Page 26 - The Gluckman Occasional Number One

How the Dog Solved a Crime

in the Flea Circus

“Hey, dog!” Karpechki yelled in Trixie’s ear. He leaned into the
great waxy cavern and screamed again, louder: “Hey!” When she
failed to respond, he dug in with all six legs and clamped his jaws
savagely on a patch of bald skin.
“Awroo!” Trixie’s eyes popped open as she rolled over to cock a
hind leg for a good ear-scratch.
“Stop!” commanded Karpechki. The startled dog obeyed.
“You: flea: you can talk?”
“Yes, you big oaf. Fleas can talk. We’re not just the stars of the
show, you know.”
Trixie rolled her bloodshot eyes around in a vain attempt to locate
her interlocutor. “Well, you may be able to talk, and you may be the
stars of the show, but you don’t know enough to let a sleeping dog
lie.”
She lifted her back paw and twisted her grizzled neck. The first
kick missed the mark; before she could deliver the second, a chorus
of flea voices interrupted her reflex.
“Stop! Stop!”
“You must listen to us.”
“Halt, you nitwit!”
Trixie lackadaisically let her leg fall. “You fleas are all over the
place. What is this: a picnic?”
“No,” said Karpechki. “We are the flea circus. All of it—except for
poor Provornin.”
“He was a juggler, one of the finest.” sobbed another flea.
“And who are you?”
“I am Stellanova, Aerialiste Extraordinaire,” she sniveled. “This is
Raskeloff, the Tiny Tumbler; Gurmovnik, the Juggernaut Juggler;
and our leader, Karpechki, who has performed before the crowned
heads of Europe.”