detective, feigning an "I'm so appreciative of this, you won't regret it," grateful expression, and then pressed his fist to his mouth to keep from laughing out loud as Murdoch awkwardly walked Pistachio out of the station.
George whistled a tune as he walked over to his desk to pick up his helmet. You just wait. One night with you, Pistachio, and you'll have the Detective trained to love you!
Author's Note: Nerd alert :) I actually felt the need to go research Newfoundland dogs for this chapter. George calling "Roger" a St. John's water dog might not be too far off the mark, as Newfoundlands are native to the island and are descended from an indigenous dog known as the St. John's dog. And apparently they're great swimmers. Also, Newfies (the dog) are known to be very loyal and good working dogs...traits they share with our favorite Newfoundland-born constable!