Dogtective William in New York. Elizabeth Wasserman

      William’s Request

      “I need a bath,” William announced.

      “A what?” I asked, astonished.

      “You heard me. And brush me afterwards, please. May I use some of your toothpaste?”

      Was my dog ill? Was he having a stroke or had he picked up some deadly germ? I felt his nose. I have heard that dogs’ noses are hot and dry if they have a fever.

      William’s nose was definitely wet.

      I wiped my hand on my pants and gave him a concerned look. “What’s up, William? I know you hate to be washed. You only allow it when Mom threatens to take you to the Poodle Palace if I don’t bath you myself.”

      Poodle Palace was our local doggy parlour. Once, when my dad had to entertain some important people from work, my mom took William there to be groomed. When we went to fetch him, he was furious. He had a pink bow in his hair and the lady at the reception said to my mom: “There’s your lovely girl! You can take her home now!”

      He had to wait until we got home before he could protest. You don’t meet a talking dog every day, and the owner of the parlour would have had a heart attack if William had told her outright what he thought of her treatment of him. He may have thought of that as justified payback for the humiliation, but there were rules.

      Dogtectives have to be discreet, whatever happens.

      Since then we had an agreement: I bathed him every second Saturday, and the Saturday in between he was thoroughly brushed. This kept his natural dog aroma at bay, and we managed to avoid a repetition of his disgrace at the hands of the poodle lady.

      But it was a Friday, and William had had his bath the previous week.

      “Are you going to bath me, or not?” he asked.

      I smelled a rat. “William, are you trying to impress that little furry one down the road?”

      “Don’t be silly. I’ve got a girlfriend, even if she now stays in England. And what makes you think that female dogs like all this fussy shampoo and stuff?”

      I checked his nose again. Definitely wet. Maybe he had a different kind of disease.

      I dragged the plastic bath to the back lawn and fetched the garden hose.

      “Warm water, if you please,” he said.

      At times I really wished that William was not able to talk. He could be worse than my mom. Do this, do that, hurry up!

      As soon as it was ready, he stepped into the bath all by himself. I poured some more lukewarm water over his back with a watering can and started to rub soap into his fur.

      “What’s all of this about?” I asked again.

      “Tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock I need to be taken to the town hall. There is a dog show and I have entered myself.”

      “A what?” I asked. It was worse than I thought. Dad would have to take him to the vet.

      “I am the most handsome spaniel in the country, you must surely know that. And spaniels are the best breed of all. Therefore it is only logical that I shall win. The score of the champion dog will be compared to those of the other finalists from all over the country, and the one with the highest marks will be sent to compete in the International Dog Show.”

      “Which will be held where?” I asked.

      “In New York.”

      New York! The mere thought of that wondrous city made me scrub him so hard that soap suds flew in all directions. William closed his eyes with pleasure: like all dogs, he loved a good back rub.

      “But William, be realistic. I don’t think that you will actually win.”

      “What do you mean?” he growled.

      “Well, as far as I can tell, you may be a thoroughbred. Perhaps. But you don’t have any papers and … you aren’t too young anymore.”

      I tried to put this to him gently. William was a spotted spaniel. Around here people thought that he was just a stray that we found at the SPCA. He was already more than seven human years old, which was middle-aged in dog years. On top of that, it couldn’t be denied that he was more than just a bit chubby.

      “I am a blue-blood dogtective. They would be lucky to have an entry like me!”

      William had a high opinion of himself. He was self-centred and arrogant. But willingly enter a beauty pageant? No way!

      “William, why do you want to go to New York?”

      He gave me no answer.

      The Dog Show

      When my mom got back from her book club, she immediately sensed that something strange was going on. William was waiting for her at the front door. His curly hair was brushed smooth and I had sprinkled a bit of my dad’s aftershave on his ears.

      It may have been a few drops too many.

      “My goodness!” she took a few steps backwards on her heels.

      “Doesn’t he look dashing, Mom?” I asked.

      “Dashing” was a safe word. William could be sensitive about the way people described him.

      “Hmm … He does look cute!” my mother said, unwittingly choosing the word he hated most. William cringed. I grinned.

      “Alex,” my mom said, suddenly wary, “what are you two up to?”

      I pulled a long face. Can a guy not even groom his dog without being suspected of ulterior motives? But then again, she was right. We were up to something. “Can you please take us to the town hall tomorrow morning? There is a dog show …”

      “A dog show?” She asked.

      William sighed and walked away, leaving me to negotiate further. He was clearly fed up with everyone’s reaction to the thought of him taking part in the doggy version of a beauty competition.

      “Eleven o’clock?” My mom said. “Well, I have a tennis date but I can drop you there on the way.”

      “Perfect. Thank you, Mom!”

      I felt relieved that she would not be going with us. Moms could get in the way, and maybe some

       of the other kids

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