If the bloodhound had intended to crush my dreams that day, he failed.
I remember it like yesterday: a strange dog arriving to our shabby London pound in the middle of the night. When he introduced himself as a bloodhound, of course I peppered him with questions. After all, it had been my aspiration since I was a puppy to become a Finder.
As he looked at me with tired eyes, he spoke the words that almost broke my heart in two. “Kid,” he sighed, “you haven’t got what it takes. You’re a truffle hunter, not a Finder. You can’t do my job; it’s not in your biology. Simple as that.” And on the spot, he fell asleep.
His words kept me up that night. Biology? I thought to myself. Surely that isn’t right. But I knew even then that if I wanted to prove his inaccuracy, I would have to get out.
My escape plans were never necessary. By some strange twist of fate, a man arrived at the pound the next morning. When I say man, I really mean an overgrown boy, with skinny arms and legs, blonde, spiky hair, and glasses that were rather too big for his face.
“Hello!” He greeted Mrs. Darcy, the woman at the front desk cheerfully.
She looked surprised; we didn’t get many customers this far into London. After a long pause, he cleared his throat and spoke again: “I’m looking for a dog to assist me in my work. I’m a Private Investigator,” he said, and seemed to puff out his chest.
That caught my full attention. I sat up straighter in my cage.
“A detective?” asked Mrs. Darcy. “My, we’ve never had anyone in that field come to visit! Forgive me, but you look so much like–”
“Carlisle Lawson?” the man interrupted. “He’s my cousin. Call me Dewey,” he said and shook hands with Mrs. Darcy. She looked rather disappointed by his apparent lack of fame.
I, on the other hand, was completely thrilled. A detective! And an undiscovered one at that! Oh, the things we could do together! My tail wagged excitedly.
“Just a moment, Mr. Lawson?” called Mrs. Darcy. “What kind of investigation exactly do you practice?”
For the first time, Dewey’s swagger faltered. “W-well,” he stammered. “You know, I’m still working to get my start. With truffles.” The last two words came out too quickly.
“Ha! I knew it!” exclaimed Mrs. Darcy. “You’re no detective! You want a dog? Take Beatrix, she’ll find you some fine truffles!”
Dewey’s face went red and he turned to look at me for the first time. There were 1000 words in that one glance. Somehow I knew as we made eye contact that he didn’t doubt my abilities, and nor did I doubt his.
“How much?” he asked.
“Just take her,” shrugged Mrs. Darcy. “Good luck, Mr. P.I.” she cackled.
Without a word, he took me and walked out.
5 Years Later
November 1887 – Lyndhurst, Hampshire
I’d been with Dewey ever since, living in his cottage in Hampshire. It was peaceful, but both of us wished for the lifestyle of a detective. One November afternoon, Dewey was in a particularly foul mood. His cousin had just solved a major case, and it was all over the papers.
He whistled for me, and I readied myself for another hunt. Digging for truffles wasn’t all bad, in fact, I was quite good at it. Over the years I had found that my nose was stronger than that of other dogs.
That afternoon was no different, and after hours in the forest, we began to walk back to the cottage, searching for more truffles along the way. Suddenly, an unfamiliar scent caught my attention.
“What is it, Bea?” Dewey asked curiously.
I pushed my way through the ferns to reach a small, leather journal. Dewey opened it and began to flip through detailed drawings.
“Someone must have left this here by accident,” he said.
I caught a whiff of another smell and turned to the rocks behind me.
Dewey sucked in a breath. “Blood.”
The two of us began to look for the person or animal who had been injured. “Bea, come here!” Dewey exclaimed. I trotted over and saw a mechanism with a large metal button protruding from the earth. With a look of assurance from Dewey, I placed my paw on it and a trapdoor opened. I fell through, landing about seven feet below the ground.
After gathering myself, I heard a small whine come from a figure a few feet away from me. I barked up at Dewey.
“Is anyone down there?” He called.
“Y-yes!” came a girl’s voice. As she stood up and stepped into the light, I saw that she was about 11 years old. “I’ve been trapped down here for hours! I c-can’t find a way out!” she cried.
“Don’t panic!” yelled Dewey, and I heard him pull down a vine. He lowered it into the tunnel. “Do you think you can grab hold of this and the dog?”
She nodded, and for once I was glad for my small size. Several minutes of pulling later, Dewey was able to get us both out. As we sat on the ground, panting, a party of people including two members of Scotland Yard and several bloodhounds arrived to the clearing in the woods.
A woman from the group gasped. “My daughter!”
“Mother!” the young girl cried.
They hugged tearfully and the woman looked at Dewey and I. “Oh, thank you for saving her!”
“It was nothing,” Dewey answered bashfully. He walked over with the journal and addressed the girl. “I think you’ll be needing this. You’re a talented artist.” She beamed at him.
In the weeks following, Dewey and I both received awards for our services. He’s now racking in almost as many clients as his cousin, Carlisle. Of course, he couldn’t have done it without his assistant, the first-ever Logatto Romagnolo Finder in Great Britain.