by Sam Cooper
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late during the dog days of summer, was sitting up at the breakfast table. We had just wolfed down our chow and I was brousing through a dog-earred copy of Shakespeare's play about that Great Dane, Hamlet. Holmes was reading about Darwin's recent voyage on the Beagle.
Suddenly Holmes, a former boxer, muttered the words, "That Basset!"
"What", I barked at this comment apparently made in heat. But then, Sherlock had always called a spade a spade.
"Sit Watson" snapped Holmes. I obeyed.
The Master doggedly recited the facts. He was being hounded into taking a case that neither Charlie Chan, the well known Pekinese detective, nor Hercule Periot, the famous Alsatian investigator, now residing in Brittany, could solve.
The fetching lassie involved had begged Holmes to help. He had setter down and carefully examined her tail.
The cur involved had tried to lead her astray. He had attempted to springer, pincher and cocker. This was more than puppy love. This was bad breeding! His name was Clawed.
A reward of many pounds had been offered, but Holmes' only motivation was to give the underdog a leg up and create a more humane society.
Holmes growled that we were starting from scratch, but that there must be a way to whippet so that the lassie could retriever honor and we could pointer in the right direction.
Being the man's best friend I had to go to his side. I reminded him that my former Afghan litter bearer, Ken L. Collie, A.K.C., was now at Saint Bernard's Hospital in London. He had related the tail of a Captain Schnauzer who had arrived in London on the German vessel Dauschaund sailing out of Labrador, Newfoundland and the Chesapeake Bay and had tried to put the bite on him. He was believed to now be in the Pyrenees or in Chihuahua, Mexico. He could worm his way into anyone's heart.
After a brief paws Holmes mentioned that the description of Schnauzer, wire-haired, mangy, pug-nosed, exactly fit the description of Clawed. Holmes was upon the scent like a bloodhound. His hackles were up and he clearly wanted to make the collar before Lastrade, who was undoubtedly barking up the wrong tree, figured it out.
This was sirius. Even as Holmes spoke this animal could be striking unleashed terrier in the city.
Holmes donned his houndstooth coat and muzzle loader. I followed at his heels and we went to the curb in front of 221 Baker Street. Ignoring the poodles, Holmes placed the morning copy of the Times on the cobblestones.
Holmes and I then proceeded to the door of apartment K-9 and watched people stray by as he hummed a bit of doggerel.
A husky German Shepherd who aroused my suspicions was dogmatically ignored by the master.
Holmes suddenly stopped a rover who had somehow rubbed him the wrong way. "Your papers, please", he demanded. The pedigree produced was that of a Pomeranian sailor from the Dalmatians serving on the Austrian ship Doberman. The old sea dog attempted to high tail it out of there.
"Stay", growled Holmes, "I have a bone to pick with you!"
Holmes pounced and the fur started to fly. The rabid stranger howled that he didn't even know the bitch. He was clearly ticked off and had started to flea, almost shaking Holmes. Holmes grabbed him by the throat and he rolled over and played dead.
A panting Lastrade, who up to now had been chasing his own tail, appeared and with a hangdog look led Clawed off to the yard for obedience training. "I'm out of the doghouse again", he snarled as he left.
Later, over a glass of Maltese whine I exclaimed, "But Holmes, he denied everything and only stopped to rest upon your copy of the Times! How did you do it?"
"Elementary Watson," sniffed Holmes, "sleeping dogs lie." It was one of his pet theories.
The Master was right, of course. He had worked like a dog to lick the case and bring the beast to heel, but it was nonetheless a highly irregular solution.