Chet The Dog

Posts Tagged ‘Mesquite Rd.’

Homing In

“So where are we headed?” Bernie said. We were in Ray’s car, Ray driving, Bernie beside him, me in back.

Ray glanced at the note Bernie had written on the cocktail napkin. He licked his lips. “How about if that’s a surprise?”

Bernie smiled a little smile. But I didn’t get the surprise part because just before we made any move, like getting off the freeway or turning onto a street, Bernie pointed out the direction. So Bernie was in control, right? Well, why not? When Bernie was in control everything worked out. This urge I was having to kind of sink my teeth into the back of Ray’s neck gradually subsided.

And soon, guess what? We turned onto our own street, Mesquite Road. We were going home? Home is the hunter, Bernie says. Don’t know why that popped into my mind. The mind: a subject for another time.

Flying Objects: None

“Kirby T. Penworthy picked up on the elephant-pattern rug thing,” Admin says.

“Wow,” says Spence.

I know what they’re talking about – the rug in the office. This is at our place – Bernie’s and mine – on Mesquite Road. A great place – wouldn’t live anywhere else, unless Bernie did – with the canyon out back. I can smell a javelina at the moment, in fact.

“Some of the plunderers also think we’ve written ourselves into a corner,” Admin says.

“What do you think?” says Spence.

“Even money,” says Admin. “How was BarkWorld?”

“Hard to describe. Twitter was big – the whole thing was being twittered in real time by just about everybody on this big screen. All the speakers had lots of hi-tech stuff going on.”

“Except you.”

“Correct. I mostly talked about the plunderers and then I read that scene at the start of Chapter 5 in Dog On It.”

“How did that go?

“No one threw anything.”

“Cheers.”

Thanks, Seth.

Where The Heart Is

“A one night stand,” said Colonel Bob. “But memorable – and not just because I shipped out the next day.”

“Did you see her when you got leave?” Bernie said.

Colonel Bob shook his head. “I never went back home – there wasn’t anything left there for me.”

Not going back home? I didn’t get that at all. I love home! Our place is on Mesquite Road and backs right onto the canyon. The fun we have out there, me and Bernie! I thought about canyon fun for a while and when the while was over Bernie and Colonel Bob were talking about DNA. DNA comes up in our work from time to time – we’re partners in the Little Detective Agency, me and Bernie – but what it is exactly I’ll leave to you.

Mr. Singh: From Thereby Hangs A Tail

Last night we watched this movie called The Pawnbroker. It didn’t remind me of Mr. Singh at all. Also I didn’t understand it one bit, and afterward Bernie seemed depressed. So here’s Mr. Singh.

“Bernie! Chet!” said Mr. Singh. “How is our beautiful timepiece today?”

Bernie handed over his grandfather’s watch. His grandfather once owned a big ranch where Mesquite Road and our whole neighborhood was now, but lost everything, possibly because of a drinking problem, although the drinking problem might have come from some other story Bernie had told me, a story about another relative. But not Bernie’s father. Bernie never talked about his father, who’d been dead for a long time. Bernie’s mother was still around. I’d met her once: a piece of work. She lived somewhere far away with a new husband, or an even newer one. She called Bernie Kiddo! What was up with that? But I still shouldn’t have done what I did, a story perhaps for another time.

Mr. Singh held the watch in both hands, admiring it. “Do you know that only a dozen of these were made?” he said. “How I would love to take this on Antiques Roadshow.” Mr. Singh had a strange way of talking, almost like music. I could listen to him all day. “Did you ever find out how it came into his possession?” he said.

“No,” said Bernie.

“Thereby hangs a tale, I’m sure,” said Mr. Singh.

A tail? Was Mr. Singh saying Bernie’s grandfather’s watch had a tail? Fun to listen to, Mr. Singh, but hard to understand. We left, a big wad of cash in Bernie’s pocket and a bite or two of curried goat kebab in my mouth. I like ethnic food. So does Bernie. There are picky eaters out there, but not us.