Unleashed: Tail OneLori R. Lopez / Horror / Mystery & Detective
by Lori R. Lopez
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
media without written permission from the author, except
brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction.
Copyright © 2011 by Lori R. Lopez
Front Cover Illustration by Lori R. Lopez
Would the tormented pet of a psycho, after witnessing countless abominations, begin to exhibit disturbing behavior? Find out in “Unleashed” what happens when a cat is driven over the edge and beyond the brink.
In Honor Of Midnight
SOMETHING DREADFUL KNOCKED late at night. It howled and thumped and quaked the door. My family in trepidation phoned nine-one-one. Squad cars arrived blaring, casting wavery lights across windows.
Our bell chimed. Two uniforms slouched grimly on the porch, working graveyard. One of them clutched a cat. “Belong to you?” the officer queried.
“That’s the neighbor’s pet,” my mistress responded.
Pest, you mean! I disdained.
“Oh. Sorry. It was sitting on your mat when we pulled up,” apologized the towering policeman. His skimpy partner nodded like a bobblehead monkey that squatted on a shelf in my youngest owner’s room.
Spotting me hunkered next to my adult master, hackles rising, a menacing snarl deep in my gullet, the miserable wildcat split with a squeal. Just doing my job.
I was backup, the family hound. Their bodyguard. Don’t ask what breed. I’m mixed, a mongrel. Floppy antennas, colorful coat, broad snout.
They dubbed me Rags, hardly befitting a canine of my aptitude, my obedience-schooled intellect. On this block I was regarded by peers as The Scope — no detail eluded my attention.
“You reported a disturbance?” The female cop adjusted her glossy brim. A radio crackled at her shoulder. Static ensued from the tall guy’s device. They wore masks of feigned interest.
“Our door was being attacked,” the lady of the house stated.
“It sounded like a monster!” Benny the six-year-old exuberantly described.
“We noticed gouges,” remarked Male Cop, indicating the door’s exterior. “Was your dog in the house?”
Sure, try to pin the rap on me! I know my rights. I see plenty of crime shows, and you don’t have a case! Or a cage big enough to hold me! I indignantly blustered.
My mistress fortuitously nodded, providing an alibi.
“How well do you know the cat?”
“We see her wandering, napping on the Miller porch, peeking from windows,” Mistress Sara divulged. “But whatever did this damage couldn’t have been a cat. I’ve never experienced anything so intense! I was afraid the door would burst!”
“Might be a catfight. Those get pretty vicious. We’ll look around and file a report,” the patrolwoman affirmed.
“Thank you.” Blissfully the door was shut and bolted. “It’s okay, Rags. Keep an eye peeled,” bade Master Evan.
Lights off. The humans retired. I whimpered, a lone sentinel. Then sighed and rested a disconsolate chin on cold tile.
My favorite post, protecting the fridge.
A stealthy silhouette loomed at the rear entrance through a sheer drape. My throat rumbled, warning the ominous four-legged shadow: Scat cat. A watchdog’s work is never done.
Convulsive slumber was haunted with banshee wails, subdued pummeling of glass besieged by cat fury, the ferocious animalistic rage of a feline scorned. Crying out, I trembled. Legs flailed, nerves twitched. The sun dallied in languorous neglect.
My impatient basset woof heralded day. I plodded to the glass and smudged it, sniffing. No sign of you-know-who. The hellcat’s tantrums had abated. Panting, I grinned and decided to collect a few more winks.
With any luck, the pesky parasite had joined a traveling flea circus.