Pathetic Bob's Holiday Fiasco (Part One)

Pathetic Bob’s Holiday Fiasco

It was four days before Christmas when the call came at two in the morning. “Hey Em, it’s me, Pathetic Bob,” said the voice on the other end of he line.
I sat up, cleared my head and said, “Bob, this isn’t funny. Did you steal my cell phone again?”
“No, no, it’s not that. Listen Em, you’ve got to drive down to Laredo and bail us out of the Animal Control facility. They are holding us here for the Homeland Security people.”
“What!” I yelled. “Who’s ‘us,’ and how did you get to Laredo?”
“It’s a long story Em, just get down here as fast as you can. I’ve got Sophie, Judy, Zipper, Lily, and the two cats with me. Oh, bring the station wagon, we’ve got 22 squirrels with us.” The phone went dead.
I was fairly sure Bob was screwing with my head again, but upon searching the house, none of the animals could be found, so I called the pound in Laredo. I quickly obtained the number from information and soon found myself on the line with an Officer Garcia. “Excuse me officer,” I began, “but I just got a phone call from one of the dogs that live with me saying he had been arrested and detained in your facility. I know it’s probably a hoax, but I thought I’d better check.”
“Well,” Garcia laughed, “we got a lot of dogs here, but not many who speak English. What does your dog look like?” I could hear laughter in the background.
“He’s, uh, skinny, brown, has a pointed nose, and he’s a real smartass. He goes by the name of Bob.”
“Yeah, I think we got your dog. He came in an hour or so ago with four other dogs and a bunch of squirrels, and he hasn’t shut up since. He keeps demanding a lawyer and is threatening to ‘sue our asses.’ The Homeland Security boys brought the whole crew in on charges of smuggling, violating air space, counterfeit visas, and several other charges. They impounded their vehicle and cargo, too.”
“What vehicle and cargo? Bob doesn’t even drive. What the hell is going on down there?”
Officer Garcia got all official-like and said, “Listen Mister…uh….
“Em,” I told him.
“Yeah, right. Listen Mr. Em, I think you better get down here fast. This whole gang is in a world of trouble, and the feds are going to want to question you, too.”
“Me?” I stammered, “I didn’t do anything. Why do they want to question me?”
“Just get down here, OK, we’ll see if we can get this thing sorted out.”
I didn’t want to wake Mrs. Em, so I wrote her a note and told her what was happening, and then started out on the long drive to Laredo. Along the way, I played out several scenarios in my head, all of them ending with my unfortunate incarceration in a federal prison. Damn that Bob, if he didn’t get jail time, I was going to whack him.
Two and a half hours after I began the trip, I pulled into the parking lot of the Laredo City Animal Shelter. I got out of the station wagon, stretched my legs, and then knocked on the metal door. A slender man of medium build opened the door and asked what I wanted. After I explained who I was and why I was there, the man smiled and said, “I’m Officer Garcia; I’ve been expecting you.”
Garcia had a pleasant smile for such a stern-faced man. I had a vague notion I’d seen him before. “Do I know you?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “All us Mexican-Americans look alike to you gringos.”
“Great,” I thought, “I just got in the door, and I’m being accused of being a racist. This does not bode well for gaining my animals release.”
Then it hit me. With his pencil-thin mustache and soul patch, Garcia was the spitting image of Edward James Olmos’ character in Blade Runner. I explained why he seemed familiar, and he said, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
I steered the conversation in another direction. “Anyway, what the hell is going on with the dogs and cats and squirrels? Bob wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, and you weren’t much help, either.”
“Just calm down Mr., uh, I forgot your name.”
“Call me Em.”
“M?”
“No, Em.”
“Em…hmmm…that sounds like some kind of code name. If I were you, I’d make up another name when you talk to the feds.”
“The feds are here?”
“Yeah, they’re in my office interrogating your dog, Bob, and he keeps demanding a lawyer and roast beef. The other dogs, the cats, and the squirrels are on the cell block screaming ‘Attica, Attica.’”
“What are they being charged with?”
“Well, see, as far as I know, they haven’t been officially charged with anything…yet. The immigration guys are saying they may have entered the country illegally, but some Mexican officials have called to complain the animals entered Mexico illegally. That’s all up in the air right now. Homeland Security seems to be suspicious they may be part of some kind of weird terrorist plot. The geniuses from the DEA think Pathetic Bob could be a narco kingpin who was smuggling drugs into Mexico hidden in an assortment of nutshells. Now, I’m not as brilliant as these federal drug cops, but I’ve never heard of anyone smuggling drugs into Mexico. If you ask me, I think your dog is a pain in the ass, but I don’t really see him as some kind of master criminal. I think you’d better get in there and try to talk some sense into him.”
I gave a sad smile to Officer Garcia, who I was beginning to like more and more. “First of all, he’s not really my dog; he just lives with me, and I finance his lifestyle. And, although Bob is an educated dog and speaks several languages, all of his sense lies in his nose, eyes, and ears. His brain seems to function in some weird dimension.”
“I can believe that,” said Garcia, “but if you want to save him and the other animals, you’d better think of something fast. Come on, I’ll take you to see him and the federal agents.”
As we headed to Garcia’s office, my nervousness increased, and I could taste fear on the back of my tongue, brought on by my natural instinct of not trusting governments or government agents.
Officer Garcia knocked on the office door then ushered me into his small, dark office, which was crowded with men and women in suits and uniforms. Pathetic Bob sat on a gray, metal desk in the center of the room; a bare light bulb hung from the ceiling directly over Bob’s head. As I entered the room, Bob turned to me an cried, “Em, help me. These ignorant bastards are going to waterboard me and send me to Guantanamo prison. I haven’t done anything wrong, but these idiots think I’m working for Osama Bin Laden or the Mendoza drug cartel. That moron over there,” he growled, pointing at a rotund, bald man in a La Migra uniform, “is accusing me of being an illegal alien. They won’t tell me what they’ve done with the other dogs and the two cats. They’ve even illegally detained Randy and Milo and their friends. This is a city pound, not a place for squirrels.”
“He’s right,” offered Officer Garcia, “we’re not supposed to put squirrels in the kennels.”
At that moment, all the government androids began talking at once, causing a din of babble.
“Hold on!” I yelled. “I can’t understand a damn thing with all of you talking at once.”
The noised died, and I continued. “Look, before I talk to any of you people, I want to talk to my client…uh…I mean the dog. For now, I’m representing him, so I’d like you to leave while I confer with him.”
Although there was a chorus of objections, it was finally agreed I could have 15 minutes alone with Bob. I watched the feds file out of the room, and then I turned to Bob.
“Em,” he said excitedly, “you’re not going to believe what happened.”
I stared hard into the dog’s eyes. “You are absolutely right, Bob, I’m not going to believe what you tell me happened. In fact, I know you are going to embellish the hell out of the truth. But, before you begin your pathetic explanation, I want you to know I’m pissed. I’m really pissed. It’s not just that you made me haul my ass out of a warm bed at two in the morning and drive a hundred and fifty miles; living with you has taught me to expect things like that. I’m not even that upset that you’ve managed to involve the other dogs in whatever weird adventure you’ve undertaken, although leading a puppy astray is a new low for you. I’m surprised Milo and Randy are part of this, and I can’t imagine what you did to induce them to participate. As for the 20 other squirrels, hell, that’s really got me stumped, but I can live with it.”
Pathetic Bob’s tail was like a windshield wiper on high as I was talking. As I took a breath, he tried to jump in. “But Em, I….”
“Quiet,” I demanded, “I’m not finished. You’ll get your turn when I’m finished. You see Bob, I can handle all the stuff I just mentioned, but this time, you’ve gotten my involved with government agents. Government agents Bob! We could all end up doing hard time in six-by-eight cells with roommates with names like “Torpedo” or “El Diablo.” This is serious stuff. We could be held without charges for years; they could screw with your dog license or take away my library card. That’s why I’m pissed Bob, really, really pissed.”
Bob blinked his doe eyes and said, “Yeah, whatever. Can I talk now?”
I sighed, pulled up a green, metal chair, and sat with my head in my hands. “Ok, go ahead, let’s hear it.”