It had been a long week and I was looking forward to relaxing at home with a cold beer and maybe a pizza. I put my suitcase by the door and wandered into the kitchen for my first brew. The house seemed unusually quiet to me as I popped the top on a Bud Lite.
That's when I realized that the damn dog wasn't around. That was pretty unusual. Normally she would have met me at the door, growling and threatening me with exposed fangs. I had started carrying treats in my pocket so I could persuade her to let me into my own house.
Why did I have a dog that pretty much hated me? I considered that situation as I began looking for the dog. I thought back to the day that my wife brought the dog home about six weeks prior.
"This is Margie. She's Tim's bitch, but we're going to be keeping her for awhile. Once you get to know her, she's really sweet," insisted my loving wife, as the dog sniffed my leg.
"I guess the obvious question is 'why?'. If I wanted a dog, I'd get a Labrador," I groused as I gave the dog a kick to get it away from my ankle.
"Margie! Out!" ordered my wife, Margaret, as our house guest clamped down on my calf with considerable pressure. At Margaret's command, she released me but kept her face uncomfortably close to my now bleeding calf.
"Tim has her trained very well. She'll listen to me perfectly. I think she's going to make me feel a lot safer, especially at night."
"Why the hell doesn't Tim keep her at his house?" I demanded as I pulled up my trouser cuff to examine the puncture wounds in my leg. "I don't want this mutt here and it's not going to stay. It bit me, for Christ's sake!"
"She won't bother you if you just behave civilly. Tim says that Pit Bulls have received a bad reputation because of a few jerks that didn't train their dogs properly. He can't keep her because he has a big male. He was preparing to mount Margie this morning when Tim stopped it. He said it would be best to keep them separated until he wants the bitch bred. He'll decide when he feels Margie is ready."
"I don't see why we have to have a damn vicious dog in the house because your boss is dumb enough to have both a male and female Pit Bull. Tell Tim that I put my foot down!" I demanded.
"Yeah, you put it down and Margie clamped onto it so fast your head swam," chuckled Margaret. "The dog stays. I promised Tim we'd take good care of it."
So began another reign of terror by yet another miserable bitch in my house. I had to be careful to not make any quick movements, or get too close to my wife. The dog was always watching me. She seemed to be waiting for me to slip up and give her an excuse to bite me. I had practically become a prisoner in my own home.
I took a swig of my beer and looked around the entire downstairs, but found no sign of the dog. My wife didn't respond to my calls either. When I reached the master bathroom, things began to take form. The floor was covered with dried blood. There were numerous places where blood had sprayed a few feet up the wall.
I looked around and found a small overnight bag next to my side of the bed. It contained men's toiletries and clothing. There were bloody footprints on the carpet and a fair amount of blood stains on the linens on the rumpled bed.
My beer was about gone, so I went back downstairs for another. As I popped the top, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a frumpy looking man in a cheap suit.
"Mr. Moore? May I come in and ask you a few questions? I'm Detective Cook. This will only take a few minutes."
"Are you with Interpol?" I quickly asked.
"No, and I don't give a damn about copied DVD's. I'm trying to get to the bottom of the vicious attack that took place here this morning."
