(~5 minutes to read)
Headline: Spanish town’s giant dog dropping goes walkies
“Holmes Detective Agencies; ‘no solution, no fee—it’s that elementary’. Shirley speaking. How may we help?”
“Is this Shirley Holmes, great-granddaughter of legendary Sherlock Homes?” enquired the voice at the other end of the telephone line. Although his accent was decidedly Spanish, it didn’t come out like that in the transcription.
“You know that Sherlock Holmes was just a legend—the product of a writer’s imagination, don’t you?” said Shirley, the slight edge in her tone the result of having had to explain this to too many people since she’d started her business.
“So you don’t come from long line of world-class detectives?” asked the Spaniard.
“No sir, I don’t. Now, what can I do to help?” She heard the person at the other end of the line take a deep breath.
“My name is Roberto Sanchez, and I am Mayor of Pronghorn Creek, Saskatchewan, Canada. Important and valuable municipal asset has been kidnapped, and we would like to hire you to track him down.”
“Very well, Mister Sanchez. But you do understand that I’m located in London. That’s the London, in England. You need to contact the Canadian police; don’t the Mounties always get their man?”
“I’m sure they do senora Holmes,” replied the mayor, “but it’s not man been kidnapped.”
“I thought ‘get their man’ meant they get the bad… oh never mind. But you said ‘kidnapped’, didn’t you? Who’s been kidnapped?”
“Not ‘who’, senora Holmes; ‘what’.”
“Ah. We have a language problem,” said Shirley. “S- o – o Mister Sanchez. What has been stolen?”
“Four metre high dog dropping,” said Mayor Sanchez in his best English.
“Do we still have a language problem, Mister Sanchez? I heard you say ‘four metre dog dropping’. Unless the hound of the Baskervilles lives in your town, there’s no such thing.”
“With respect, Senora Holmes, you’re wrong.”
“Then what kind of dogs do you have in Canada? And what makes it… what did you say, a ‘valuable municipal asset’?”
“Eess not real dog dropping,” said the mayor, his frustration making his accent strong enough to register on the transcript. “Eess, ‘ow you say… exploding dog dropping.
“In what way could a turd bomb be an asset!?” asked Shirley incredulously.
“Not bomb; eess not bomb!” He paused, searching for words. “You blow eet up. Gets big; very big. Phooo, phooo, phooo.” His attempts at imitating the noise of something being inflated sounded awful over the phone, but Shirley nevertheless divined his meaning.
“Ah! It’s an inflatable dog dropping! Not a real one, and not an exploding one.”
“Si, si senora. Eess not real one. What kind of dogs you think we have in Canada?” Shirley let that one go.
“With respect Mister Sanchez, why does your town have an inflatable turd the size of a small house? Do you want your town to be known as the home of the world’s largest dump?”
“Eess public awareness campaign. Nobody pick up dog droppings. Local newspaper say streets and pathways one giant canine crapper. And in winter, pathways look like yellow brick road. Exploding dog dropping…”
“Inflatable,” corrected Shirley.
“Inflatable dog dropping make people think about picking up after dogs.”
“Sounds like someone got the message a little too well and picked up the doggie dooky,” said Shirley, chuckling.
“Que?” said Sanchez.
“Oh nothing,” said Shirley, realizing that the language barrier would make the explanation painful. “So, Mister Sanchez, do you have any clues to help me? CCTV footage, perhaps?”
“We have time lapse pictures.”
“And are there any clues in those?”
“Only vehicle that show is semi-truck pulling manure spreader.”
“Have you tracked down that vehicle?”
“We have, senora Holmes. Owned by business hundred kilometres away in next town. But business owner no got dog, so why he want big dog dropping?”
“Before I continue, Mister Sanchez, I should mention my fee for this case. It will be two thousand, five hundred pounds. Of course, you would pay me only if my assistance leads to the recovery of your asset. Is that acceptable?”
“Si, senora Holmes. It will be worth every penny if you help us bring Dorothy home.”
“Dorothy? You named it ‘Dorothy’?”
“Si. Dorothy the doggie dropping. Council thought it fit well with newspaper’s mention of yellow brick road.”
“Hmmm. Canadian humour, I suppose.”
She paused.
“Is there anything about this inflatable dog dropping that identifies it as specifically a dog dropping, Mister Sanchez?”
“Not really, senora Holmes.”
“So if I was running a business that dealt in excrement, would it be useful for advertising that business?”
“You thinking of starting new business, senora Holmes?” enquired Sanchez.
“No, you id … I mean, Mister Sanchez,” exclaimed Shirley. “Let me make the connection for you, send you my bill, and we can both get on with what’s left of our days. I would like you to arrange for one of your Mounties to drive out to this business in the next town, and take a look round the property owned by the business that owns the manure spreader. I’m fairly sure you’ll find Dorothy there.”
“What make you sure?” asked the Mayor, not following Shirley’s line of thought at all.
“Elementary, my dear Sanchez. Or may I be permitted to say, ‘Alimentary, my dear Sanchez’?”
“Que?”
“Don’t worry. English humour. I’ll bet that your perpetrator runs a manure spreading business, and is planning to use Dorothy to draw attention to his business. At four metres high, it’s bound to be easily visible, and with the right slogan, would attract a lot of new customers.”
“Senora Holmes—you genius! Just like great-grandfather!”
“I’m not… oh never mind. Just do what I say, and if you find Dorothy, let me know and I’ll send you my invoice. Goodbye Mister Sanchez.”
She put the phone on its cradle.
“Spanish mayors in Canadian towns asking an English detective for help in looking for a four-metre-high inflatable poo. What a cosmopolitan society we live in. Whatever next? An Australian garlic grower who needs help locating the bike he had stolen in Transylvania? A Brazilian barber who lost his razors in a Middle Eastern harem?”
The phone rang.
“Blow that for a game of soldiers!” said Shirley, donning her deerstalker. I’m off to the pipe shop, then home for a little recreational pharmaceutical relaxation.