Private First Class,
Doc Conelli
As told by Anthony Iaconelli
First Impressions
When I first saw the Doc, he was anything but easy on the eyes. I could hardly tell he was a German Shepherd as starved as he looked. He just stayed curled up in a corner of Fiddler's Tavern, ears flickering now and then to drive away a platoon of flies, eyes halfway closed like he was in some kind of drunken haze. He was the kind of dog you don't bother giving a second glance to. Already brown and black, the dirt tangled with his fur let him blend in that much more to the sinkhole interior around him. I think the only reason I studied him so long was because of the empty beer bottle a foot or two out of his front paws' reach. I couldn't help but smirk at the possibility men weren't the only alcoholics in the pub.
I was at Fiddler's with a few guys from my squad. First Lieutenant Warren decided he'd stop being a hardass for once and got the Command Sergeant off our backs with his nonstop reprimands. We were glad for the break. Summer was near, and the last thing I wanted to do was stand in full uniform in 100-degree weather as some neurotic definition of machismo screamed into my face about the conduct of privates I didn't even know. Though I would've preferred my Ma's fine cooking to the grease-covered junk Fiddler's was renown for, I was starving, and a three-stack cheeseburger with fries sounded plenty fine to me.
Barbecue baby back ribs didn't sound all that bad, either. If there's one thing the guys in my squad know about me, it's that I can eat. Really eat. Half the time, I'm finishing the meals their stomachs don't have enough room for, and care packages from their mothers always include extra food for me. I was working on a third main entree when Private Guarino began his notorious anti-Italian string of humor; it always got the guys laughing their heads off. Though Sicilian, myself, I appreciated the joke's stereotypes. It had us down to the very last detail whether I'd admit it or not.
As always, the sit-down comedy show brought us back down to earth after a stressful day. Leave it to Guarino to remind us what we're fighting for. Not some manic sergeant, but our families back home. Still laughing, I turned back to my plate to finish scarfing down those ribs, mentally relishing how well the blue cheese sauce went along with them. Except there was one problem. The only thing left on my plate was the residue of barbecue sauce! It took me a moment to process the theft before I looked across the table to Private Jacobs. He was dabbing at the ring of perspiration his soda can had formed on the table; a perfect cover up.
"All right, man. Funny, but not. Hand it over."
He glanced up, a smile on his chapped and peeling lips. "What?"
"Come on," I said, beckoning the return of my food with a hand. "What, did it fall on the floor or something Hey, I don't mind. Five second rule, right?"
"Bro, I don't know what you're talking about." He laughed and balled the napkin up between his fingers. Something caught his peripheral vision, then, because he looked down and to his right. His laugh grew louder. "That the food you're talking about?"
I followed the direction of his outstretched arm to the retreating figure of the German Shepherd. Fiddler's was always dimly lit, so I couldn't see all that clearly what the mutt was up to, but when he reached his little corner and turned around to lay down and relax, the baby back ribs between his teeth beamed S.O.S. signals my way. The red sauce was dripping to the hardwood floor in long streams I thought I could smell halfway across the room, and the way those canines were tearing the meat purchased with my money was enough to get me on my feet.
I marched right up to the bartending counter, and started to voice my complains to the overweight manager who seemed to be on duty 24/7. There had to be some kind of bandit dog clause in a pub's regulations, and I wasn't about to be robbed fourteen dollars when a good portion of my meal was making its way through a dog's digestive system.
"Yes, hallo," he said, his voice thick with an accent I couldn't place. "What would you like?"
"I'd like some kind of refund. Your stupid dog over there stole one of my ribs right off the plate!"
The manager didn't flinch in the least. I took it he was well adapted to loudmouth marines. He continued drying a glass with the cloth in his hands and pursed his lips in a way that made the bush of a mustache above them wriggle. "Oh, he's no dog of mine, that one. A stray. Comes here all the time. Most of the ones like you toss him a scrap or two."
"Well I didn't toss him any scrap. He took it from me! He's even eating it right now, as we speak! Look, I'm not trying to cause you any trouble, but I'm a hungry guy, and one of your customers, paying or not, just took my food!"
He arched a brow. "You want me to believe a pup who no can reach the tabletops here took your food?"
I saw it was a lost cause. The guy was obviously stingy with the "little" money platoon sales let him reel in. God forbid he keep one satisfied customer by reimbursing him in the form of food. I resigned myself to the fate of going slightly hungry for the rest of the day, and headed back to the table where the guys were. Not before, however, making a detour toward that damned dog. All that was left of my last piece of baby back ribs was a pale bone. The dog, itself, was on its left side and hunched over, using a toenail as a toothpick and giving me a look as if to say, "ya snooze, ya lose, bro."
It wouldn't be the last I'd see of him.
More to come...