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crazy. Those people have plenty of money to buy their own dog.”
    “Not if they don’t ever leave that house.”
    Maggie tipped back her glass, getting the last drops of the cool, sweet drink. “So, what do you say we go and visit just to see if they’ve seen the dog? What could it hurt?”
    What could it hurt? I knew she was right. Just a friendly little visit to see if maybe, just maybe, they stole our dog? Worked for me.
    “Would you come with me?”
    “Sure. I’d kinda like to see inside that fence, anyway. It could be a pretty hot topic down at Ruby’s.” She was referring to the gossip epicenter of Pecan Bayou, Ruby Green’s Best Little Hair House in Texas. More than one perm had gone too long and fried while Ruby was in the middle of one of her broadcasts. I always chose the basic cut, light on the latest news.
     
    *****
     
    Ten minutes later, Maggie and I stood before the ominous black box in front of the Loper house. “Place looks a little run down,” Maggie said as she fingered some peeling paint on the wrought iron.
    I pushed the button on the box. “Hello? Is anyone there? This is Betsy Livingston again, and I was wondering if you had seen our little dog? … Hello?”
    Maggie grasped the metal gate and pulled her head forward to see into the courtyard in front of the house. “Pretty cheesy statue of Charlie Loper.” Her eyes brightened as she chirped out an old tune, “It’s Charlie Loper, the best shot in the West.” Her voice was reminiscent of an old radio announcer. She broke into song again. “Giddy-up little cowboy, the sun’s going down. Giddy-up little cowboy, we’re goin’ to town.”
    “Hello?” Still no answer. I decided to do my best Texas taxicab whistle. I pushed on the button and, putting my mouth near the speaker, produced a shrill whistling sound into the box.
    I heard a slight scuffle and hoped to finally be face-to-face with the man in the box. From around the other side of the cowboy fountain, a tiny yip sounded out, then another. Butch’s little paws made a clicking sound as he came bounding up to the fence.
    “Butch!” I exclaimed as the little dog tried to triple his own height in puppy leaps. “Butch! We found you at last!” I put my hands through the wrought-iron gate to pet him. He barked and bounced off my extended arms.
    “Wow. I have to wonder if he’s been here all along.”
    Aunt Maggie gasped. “I have to wonder what Butch just left all over your hands.”
    “What?” I said, pulling my hands back in to examine them. I backed away from the fence. My hands and arms were covered in something brown and sticky that looked like blood. Butch continued to bark and jump on the other side. There were little paw prints of the stuff dotting the inset stones from the fence to where he came around the fountain. I went to the gate handle and jiggled it. It was still locked up tight.
    “I’m thinkin’ somebody’s real hurt back there, Betsy. We have to get in somehow.”
    She made it all sound so simple. I shrugged. “And how do you suppose we do that with the gate locked?”
    “You’re young and have two legs a lot longer than mine. I’ll hoist you up.”
    I put my foot in her hands as she boosted me over the wall. With Maggie’s low center of gravity she could only raise me a few feet off the ground, and I had to pull myself up to the top of the wall. I felt the skin under my shirt scraping on the uneven stone barrier that surrounded the house. I hoisted my leg over the wall and bounced down into an overgrown bush. More scratches. As I emerged from the shrubbery, Butch came over and jumped into my arms.
    “Good boy, fella. Let’s see what all the mess is about,” I said to him, trying to forget the possible bodily fluid he was covered in. He craned his neck toward me and licked me on the cheek. Holding on to the puppy, I walked up to the faded ranch house and used my fist to bang on the door.
    I thought I heard a muffled noise in the house and