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December 25, 2023

Recidivism

Craig Johnson

Munching on caramel-corn I studied the individual in question, but like most of the guilty he wouldn’t make eye- contact with me. “The act of repeated undesirable behavior after experiencing negative consequences of your actions such as the percentage of prisoners who are arrested for similar offenses, or, in the parlance of the law -- repeat offenders.” I glanced at Mary Jo who covered a grin but then snapped her fingers at him. “Harry, you need to pay attention here.” He looked at her for a moment and then gazed sadly at the floor and then back to me. “Harry, you have to stop doing this. First of all, it is a felony charge to escape from custody, and that’s compounded by breaking and entering. . .” Mary Jo sipped her coffee. “He didn’t really break, he just entered.” I glanced at the director of the Durant Home for Assisted Living, who was wearing her jaunty Santa Claus hat, letting her know that her input wasn’t particularly needed at this juncture in the interrogation. She shrugged. “Well, he didn’t. I just come in, and he’s over there on the reception area sofa, sound asleep.” I turned back to the lawbreaker as Louie Prima swung out What will Santa Clause Say on the intercom system. “Harry, everybody’s starting to lose patience with you.” His eyes returned to the carpet, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him -- it was cold outside this morning and every time you walked by the glass double-doors of the Durant Home for Assisted Living the things opened. He offered me his paw. I took the paw but also glanced back at the director. “Is his name really Harry?” She shrugged. “Nobody knows, but when I called the animal shelter that’s how they referred to him. Short for Houdini, I guess, because he seems to be able to escape from anything.” “What is this, the fourth time?” She nodded, the fur ball on her tasseled head bobbing. “Fifth.” My eyes went back to the aged mutt, part Lab and who knew what else. “He seems like a nice old guy, it’s a shame they can’t find a home for him.” “Beth over at the shelter says he shows all the indications of being abused and it’s harder with the older dogs; people want puppies, especially this time of year.” I reached out and stroked Harry’s greying muzzle. “How come you guys don’t take him?” “I’d love to, but we can’t, it’s against state rules. Besides, one of the clients has complained.” I ran my hand over Harry’s head and felt the bumps or birdshot where they said somebody had used him for target practice. “Who?” She rolled her eyes. “That man in room 32.” I sat back in my chair. “Lucian? He never complains about my dog.” “Your dog is a visitor not a resident; I got an ear-full about it at my desk yesterday. Evidently, the Sheriff feels it’s unsanitary to have pets in the facility full-time.” I made a face and stood, my gun belt creaking as the dog looked up at me with a somber expression as I walked over to the front desk to get another handful of caramel- corn and thumbed through the pages in the reception book, absentmindedly reading the names and times of the people who had gone in and out of the facility. “Do you have the leash?” She sidled to one side, pulled a nylon loop from behind her and handed it to me. “Don’t you need another dog in your life, Walt?” “Not really -- mine sulks whenever another one is around.” She stooped down, gently ruffling the mutt’s ears and looking into his sad eyes. “You hang in there, Harry, there’s somebody who’s looking for a dog just like you.” I slipped the loop around his neck and then turned to start down the hallway in the opposite direction of the front doors, Harry walking along beside me like a condemned prisoner on death row. “Don’t worry, we’re just going to have a word with somebody before I have to take you back.” Outside room 32, I knocked and then waited. It was early, but I knew he’d be up. My old boss and the previous Sheriff of Absaroka County had never slept past 6 A.M. in his life. I knocked again, and the door was snatched open. “Who in the holy hell...” Holding his bathrobe and his four-prong cane, he stood there with a face half-covered in Barbasol shaving cream, at first staring at me and then down at the prisoner.“ ...Again?” “Good morning, Lucian and Merry Christmas.” I gestured with the leash. “I got you a dog.” The old sheriff leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms and frowning at me. “I suppose you think this situation is humorous.” I shrugged. “The poor ol’ guy just needs a place to go to, and I can’t believe you’re the one who has a problem with him being around here.” Harry actually looked up at the aged Doolittle Raider and slowly wagged his tail, even going so far as to nose the pocket of his tattered robe, but Lucian pushed his head away. “That dog has no place in this facility -- it’ll just lead to trouble.” I leaned against the doorway in a confidential way. “You know, you hold a lot of sway around this place, and if you were to say it was all right..." “No, now get him out of here and back over to the pound where he belongs.” I stared at Lucian and then started back down the hallway with the prisoner. He called after me. “When’s dinner?” Turning, I gave him a moment to indicate that I wasn’t completely happy with him. “Cady says she and Lola will be up here around four, and Vic is already cooking her Tuscan-Style roast turkey -- I’m assuming we’ll be eating around five.” “You’ll come and get me at 4:30?” “I will. Do you suppose you’ll be ready?” My answer was the door slamming in my face as I glanced back down at Harry and started off. “I don’t know why you’d want to live with him anyway.” *** The Durant Animal Shelter was only a quarter of a mile down the road but was across a steady stream of traffic which gave even more bewilderment to Harry’s ability to get to the old folk’s home, as Lucian referred to it, in the middle of the night. The high school kid who worked evenings, weekends, and holidays was waiting, clutching a paperback at the door when I arrived. “Merry Christmas, Patrick.” “Hey, Sheriff.” He held the door open and I led Harry into the office and down the hallway to kennel #5, where the young man opened the door and held it for the dog. Harry glanced up at me as I slipped off the leash and then looked at Patrick, resigning himself to enter the concrete stall where he laid down, curled up and then stared at the wall, utterly forlorn. I studied the kennel with its concrete walls, floor, and chain-link doorway leading inside to where we now stood. “How do you suppose he does it?” “We have no idea.” The kid shook his head. “We just come in in the morning, and he’s gone.” I kneeled down in order to look at the small doorway that led to the outside portion of Harry’s tiny world. “Are you the one who named him?” “Yes, Sir.” He held up the paperback. “I’ve been reading about him -- Houdini, I mean. His real name was Erich Weiss, and his father was a Rabbi who moved from Hungary to Wisconsin.” Patrick thumbed through the pages. “He could hold his breath for over four minutes.” Continuing to study the tiny gulag, I gestured toward the opening with the flap. “The small door here, what keeps Harry from going through that at night?” “It’s locked, there’s a board we put across that holds all of the kennels shut.” “And it’s still in place when you come back in the mornings?” “Yeah.” “Show me.” Patrick walked us through a side door at the end of the hall which led onto a sidewalk where a two-by-eight piece of painted lumber was hinged on one end and propped up with an L-shaped brace. Taking hold of the metal handle, I watched as he lifted it and then settled it into a lower bracket where it barred the movement of the entire row of kennel doors. “There’s no way they can get out with this thing in place.” “And the only way to open it is from here?” “Yeah.” Glancing at the gentle coating of snow that was continuing to fall on the end of the concrete, I could see a pattern of four circular impressions buried there as the young man joined me. “It’s a shame.” I turned to look at Patrick. “What’s that?” “We’re a no-kill shelter, but Harry’s been here so long that he’s getting transferred and he’ll probably end up in a kill facility.” “When does he get transferred?” “Monday.” *** “I can’t Dad, it’s a rental and nobody is there all day -- I’m at work and Lola is at daycare.” I took another sip of wine and watched as Lucian continued to eat another helping of the Tuscan turkey, spinach casserole, and pine-nut Brussels sprouts. “Do they ever feed you over at that place, Lucian?” He paused chewing long enough to deliver a proclamation. “Not food like this.” Vic carried a dessert from the kitchen and placed it on the table. “I’m glad to hear you say that old man.” He lifted his own glass of Chianti. “My compliments to the chef.” He then reached across and poked my granddaughter’s nose with a forefinger. She giggled and dropped a piece of turkey which was immediately devoured by Dog, the Great White Shark wannabe who lurked adjacent to Lola’s booster seat. Vic, who sat opposite me, lifted her glass of red and took a strong slug. “So, why has this pound dog become such a cause célèbre?” “Harry, his name is Harry.” I glanced out the windows where it continued to snow gently. “I just feel sorry for the old guy. It’s the holidays, and he’s sitting over there in a concrete cell with no one who cares about him.” Vic continued sipping her wine. “And this, Sheriff, is a unique situation because?” I smiled. “He didn’t do anything to belong there, Undersheriff.” Glancing back at the assembled group, I noticed Lucian surreptitiously sneaking turkey pieces into a Zip-Lock bag for later, as if Vic wouldn’t be making him a to-go package. “Harry keeps escaping, which is enough of a miracle, but he also appears to have made up his mind to live over at the Home for Assisted Living, like that’s the place he needs to be.” Cady reached over and stroked her daughter’s hair. “Why a miracle?” “Well, when I dropped him off, I had a look around Harry’s kennel and there’s simply no way that dog can get out of that place and yet he does, night after night.” “Uncle Lucian, why don’t you let him come live with you guys, I’m sure the other clients would love having a dog around -- it might remind them of home." He leveled a gaze at her. “It is my home, and I don’t want some damn dog there.” “But it’s a privately owned facility.” He shook his head. “Still governed by state regulations that prohibit pets.” “But Uncle Lucian...” He suddenly began to stand, then struggling with his cane as he pushed away from the table, glanced at his wristwatch. “I would like to go home now.” We all stared at him, Vic the first to respond, gesturing toward the dessert. “I made tiramisu like you like.” Shrugging his coat on, he moved toward the front door of my tiny cabin, cranking on his hat. “I want to go home.” I stood. “Lucian...?” “Now.” Cady picked up Lola and came around the table. “Uncle Lucian, I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing up the subject.” He patted her arm and reached up to cup Lola’s chin in his hand. “I’m fine, I just need to get home. It’s Christmas, and it’s getting late, and I’m sure all of you have better things to do than babysit me.” Vic handed him a wrapped-up portion of the dessert. “Here, so you’ve got something to go with your bourbon when you get home, you cantankerous ole’ fart.” She reached an arm around him and gave him a hug before the three of them watched me usher him out the door and into my truck. *** “Harry is getting transferred on Monday.” The snow had stopped, but the roads were still slick, and I drove slowly through the empty streets. “I just thought you’d like to know.” Lucian starred through the windshield, watching the wipers as they kept time with our travels. “Transferred?” “Yep, the kid at the shelter said Harry had been there so long they were going to have to ship him off to a kill shelter and that he probably won’t last long there.” He took a few moments to answer. “Probably for the best.” I pulled up to the front door of the Home and then started to put the truck in PARK when he reached a hand out. “You don’t have to walk me in, I ain’t yer damn prom date.” I watched as he softly shut the door and then hobbled on his cane, careful not to slip on the shoveled sidewalk as his boots crunched on the salt melt as the doors opened and closed, the Home for Assisted Living swallowing him up. Looking down, I saw the dessert Vic had made, carefully wrapped in tinfoil, still setting there on the center console. *** There were no lights on the back of the building, and the streetlights from the busy road didn’t reach the area, so it was easy to stay in the shadows. It was getting late, but there was no wind and the temperature had leveled off in the comfortable high twenties. I stood there eating the tiramisu with the plastic fork Vic had thoughtfully provided and spotted the familiar individual as he made his way across the road and then followed the sidewalk until he cut across the vacant lot making a beeline directly toward me. I checked my pocket watch but continued eating because I knew it would take a while for him to codger over. Approaching, he walked past the kennels, and I watched as he stopped at the end and then lifted the board from the brace. Like clockwork, Harry plunged through the opening, his door flapping behind him as he approached the chain-link fence. The dog paused for a moment, looking in my direction as he no doubt smelled me or the tiramisu, and then leapt up the fence, climbing over to land on the other side and then wag at his partner in crime who pulled pieces of turkey out and fed them to him from the plastic bag. “...You know, you’re kind of a repeat offender yourself.” He started at the sound of my voice but didn’t turn and continued to feed the dog. “First off, you’ve never taken food from the table. Second, Harry hasn’t approached a single person except you in the entire time I’ve known him. Third, you’ve never left Victoria Moretti’s tiramisu behind in your life. Fourth, that four-prong cane of yours leaves highly discernible tracks in the snow -- and five?” I took the final bite of his dessert and then walked over toward him, folding the fork up in the foil and depositing it in the breast pocket of his coat with a gentle pat. “When you go out on these little midnight jaunts, don’t sign in and out in the front desk register.” He continued feeding the dog. “The lady doth protest too much.” I reached down and ruffled the dog’s floppy ears. “I guess you figured if you kicked up enough of a fuss and then changed your mind, it’d swing the whole thing in your favor and poor Harry here would’ve found his forever home with assisted living.” Reaching into his other pocket, I watched as the old sheriff took out an expensive leather leash and then clicked the clasp onto Harry’s collar, leading the aged dog across the snow-covered field and back toward their home as if I’d never been there at all. I smiled after the two of them, shaking my head. “Merry Christmas, Lucian -- and you too, Harry.” Return to Post-Its

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December 25, 2023

Recidivism

Craig Johnson

Munching on caramel-corn I studied the individual in question, but like most of the guilty he wouldn’t make eye-contact with me. “The act of repeated undesirable behavior after experiencing negative consequences of your actions such as the percentage of prisoners who are arrested for similar offenses, or, in the parlance of the law -- repeat offenders.” I glanced at Mary Jo who covered a grin but then snapped her fingers at him. “Harry, you need to pay attention here.” He looked at her for a moment and then gazed sadly at the floor and then back to me. “Harry, you have to stop doing this. First of all, it is a felony charge to escape from custody, and that’s compounded by breaking and entering. . .” Mary Jo sipped her coffee. “He didn’t really break, he just entered.” I glanced at the director of the Durant Home for Assisted Living, who was wearing her jaunty Santa Claus hat, letting her know that her input wasn’t particularly needed at this juncture in the interrogation. She shrugged. “Well, he didn’t. I just come in, and he’s over there on the reception area sofa, sound asleep.” I turned back to the lawbreaker as Louie Prima swung out What will Santa Clause Say on the intercom system. “Harry, everybody’s starting to lose patience with you.” His eyes returned to the carpet, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him -- it was cold outside this morning and every time you walked by the glass double- doors of the Durant Home for Assisted Living the things opened. He offered me his paw. I took the paw but also glanced back at the director. “Is his name really Harry?” She shrugged. “Nobody knows, but when I called the animal shelter that’s how they referred to him. Short for Houdini, I guess, because he seems to be able to escape from anything.” “What is this, the fourth time?” She nodded, the fur ball on her tasseled head bobbing. “Fifth.” My eyes went back to the aged mutt, part Lab and who knew what else. “He seems like a nice old guy, it’s a shame they can’t find a home for him.” “Beth over at the shelter says he shows all the indications of being abused and it’s harder with the older dogs; people want puppies, especially this time of year.” I reached out and stroked Harry’s greying muzzle. “How come you guys don’t take him?” “I’d love to, but we can’t, it’s against state rules. Besides, one of the clients has complained.” I ran my hand over Harry’s head and felt the bumps or birdshot where they said somebody had used him for target practice. “Who?” She rolled her eyes. “That man in room 32.” I sat back in my chair. “Lucian? He never complains about my dog.” “Your dog is a visitor not a resident; I got an ear-full about it at my desk yesterday. Evidently, the Sheriff feels it’s unsanitary to have pets in the facility full-time.” I made a face and stood, my gun belt creaking as the dog looked up at me with a somber expression as I walked over to the front desk to get another handful of caramel-corn and thumbed through the pages in the reception book, absentmindedly reading the names and times of the people who had gone in and out of the facility. “Do you have the leash?” She sidled to one side, pulled a nylon loop from behind her and handed it to me. “Don’t you need another dog in your life, Walt?” “Not really -- mine sulks whenever another one is around.” She stooped down, gently ruffling the mutt’s ears and looking into his sad eyes. “You hang in there, Harry, there’s somebody who’s looking for a dog just like you.” I slipped the loop around his neck and then turned to start down the hallway in the opposite direction of the front doors, Harry walking along beside me like a condemned prisoner on death row. “Don’t worry, we’re just going to have a word with somebody before I have to take you back.” Outside room 32, I knocked and then waited. It was early, but I knew he’d be up. My old boss and the previous Sheriff of Absaroka County had never slept past 6 A.M. in his life. I knocked again, and the door was snatched open. “Who in the holy hell...” Holding his bathrobe and his four-prong cane, he stood there with a face half-covered in Barbasol shaving cream, at first staring at me and then down at the prisoner.“ ...Again?” “Good morning, Lucian and Merry Christmas.” I gestured with the leash. “I got you a dog.” The old sheriff leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms and frowning at me. “I suppose you think this situation is humorous.” I shrugged. “The poor ol’ guy just needs a place to go to, and I can’t believe you’re the one who has a problem with him being around here.” Harry actually looked up at the aged Doolittle Raider and slowly wagged his tail, even going so far as to nose the pocket of his tattered robe, but Lucian pushed his head away. “That dog has no place in this facility -- it’ll just lead to trouble.” I leaned against the doorway in a confidential way. “You know, you hold a lot of sway around this place, and if you were to say it was all right..." “No, now get him out of here and back over to the pound where he belongs.” I stared at Lucian and then started back down the hallway with the prisoner. He called after me. “When’s dinner?” Turning, I gave him a moment to indicate that I wasn’t completely happy with him. “Cady says she and Lola will be up here around four, and Vic is already cooking her Tuscan-Style roast turkey -- I’m assuming we’ll be eating around five.” “You’ll come and get me at 4:30?” “I will. Do you suppose you’ll be ready?” My answer was the door slamming in my face as I glanced back down at Harry and started off. “I don’t know why you’d want to live with him anyway.” *** The Durant Animal Shelter was only a quarter of a mile down the road but was across a steady stream of traffic which gave even more bewilderment to Harry’s ability to get to the old folk’s home, as Lucian referred to it, in the middle of the night. The high school kid who worked evenings, weekends, and holidays was waiting, clutching a paperback at the door when I arrived. “Merry Christmas, Patrick.” “Hey, Sheriff.” He held the door open and I led Harry into the office and down the hallway to kennel #5, where the young man opened the door and held it for the dog. Harry glanced up at me as I slipped off the leash and then looked at Patrick, resigning himself to enter the concrete stall where he laid down, curled up and then stared at the wall, utterly forlorn. I studied the kennel with its concrete walls, floor, and chain-link doorway leading inside to where we now stood. “How do you suppose he does it?” “We have no idea.” The kid shook his head. “We just come in in the morning, and he’s gone.” I kneeled down in order to look at the small doorway that led to the outside portion of Harry’s tiny world. “Are you the one who named him?” “Yes, Sir.” He held up the paperback. “I’ve been reading about him -- Houdini, I mean. His real name was Erich Weiss, and his father was a Rabbi who moved from Hungary to Wisconsin.” Patrick thumbed through the pages. “He could hold his breath for over four minutes.” Continuing to study the tiny gulag, I gestured toward the opening with the flap. “The small door here, what keeps Harry from going through that at night?” “It’s locked, there’s a board we put across that holds all of the kennels shut.” “And it’s still in place when you come back in the mornings?” “Yeah.” “Show me.” Patrick walked us through a side door at the end of the hall which led onto a sidewalk where a two-by-eight piece of painted lumber was hinged on one end and propped up with an L-shaped brace. Taking hold of the metal handle, I watched as he lifted it and then settled it into a lower bracket where it barred the movement of the entire row of kennel doors. “There’s no way they can get out with this thing in place.” “And the only way to open it is from here?” “Yeah.” Glancing at the gentle coating of snow that was continuing to fall on the end of the concrete, I could see a pattern of four circular impressions buried there as the young man joined me. “It’s a shame.” I turned to look at Patrick. “What’s that?” “We’re a no-kill shelter, but Harry’s been here so long that he’s getting transferred and he’ll probably end up in a kill facility.” “When does he get transferred?” “Monday.” *** “I can’t Dad, it’s a rental and nobody is there all day -- I’m at work and Lola is at daycare.” I took another sip of wine and watched as Lucian continued to eat another helping of the Tuscan turkey, spinach casserole, and pine-nut Brussels sprouts. “Do they ever feed you over at that place, Lucian?” He paused chewing long enough to deliver a proclamation. “Not food like this.” Vic carried a dessert from the kitchen and placed it on the table. “I’m glad to hear you say that old man.” He lifted his own glass of Chianti. “My compliments to the chef.” He then reached across and poked my granddaughter’s nose with a forefinger. She giggled and dropped a piece of turkey which was immediately devoured by Dog, the Great White Shark wannabe who lurked adjacent to Lola’s booster seat. Vic, who sat opposite me, lifted her glass of red and took a strong slug. “So, why has this pound dog become such a cause célèbre?” “Harry, his name is Harry.” I glanced out the windows where it continued to snow gently. “I just feel sorry for the old guy. It’s the holidays, and he’s sitting over there in a concrete cell with no one who cares about him.” Vic continued sipping her wine. “And this, Sheriff, is a unique situation because?” I smiled. “He didn’t do anything to belong there, Undersheriff.” Glancing back at the assembled group, I noticed Lucian surreptitiously sneaking turkey pieces into a Zip-Lock bag for later, as if Vic wouldn’t be making him a to-go package. “Harry keeps escaping, which is enough of a miracle, but he also appears to have made up his mind to live over at the Home for Assisted Living, like that’s the place he needs to be.” Cady reached over and stroked her daughter’s hair. “Why a miracle?” “Well, when I dropped him off, I had a look around Harry’s kennel and there’s simply no way that dog can get out of that place and yet he does, night after night.” “Uncle Lucian, why don’t you let him come live with you guys, I’m sure the other clients would love having a dog around -- it might remind them of home." He leveled a gaze at her. “It is my home, and I don’t want some damn dog there.” “But it’s a privately owned facility.” He shook his head. “Still governed by state regulations that prohibit pets.” “But Uncle Lucian...” He suddenly began to stand, then struggling with his cane as he pushed away from the table, glanced at his wristwatch. “I would like to go home now.” We all stared at him, Vic the first to respond, gesturing toward the dessert. “I made tiramisu like you like.” Shrugging his coat on, he moved toward the front door of my tiny cabin, cranking on his hat. “I want to go home.” I stood. “Lucian...?” “Now.” Cady picked up Lola and came around the table. “Uncle Lucian, I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing up the subject.” He patted her arm and reached up to cup Lola’s chin in his hand. “I’m fine, I just need to get home. It’s Christmas, and it’s getting late, and I’m sure all of you have better things to do than babysit me.” Vic handed him a wrapped-up portion of the dessert. “Here, so you’ve got something to go with your bourbon when you get home, you cantankerous ole’ fart.” She reached an arm around him and gave him a hug before the three of them watched me usher him out the door and into my truck. *** “Harry is getting transferred on Monday.” The snow had stopped, but the roads were still slick, and I drove slowly through the empty streets. “I just thought you’d like to know.” Lucian starred through the windshield, watching the wipers as they kept time with our travels. “Transferred?” “Yep, the kid at the shelter said Harry had been there so long they were going to have to ship him off to a kill shelter and that he probably won’t last long there.” He took a few moments to answer. “Probably for the best.” I pulled up to the front door of the Home and then started to put the truck in PARK when he reached a hand out. “You don’t have to walk me in, I ain’t yer damn prom date.” I watched as he softly shut the door and then hobbled on his cane, careful not to slip on the shoveled sidewalk as his boots crunched on the salt melt as the doors opened and closed, the Home for Assisted Living swallowing him up. Looking down, I saw the dessert Vic had made, carefully wrapped in tinfoil, still setting there on the center console. *** There were no lights on the back of the building, and the streetlights from the busy road didn’t reach the area, so it was easy to stay in the shadows. It was getting late, but there was no wind and the temperature had leveled off in the comfortable high twenties. I stood there eating the tiramisu with the plastic fork Vic had thoughtfully provided and spotted the familiar individual as he made his way across the road and then followed the sidewalk until he cut across the vacant lot making a beeline directly toward me. I checked my pocket watch but continued eating because I knew it would take a while for him to codger over. Approaching, he walked past the kennels, and I watched as he stopped at the end and then lifted the board from the brace. Like clockwork, Harry plunged through the opening, his door flapping behind him as he approached the chain- link fence. The dog paused for a moment, looking in my direction as he no doubt smelled me or the tiramisu, and then leapt up the fence, climbing over to land on the other side and then wag at his partner in crime who pulled pieces of turkey out and fed them to him from the plastic bag. “...You know, you’re kind of a repeat offender yourself.” He started at the sound of my voice but didn’t turn and continued to feed the dog. “First off, you’ve never taken food from the table. Second, Harry hasn’t approached a single person except you in the entire time I’ve known him. Third, you’ve never left Victoria Moretti’s tiramisu behind in your life. Fourth, that four-prong cane of yours leaves highly discernible tracks in the snow -- and five?” I took the final bite of his dessert and then walked over toward him, folding the fork up in the foil and depositing it in the breast pocket of his coat with a gentle pat. “When you go out on these little midnight jaunts, don’t sign in and out in the front desk register.” He continued feeding the dog. “The lady doth protest too much.” I reached down and ruffled the dog’s floppy ears. “I guess you figured if you kicked up enough of a fuss and then changed your mind, it’d swing the whole thing in your favor and poor Harry here would’ve found his forever home with assisted living.” Reaching into his other pocket, I watched as the old sheriff took out an expensive leather leash and then clicked the clasp onto Harry’s collar, leading the aged dog across the snow-covered field and back toward their home as if I’d never been there at all. I smiled after the two of them, shaking my head. “Merry Christmas, Lucian -- and you too, Harry.” Return to Post-Its