Free Canine Christmas by Jeffrey Marks (Ed)

and find out who was here when they made the arrest.”
    It did my heart good to see Harlan look so furious. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You really think I should go down to the station and have a nice long talk with the cops about the day they busted you for the robbery I committed? That's what you think I should do?”
    I shrugged. “All I know is, one of the cops has the money. Not me.” Harlan stared at me, studying my face. After a long moment, he said, “Okay, Beth, have it your way.” He took a deep breath, and pointed the gun at Ogilvy. “If you don't tell me where you hid the money, I'm going to shoot your damn dog.”
    My breath caught in my throat. Harlan always did know how to home in on my weakest point. “Please, Harlan—you can't!”
    His only answer was a crooked grin as he raised the gun again.
    “You damn coward! Only a first-class chicken would hurt a harmless animal!” The words seemed to burst out of their own accord.
    Ogilvy doesn't have a huge vocabulary, but those words he knows, he knows well. Other than his name, and the word sit , most all the words he recognizes could be listed under the broad category of food. Words like biscuit , steak , and hot dog . Now, at the sound of the word chicken , Ogilvy's ears perked. Totally ignoring the gun pointed at him, he glanced first at me and then over at Harlan. I knew, of course, what he was doing. He was waiting for one of us to produce one of his favorite treats: boneless chicken.
    It was such an absurd moment, I felt almost lightheaded. Ogilvy was about to die, and yet, all the silly dog could think of was: Where's my snack?
    I turned to glare at Harlan. “You heard me,” I said, “you're a damn chicken!” I emphasized that last word.
    Ogilvy's eyes darted expectantly from my face over to Harlan's. He was beginning to quiver all over.
    Harlan's face was red with fury, but he turned the gun back on me. “I'm a chicken, am I? I'll show you who's a chicken,” he said, taking a step toward me, raising his hand.
    It was too much for Ogilvy. The second Harlan moved, Ogilvy jumped on him, trying to nuzzle his jacket pockets, looking for the snack that Harlan kept mentioning. If Harlan had expected it, he might've been able to brace himself, but as it was, Ogilvy nearly knocked him down. While Harlan was trying to regain his balance, I kicked the gun out of his hand, sending it skidding across the floor.
    Since Harlan was busy with Ogilvy, I had no trouble at all beating him to the gun. In fact, if Harlan had stayed where he was, I would not have had to shoot him, but after flinging Ogilvy away from him, he lunged toward me. The sound of that gun going off was deafening. And, yes, most satisfying.
    It was also most satisfying to phone the police and turn Harlan over to them. As it turned out, the bullet had only grazed his left leg. When the police were putting him on the stretcher, I went over to my Christmas tree and unwrapped one of the presents. Harlan actually moaned a little louder when he saw the neat stacks of twenties inside.
    He'd been right, of course. I did have the money. I'd stopped on the way to my apartment on the day of the robbery, and I'd hidden the money up in the top of my parents' unlocked garage, in a box of my old toys. My mom and dad had both been at work; they hadn't even known I'd been there. The money had been waiting for me all the time I was in prison.
    I'll admit it. Ever since I got out, I'd been thinking about whether I should keep all those lovely bags of currency. As a sort of payment for the years I'd had taken from me. Harlan showing up had made up my mind. I couldn't turn him over to the police without turning over the cash, too. Besides, if I'd kept all that cash, I'd have felt like I was the same as he was.
    I watched the police take him away—watched them get in their cars, carrying every single package that had been under my tree—and I had to smile. When they were all out of sight, I went