“Fluffy isn’t moving, Owen.”

“Whadaya mean?”

“I think he’s dead.”

“Nah, he’s just sleeping soundly.”

“No, Owen, he’s dead, as in not among the living; not drawing any breath; ceasing to exist-dead.”

Owen rattled his paper, folded it and with mocked effort and a heavy grunt, lifted his thick body off the tattered easy chair that had become attached to his ass since he’d retired from the NYPD.

“Ah, jeez, Mary,” said Owen when he saw the prostrate remains of Fluffy, their eighteen-year-old toy poodle.

“What are we going to do with him?” Mary asked. “We can’t put him out with the trash and I doubt if the Super will let us bury him behind the building.” Mary tightly clenched her floral housecoat around her thin frame, as she peered down at poor little Fluffy.

“Get me the phone book, I’ll look for a pet cemetery.”

Mary handed the heavy phone book of the greater New York Metropolitan Area to Owen. He began leafing through the Yellow Pages, scanning cemeteries and mortuaries, until his eyes lit upon Happy Acres, a final resting place for our four-legged friends.

“Ah, crap. The only pet cemetery listed and it’s in Long Island.”

“Have a little respect for the dead, Owen. Poor Fluffy, he was such a good little guy.”

“You gotta be kidding, he was a nasty little bastard, who pissed on everything in this apartment.”

“Only on your slippers. It wouldn’t hurt for you to have picked them up and put them in the closet every once in a while.”

“We gotta figure out how to get him out to Long Island-maybe they pick up?”

Owen dialed Happy Acres’ number.

“Happy Acres, how may I help you,” said a smooth and somber male voice.

“Our dog died and we need to bury him. Do you guys pick up the remains?”

“I’m sorry sir, our operation is limited to just providing a final resting place for your beloved pet. However, if you wish, we will cremate your loved one’s remains, so that you may keep him with you.”

“Nah, we just want to bury him. We’ll be out later today.” Owen hung up and turned to Mary. “Get dressed, we gotta get on the train.”

“Owen, what are we gonna do with Fluffy? We can’t just carry a dead dog on the train, what would people think?” Mary and Owen stared at Fluffy and then at each other.

“Get me Jimmy’s suitcase-the one he used for weekends wit your maw.”

Mary shuffled in her worn pink fuzzy slippers to the back of the apartment where the two bedrooms were. Owen heard the rummaging noises and the clatter of things falling from the shelves as Mary sorted through the packed closet. Mary returned with the small red and black plaid suitcase and sadly handed it to Owen.

“Poor little Fluffy,” she sniffed.

“Poor us, having to go out to Long Island in this cold-you better get ready.”

With the plaid little suitcase firmly grasped, Owen marched ahead of Mary on Morton Street to the nearest subway entrance. They rode the subway with the little suitcase between them. Mary sat with her hands folded in her lap, looking at the plaid bag, sighing heavily as the subway train jostled and bumped its way under the city.

“Poor Fluffy.”

“Ah for Christ’s sake, Mary. He had a good life, much better than he deserved.”

They arrived at Penn Station, after what seemed like an eternity, and were immediately thrust into a rush of people making connections to other trains. They finally popped out of the crowd and walked to the ticket kiosk and purchased two round-trip tickets. Like a man fighting to survive, Owen gripped the suitcase in one hand and Mary’s hand in the other. They teetered down the stairs to the train platform that would take them out to the Oyster Bay station.

Owen placed the suitcase on the ground and pulled a train map out of his pocket to familiarize himself with where they would be stopping. Mary kept an eye on the approaching train.

“Watch your step,” Mary warned.

“I know how to get on a train, Mary.”

“Where’s the suitcase?”

“I just put it down for a minute.” Owen turned in a circle looking for the missing valise.

“Someone stole the suitcase?”

Owen and Mary looked around the station and then at each other. They each shrugged their shoulders and started heading back up the stairs.

“Look at it this way, Mary, the train ticket is a lot cheaper than having to buy a plot.”

“Poor little Fluffy.” Mary shook her head.

“Yeah, poor Fluffy, and pity the poor bastard who stole him.” Owen wheezed a snort of laughter and slapped his leg with his hand. “After thirty-years on the force, I finally get to see justice served.”

©2008, Jennifer E. Hewitt