Bones alone during the day, but when he did, Bones’s routine was fairly set in stone. He would investigate the trash cans along the side of the building and continue on to the ones in the alley. On the rare occasions when he was able to slip up to a rat, the German shepherd would snap it up in his jaws, often devouring it with a single bite.
The rest of Bones’s day would alternate between naps, more dumpster-diving, and the occasional jaunt all the way out to Mt. Washington or Grandview Park. There he would feast on picnic leftovers, the hoardings of the sleeping homeless, or even the occasional squirrel.
It wasn’t like a massive German shepherd with a police collar wasn’t noticed hauling ass across the various roadways of downtown Pittsburgh. Quite the opposite. Calls would go out to animal control, local police precincts, and even to 911 dispatchers. A truck
might
be sent out, but the phantom shepherd was never rounded up. The one time word had gotten back to Billy, he’d come home and found Bones right where he’d left him, so he’d forgotten all about it.
Today was different.
Billy had gotten the call from the assistant chief of operations the second he’d walked into the office. It was a paperwork day, hence leaving Bones at home for a change. When Billy’s phone rang, he figured it was some administrator breathing down his neck about dignitary security for the pope’s visit the following month. Apparently, the pontiff’s detail had contacted the mayor’s office and announced that PNC Park lacked even the most basic anti-terrorism defenses.
Yeah, well, don’t come to Pittsburgh next time, ya prick
, Billy thought.
“This is Youman,” he said, already sighing into the receiver.
“Hold for the assistant chief of operations,” came a voice.
Youman sat up straight.
What was
this
about?
“Sergeant Youman?” barked the voice of what could only be a career bureaucrat.
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re the K9?”
“Um, yes, sir.”
“What’s the name of your dog, or ‘partner,’ whatever you want to call it?”
Youman bristled. Half the department treated animal officers with the respect the sergeant believed was their due, likely because they’d worked with them in the field. The other half didn’t see any difference between them and the family pooch getting fat on Alpo and shitting on anthills back home.
“Bones, sir.”
“Bingo. You’re to deliver him to the airport. He’s being loaned to NYPD for a short-term operation. Human smuggling.”
“I’m not going with him?” Youman asked.
“They’ve got a handler there. NYPD is short of K9 units due to budget cuts. They put out a search. Your animal comes highly-recommended.”
“Is it dangerous, chief?”
“How the fuck should I know? Collect your dog. Get him to the airport. Pronto. You’ll be contacted en route as to flight number.”
The line went dead.
Billy slowly hung up the receiver, less than thrilled with the way he’d just been ordered around.
But that’s when he remembered Mitzi.
Mitzi, the chick in the property room who never missed an opportunity to flirt with him whenever he swung by. Mitzi, who had her tongue in his ear and her hands so far down his pants at the Christmas party that he spent the rest of the season getting a hard-on every time he heard “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Mitzi, who was allergic to dogs and had never made good on her promise to ditch her husband for a night to spend an evening doing nothing but sucking his balls while he watched
Thundercats
.
Maybe ditching the roommate for a week or two wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
So when Billy got home to an empty apartment, his frustration at finding Bones gone was compounded by a much greater factor than it might’ve been
sans
Mitzi.
“Bones!” Billy yelled in frustration.
He tromped over to the window and threw it open. Eyeing the ledge his shepherd must’ve used to further his escape, Billy couldn’t help
The rest of Bones’s day would alternate between naps, more dumpster-diving, and the occasional jaunt all the way out to Mt. Washington or Grandview Park. There he would feast on picnic leftovers, the hoardings of the sleeping homeless, or even the occasional squirrel.
It wasn’t like a massive German shepherd with a police collar wasn’t noticed hauling ass across the various roadways of downtown Pittsburgh. Quite the opposite. Calls would go out to animal control, local police precincts, and even to 911 dispatchers. A truck
might
be sent out, but the phantom shepherd was never rounded up. The one time word had gotten back to Billy, he’d come home and found Bones right where he’d left him, so he’d forgotten all about it.
Today was different.
Billy had gotten the call from the assistant chief of operations the second he’d walked into the office. It was a paperwork day, hence leaving Bones at home for a change. When Billy’s phone rang, he figured it was some administrator breathing down his neck about dignitary security for the pope’s visit the following month. Apparently, the pontiff’s detail had contacted the mayor’s office and announced that PNC Park lacked even the most basic anti-terrorism defenses.
Yeah, well, don’t come to Pittsburgh next time, ya prick
, Billy thought.
“This is Youman,” he said, already sighing into the receiver.
“Hold for the assistant chief of operations,” came a voice.
Youman sat up straight.
What was
this
about?
“Sergeant Youman?” barked the voice of what could only be a career bureaucrat.
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re the K9?”
“Um, yes, sir.”
“What’s the name of your dog, or ‘partner,’ whatever you want to call it?”
Youman bristled. Half the department treated animal officers with the respect the sergeant believed was their due, likely because they’d worked with them in the field. The other half didn’t see any difference between them and the family pooch getting fat on Alpo and shitting on anthills back home.
“Bones, sir.”
“Bingo. You’re to deliver him to the airport. He’s being loaned to NYPD for a short-term operation. Human smuggling.”
“I’m not going with him?” Youman asked.
“They’ve got a handler there. NYPD is short of K9 units due to budget cuts. They put out a search. Your animal comes highly-recommended.”
“Is it dangerous, chief?”
“How the fuck should I know? Collect your dog. Get him to the airport. Pronto. You’ll be contacted en route as to flight number.”
The line went dead.
Billy slowly hung up the receiver, less than thrilled with the way he’d just been ordered around.
But that’s when he remembered Mitzi.
Mitzi, the chick in the property room who never missed an opportunity to flirt with him whenever he swung by. Mitzi, who had her tongue in his ear and her hands so far down his pants at the Christmas party that he spent the rest of the season getting a hard-on every time he heard “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Mitzi, who was allergic to dogs and had never made good on her promise to ditch her husband for a night to spend an evening doing nothing but sucking his balls while he watched
Thundercats
.
Maybe ditching the roommate for a week or two wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
So when Billy got home to an empty apartment, his frustration at finding Bones gone was compounded by a much greater factor than it might’ve been
sans
Mitzi.
“Bones!” Billy yelled in frustration.
He tromped over to the window and threw it open. Eyeing the ledge his shepherd must’ve used to further his escape, Billy couldn’t help
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