John Clark, weighing in of an interesting insight…No writing is necessarily wasted. The story that was recently selected by the Principal Foundation and garnered me a $250.00 honorarium, was originally written for one of the flash fiction contests that are part of the Maine Crime Wave. Likewise, the story that was featured last month for Halloween Mystery Rat’s Maze podcast was one I wrote for a Halloween liquor spooky story contest a year ago.

This year, I missed the deadline for the Maine Crime Wave flash fiction contest because I was wrapped up in other projects. Therefore, I’m using it for my November MCW post. Hope you like it.

I was on my hands and knees scrubbing up blood in the entry when the doorbell rang. “Can you get it?” I hollered before remembering I’d given Lou the day off. Good help was impossible to keep, so I treated my only employee with kid gloves.

Whoever was outside the clinic entrance started banging on the door. I tossed the sponge in the pail and stood. “I’m coming, dammit.”

It was Phil at my front door and I wondered how he’d managed to get here without Blackie. You never saw one without the other. I unlocked it and could tell he was terribly worried about something. “Blackie in trouble again?”

Phil nodded and looked meaningfully at my van.

“I’ll be right back.” I hurried to my work area, retrieving a folding scalpel and the only gun I owned. I knew something bad must have happened to my uncle, but these were the only weapons I had, so they’d have to do.

Phil followed me to my van and got in when I opened the passenger door.

“We going to camp?” I asked.

Phil nodded and I exited my driveway heading north, wondering what pickle my eighty-nine year old uncle might have gotten into this time. I thought by now, he’d run out of stupid ideas. After a forty year career as a merchant marine, coupled with so many semi-shady schemes to make a buck that I’d lost track, you’d think he would have learned to cool his heels and enjoy the oversized cottage he owned on Bristow Lake. Well, I’d soon find out.

I debated calling 911, but decided to wait. If whatever jackpot Blackie had stumbled into was illegal, the last thing either of us needed was getting hauled into the sheriff’s office. Neither my practice nor his heart would benefit from such an experience.

The closer I got, the tighter I gripped the wheel. I had visions ranging from finding the camp a smoldering pile of ashes, to his skinny frame lying broken and bloody under the attic window. At least I didn’t have to worry as much about my parents. They were safely ensconced in a fancy assisted living facility in Florida.

Phil was staring ahead as if he could see what we were about to find, but then, he already knew what awaited us.

The camp looked fine when we arrived. I hopped out and Phil climbed across to exit on my side.

“Blackie?” I hollered and heard a faint cry for help coming from inside.

The door was open, heightening my anxiety. I searched the lower floor with no success. I found Blackie with the most embarrassed look in his upstairs bathroom.

“Smartest dog you ever treated. Damn glad you let me adopt him” he said, patting Phil on the head. “My ass got too skinny and I’m stuck. Can you free me, Dr. Billings?”

My career as a veterinarian included many things, but this topped them all.