Guilty

I was shocked when I pulled into the parking lot of Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Café. Delbert P. Axelrod’s dog, Lucky, was lying in the ditch just off the highway with his three remaining legs sticking in the air.

I knew it was Lucky, because I recognized the eyepatch over his missing eye.

Delbert thought it gave him a more dashing look.

I parked and entered the café. Most of the Hunting Club members were already there, huddled in the large round corner booth like baby chicks and keeping a wary eye on the television news crew eating lunch at the counter.

I recognized the Talking Head at the counter, and had seen his cameraman from time to time, who also had an eyepatch, although it wasn’t as debonair as Lucky’s had been.

Choosing my words carefully, I gave Delbert the bad news. “Delbert. Lucky’s in the ditch. He looks like he’s dead.”

“He was fine a minute ago.” He frowned through the window.

“It doesn’t take long to get run over. He wasn’t fine when I pulled off the highway.”

Doc got that glint in his eye. “Did you hit him?”

“Of course not. If I’d run over him I would have told you.”

“But you just said he’s dead.” Delbert continued to stare out the window.

“Right, but I didn’t…”

I suddenly realized that the television camera was pointed in my direction and the Talking Head was adjusting his tie. He looked into the glass eye. “This just in, a tragic story unfolding in Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Café just off the route. Animal Cruelty on the Highways. More in a moment, back to you Henry.”

“Don’t do this to me.” I looked around for help. The Hunting Club members were smoothing wrinkles and patting their hair.

Gertrude Hildinger, our resident Bunnyhugger glared at me across the room. “It doesn’t surprise me. You hunters kill everything you see anyway.” She walked over to the reporter. “I know for a fact that he regularly kills deer.”

A loaded microphone was pointed at me. “Is there any truth to the accusations that you regularly kill deer? Isn’t hunting season over? What can you tell me?”

“Shut up?”

“Do you deny these heinous allegations?”

“He’ll hunt anything that runs from him.” Doc shook his head.

Gertrude was working herself up for a colossal attack. She whispered in his ear, and then spoke loud and clear. “That poor innocent animal is laying out there, a victim of your bloodlust and you’re just standing here waiting for lunch like you don’t have a care in the world.”

“I’m not waiting for lunch. I haven’t ordered yet.”

The Talking Head looked back into the camera. “Henry, we’re on the site of this breaking story of animal cruelty. At the present time the man before me has allegedly run down one of nature’s greatest gifts to mankind, a dog.”

He worked up a tear.

I think it was just a gas pain.

“Informed sources tell us that the suspect, Reavis Zane Wortham, we always use three names when speaking of assassins, has allegedly killed before.”

I began to worry. Constable Rick dropped by for coffee and joined the crowd to see what the all the fuss was about.

I edged toward the door, but Rick put his hand on my elbow and held me back. “You have to face the music.”

“Careful there Rick.” Doc pointed. “He carries a pocket knife.”

The Talking Head turned toward Delbert. The camera followed. “I’m here with the victim’s grieving owner, Delbert P. Axelrod. Delbert, I been told my an innocent bystander who truly loves animals that Lucky was one of those dogs that everyone loved. How do you feel about what happened virtually right before your very eyes, even though you weren’t looking at the time.”

Delbert worked up a tear. “I loved that dog, until Rev ran him down in cold blood.”

A flicker of movement near the ditch caught my attention through the window. “I didn’t kill your stupid dog, Delbert.”

Wrong Willie, Woodrow and Jerry Wayne pretended they didn’t know me.

“I’m shocked that Rev would do something so horrible,” Doreen said to Trixie, who is splendid.

“I did not run over Delbert’s stinking dog!” I crossed my arms, and feeling like a petulant child, decided it was a bad look. “And I’m not saying anything about it until I talk to an attorney. You guys are just giving me a Trial by Media.”

Talking Head ignored my accusation. “Can I quote you on that?”

“You can quote me on this…” I began and stopped.

In the background, Lucky, the dead dog, moved a paw. Then as if testing his faculties, he moved a second leg; then the third. Apparently satisfied with his success, Lucky slowly rolled over and staggered to his feet.

All forty-seven eyes and one camera turned toward the street. Lucky moseyed toward the café. He stopped when he reached the shade of the overhang. He yawned widely, turned around three times and settled in the shade for another nap.

The crowed applauded.

The Talking Head sighed for a moment, his story apparently alive and uninjured. He turned toward the camera, “You saw it here Henry, another animal victory over the Demon Hunter and his Devil-Car. This story has a happy ending. Back to you in the studio.”

“Can I buy you some coffee?” the Talking Head asked me. “I’d like to do a story on hunting dogs like Lucky, if I can.”

“Now that dog won’t hunt,” I deadpanned.