Free Me and My Manny by M.A. MacAfee

program?”
    “Well, I had to tell the clerk something.”
    “And the clerk told the media, turning that jug head into a hero.”
    “A hero? Our little crime stopper might be nominated for a good citizen’s award. He could receive a plaque with his name on it. And maybe be given a key to the city. He could even get to be Grand Marshall at next year’s Seafair parade!”
    How about that, I mused, a hero, a leader, and possibly a candidate for political office. So I jumped ahead of myself, but he’d do a lot less damage than most politicians. A manny of the people. Just your ordinary down-home hick from the sticks, literally.
    Harry pushed his reddening face closer to mine. “Do you realize that if the media can track you down from your license plates, so can the cops? What if they catch the crook and ask you to identify him in a lineup? What if they think the manny was me? What if I’m charged with impersonating a police officer?”
    Harry’s series of speculations caused me to consider that even good publicity could have a downside. If the cops collared Harry for impersonating one of their own they might also put two and two together and finger him as the guy who attacked a couple of women in the park.
    Then I felt a rush of indignation. “I almost get my ass shot off and all you can think about is yourself. Anyway, none of what you said will happen because no crime was committed. Thanks to Wolf.”
    Harry lowered his head. “I’m sorry. It’s just…compared with his, my life has become really uneventful.”

The Cat’s Paw
     
    Harry rarely helped with domestic chores, something he by implication regarded as women’s work. Since the manny had come on the scene, he had sometimes become more solicitous; at times, he was even indulgent toward me. So that morning when he offered to pick up donuts at the neighborhood bakery, I assigned him the task of gassing up my car while at it.
    Minutes after Harry left, I opened the front door, holding a bag of trash for the chute. Spotting Spike in the hall, running in tight circles, chasing his tail, I quickly stepped back inside and engaged the lock.
    Whenever the Pritchards next door forgot to lock their front door, Spike managed to flip the lever-style handle and sneak out. Under those circumstances, he often took the stairs down to the back alley, to the Dumpster that further attracted stray cats. I had only to wait a few minutes and he’d be gone.
    Every year, ferocious dogs maul scores of innocent victims; some even kill a few. So my fear of Spike was not unfounded. And Spike epitomized ferocity. With a huge head and enormous jaws, he was daunting and larger than the average Rottweiler, weighing at least a hundred ten pounds. Yet it was less his muscular mass than his facial features that evoked terror. Spike’s beady black eyes were too close together—the sure sign of a common inbred. Though cunning by nature, Spike was just plain dumb, and no amount of training could smarten him up. The animal was the canine version of a thug.
    I again peered through the peephole. Spike now appeared to be rolling in something, that or giving himself a back massage. Whatever the case, I realized that if Spike could work a standard door lever well enough to get out, he might manage to get back in. Only it was my apartment that I worried about. I could hear Spike’s sniffing the bottom of my door and it had increased since the manny moved in.
    I checked the clock. It was almost nine, about the time Ruthie took Spike for his morning walk. Any second now, Mad Dog would be off to the park, hosing down fireplugs, and menacing squirrels.
    Despite his threat to all living creatures, Spike required daily vigorous exercise. Brisk walks outdoors helped burn off some of his aggressive energy. On a stroll, Spike strained against the leash and veered off course as much as possible. If anyone approached with another dog, Spike would charge with his hair raised and his fangs bared until he was