overzealous security cop had a hunch about a goofy-looking student who'd just asked the employee at the ticket counter some odd questions about luggage. Desmond was called in to do a little sniffing to satisfy the airport people who were still overwrought from a recent bomb scare involving a terrorist. Desmond was sitting there in the customs office doing his thing, which was dozing by the air conditioning, when Heidi came prancing in looking good. Looking for action.
Heidi was so stoked by her job that she cried in anticipation, she whimpered with impatience, she uttered little growls of ecstasy when she made a hit on a bag of dope. Desmond watched Heidi's heaving chest, her swelling hocks, the rippling of her neck as her black coat glistened in the light, and his bloodshot Mondale eyes popped round as Orphan Annie's.
His handler said later that he never guessed old Desmond was getting funny feelings in his tummy. His handler too was busy admiring Heidi, the way she'd rip into each piece of luggage and try to tear it to pieces before they could pull her away and seize the dope. But for certain, saliva was seeping over Desmond's floppy lips onto the floor. And the handler got the picture after he noticed what was hanging down all pink and shiny below Desmond's belly. Old Desmond had sprouted a woody!
Of course, bomb dogs are supposed to be the opposite of dope dogs. Bomb dogs are supposed to be docile, very docile. They're supposed to sniff the explosives and then calmly saunter away and sit right down, content to let the bomb experts do their thing.
It was on Heidi's fourth hit that it happened. Maybe Desmond just heard one too many of those incredibly sexy little growls, nobody knew for sure. Desmond went madly shockingly passionately honkers. While the loony student was repeating his "who me that's not my suitcase why are you treating me like this?" routine, Desmond let out a terrible howl.
They later realized it was his statement to Heidi: "You like real clangers? I'll show you a pair that gong like Big Ben!"
Desmond hit that suspicious suitcase like the Raiders blitz a quarterback.
The student didn't have to confess. They never had to advise him of his constitutional rights. The student shrieked, "N000000000!" and dropped like he was head-shot. So did Otto Stringer. So did all the narcs. So did the airport security cops, U . S . Customs officers, Desmond's handler, and everybody else with an I . Q . higher than Desmond's. Everybody except Heidi who stopped he r w ork and started admiring old Desmond, thinking he was looking pretty damn hot tossing that suitcase all over the room like that.
The contents as it turned out could have leveled that corner of the building. It didn't. And Desmond the hound was through checking luggage at the airport. And so was Otto Stringer, who said, "Thank you, but I already know about the power of pussy so I didn't have to see Desmond go ga-ga over Heidi. And I don't think I need any more scenes with jungle guys that oughtta be back home in coconut-shell jockstraps knocking down palm trees instead of cops. So I think I'll just go ahead and accept that transfer to Hollywood dicks. Scratch one dope cop.
Sidney Blackpool pulled up in Otto Stringer's driveway at 10:00 A . M . as promised. He was driving his Toyota Celica and wasn't nearly as sartorially splendid as Otto. Sidney Blackpool wore a navy-blue cotton golf shirt and tan cotton pants and loafers.
"You look devastating," he said to Otto, "but any more luggage and we rent a U-haul. We're loaded to the gunwales."
"I'd like to remind you we're going to Palm Springs, dah-ling!" Otto said, trying to cram his clubs into the backseat of the Toyota. "You got to arrive looking three under par. You really oughtta gussy up a bit, Sidney. I don't wanna be embarrassed."
"I bet a hundred baby argyles died in agony for that sweater," Sidney Blackpool said. "Wanna drive?"
"I'm too stoked," Otto said. "I didn't sleep three hours last night.
Heidi was so stoked by her job that she cried in anticipation, she whimpered with impatience, she uttered little growls of ecstasy when she made a hit on a bag of dope. Desmond watched Heidi's heaving chest, her swelling hocks, the rippling of her neck as her black coat glistened in the light, and his bloodshot Mondale eyes popped round as Orphan Annie's.
His handler said later that he never guessed old Desmond was getting funny feelings in his tummy. His handler too was busy admiring Heidi, the way she'd rip into each piece of luggage and try to tear it to pieces before they could pull her away and seize the dope. But for certain, saliva was seeping over Desmond's floppy lips onto the floor. And the handler got the picture after he noticed what was hanging down all pink and shiny below Desmond's belly. Old Desmond had sprouted a woody!
Of course, bomb dogs are supposed to be the opposite of dope dogs. Bomb dogs are supposed to be docile, very docile. They're supposed to sniff the explosives and then calmly saunter away and sit right down, content to let the bomb experts do their thing.
It was on Heidi's fourth hit that it happened. Maybe Desmond just heard one too many of those incredibly sexy little growls, nobody knew for sure. Desmond went madly shockingly passionately honkers. While the loony student was repeating his "who me that's not my suitcase why are you treating me like this?" routine, Desmond let out a terrible howl.
They later realized it was his statement to Heidi: "You like real clangers? I'll show you a pair that gong like Big Ben!"
Desmond hit that suspicious suitcase like the Raiders blitz a quarterback.
The student didn't have to confess. They never had to advise him of his constitutional rights. The student shrieked, "N000000000!" and dropped like he was head-shot. So did Otto Stringer. So did all the narcs. So did the airport security cops, U . S . Customs officers, Desmond's handler, and everybody else with an I . Q . higher than Desmond's. Everybody except Heidi who stopped he r w ork and started admiring old Desmond, thinking he was looking pretty damn hot tossing that suitcase all over the room like that.
The contents as it turned out could have leveled that corner of the building. It didn't. And Desmond the hound was through checking luggage at the airport. And so was Otto Stringer, who said, "Thank you, but I already know about the power of pussy so I didn't have to see Desmond go ga-ga over Heidi. And I don't think I need any more scenes with jungle guys that oughtta be back home in coconut-shell jockstraps knocking down palm trees instead of cops. So I think I'll just go ahead and accept that transfer to Hollywood dicks. Scratch one dope cop.
Sidney Blackpool pulled up in Otto Stringer's driveway at 10:00 A . M . as promised. He was driving his Toyota Celica and wasn't nearly as sartorially splendid as Otto. Sidney Blackpool wore a navy-blue cotton golf shirt and tan cotton pants and loafers.
"You look devastating," he said to Otto, "but any more luggage and we rent a U-haul. We're loaded to the gunwales."
"I'd like to remind you we're going to Palm Springs, dah-ling!" Otto said, trying to cram his clubs into the backseat of the Toyota. "You got to arrive looking three under par. You really oughtta gussy up a bit, Sidney. I don't wanna be embarrassed."
"I bet a hundred baby argyles died in agony for that sweater," Sidney Blackpool said. "Wanna drive?"
"I'm too stoked," Otto said. "I didn't sleep three hours last night.
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