JH Tomen

Listen to JH read his story

“Something definitely happened here,” Charlie said, confidently sniffing the floor.

I nodded. A crime. A horrible, heartless crime.

“They did a good job cleaning up.”

I scanned the spotless kitchen. Every surface gleamed. But the criminals hadn’t considered  the smell. They hadn’t counted on us.

Charlie was a big dumb lab, but he had a good sniffer. He had to rely on me for the detail work. Chihuahuas fit more places. Besides, we’re naturally paranoid, which made me the woman for the job.

I did a circle around the kitchen, stopping at places where we’d found evidence in the past. The sink, the pantry. I even did a lap around the trash, slipping through the gap between the can and the kitchen island.

“It’s here.” I signalled for Charlie to bring his sniffer. “Portabella.”

My big oaf of a partner sniffed again, deeper this time.

“There’s a bit of portabella. But is that…truffle too? Definitely truffle. They wouldn’t, would they?”

“We don’t know what they’re capable of. You’re too trusting.”

“What do we do?” Charlie asked, looking nervous..

He froze, ears cocked, and I knew he was listening for the garage door. The criminals could arrive at any moment, but I didn’t care. Charlie had to grow a pair. Or re-grow the pair they snipped off him…

“We get cold hard evidence.” I nodded toward the trash can. “Do your thing.”

“Are you sure? I don’t—”

“You want them to get away with this? Do it.”

 Slamming into the trash can with his big yellow body, Charlie knocked it over. It fell with a crash, the lid flying off. A week’s worth of trash spilled onto the floor.

Like reading tea leaves, I surveyed the human-made slop. And there, in the center, was the thing that made my heart sink. Pizza crust. Mushroom lovers.

“When could they have done this?” Charlie nosed the bits of crust that had slid free of the pizza box. The box had a jolly Italian man on it, Romano’s. 

It was even worse than I thought.

“I bet it was when we were at the groomers.”

“But why? I thought she loved us.”

“She does,” I said, feeling a wave of sadness judder me. “Or…she did. It’s the man one.”

Our human had started dating a so-called “vet.” He said pizza wasn’t “healthy,” had gotten her to give us nothing but kibble. And yet, here they were, feasting while we got our hair carved off by that butcher.

I lifted my head toward the ceiling, letting out a feral howl. I didn’t even care that it sounded more like a yip. A crime had been committed, and I would mourn it.

Charlie didn’t waste time on tears. He started eating the trash, and I figured I would join him.

JH’s prompts were: at a crime scene, dog/s, fungi

JH Tomen lives in Chicago USA and works in clean energy. When not writing fiction, he’s the author of the climate Substack, The Carbon Fables.

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