Sunday Noir - Part 2

Originally published on Facebook November 9, 2017.

When Rescues Write Noir....

Ramble had a thing about horses. It got him in trouble before, betting on them. He just needed that one win, he told himself. There was one horse in particular he was fond of, a big fellow with fuzzy feet. He sure wasn’t a plow horse, that one. 

Finding the money to bet was easy. The dame lent it to him. Where she got it he didn’t ask. He promised to buy her something nice. Something sparkly and suitable for a princess, he said. 

Placing the bet was tougher. It was hard to find a bookie out in the sticks. Monty thought he’d find one in town, and he had no reason to doubt him. He’d catch a ride with one of the locals, he decided. He stood in the side of the road and waited, the yellow dirt coating his paws. After a while he realized he’d probably never get a chance to place that bet. The only traffic here was the occasional tractor heading to yet another endless field, the farmers waving at him in their cheerful way as they passed by. 

The money was safe in his pocket, next to a crumpled Skittles wrapper and an old bus ticket to Albuquerque . Safe, he thought sourly, but doing nothing for him. He needed to place that bet. He was running out of time.

Sunday Noir - Part One

One of the responses to questions on the 2018 Pet Blogger Challenge was that several of our readers do not have Facebook.  I decided that I would repost some of the mini series that I had originally published there.  Here is part one from "When Rescues Write Noir...."

Originally published on Facebook November 5, 2017.

He went by the name Ramble DeAmble, but he had gone by other names. He’d done time too, he had a rap sheet as long as his front leg. If only these people knew. Would they have given him a place to rest his head? The other one, Monty is his name, says yes. 

Monty had been in and out of prison so many times, he gets birthday cards from the guards. Monty was always making sure he had an escape route. He practices it nightly, pacing back and forth, checking the doors and windows.... 

The dame, she says the same. What was her name? Harlow? She’s a looker, that one, claims she’s royalty. Who knows, maybe she is. She has a different way about her. 

Monty sometimes talks about his escape tunnel behind the old greenhouse. Ya gotta be ready he says, for when they come for you. Monty has a thing about lights. Time in the big house can do that to you, Ramble supposed. 

He’s on a farm now, in the middle of nowhere. He can try to make it as a farmer, he thinks, except he hates dirt, and rain, and the outdoors in general. So he stays inside, making friends with the people. Making friends with Monty and the dame. At least there is plenty of food, he thinks. That’s something.