Leo's Hands

The release

The release

The following morning, called by the owners of the near warehouse because of my barking and my continue yelps, a few colleagues came to see what happened and they found us there. I tried all night to retrieve the small object that came out of the pocket of Steve’s raincoat, but there was nothing to do. I could reach it with my paw but to grab it I would’ve had fingers. I tried digging a hole with the only result of breaking my nails against the cement floor, I also tried to get it with my mouth but unfortunately my mouth didn’t fit the hole in the floor because it was too tight. I insisted anyway, stubborn as ever, in the end I got myself a good cut just above my nose. I also tried to grab the agents’ attention, taking them by the sleeves and pulling them towards the hole, but it was all useless: they, after taking turns in cheering me up for a few minutes, answered to my barking saying that they didn’t have time to play and started dedicating themselves to their occupations without giving me attention anymore... as if in that moment I had wanted to start playing! Little by little the scientific and the photographers, the detectives and the journalists, arrived on the spot, after a while someone put Steve in a grey coffin that was taken away on a grey van.

«Boss, what do we do with him?» an agent asked to the Captain, the latter crouched down in front of me and took my face between his hands.

«Poor Leo... I can’t really imagine how hard it must’ve been for you... seeing your own mate get killed in front of your eyes! Seeing him being taken away in a metal coffin... and moreover you can’t talk, otherwise I’m sure that the murderer would’ve his hours numbered... damn it! Take him with you to Steve’s house and take his things, he’s going to stay with us at the station for a while and we’ll see if someone will want to adopt him.»

Hearing that they would’ve taken me home lifted my mood a little, in fact the murderer’s voice was recorded on the voicemail. I would’ve made sure that someone listened to it, I would’ve made them understand that the one recorded was the voice of the jerk who murdered in cold blood my friend. I was sure that it wouldn’t have been hard, but as soon as I got out the car I adverted the smell of gunpowder and petrol. The murderer had been here without any doubt, to find the documents Steve talked about and to delete the message in the voicemail. In fact the inspection that took place in the apartment, in the search of something that could make light on his last living hours, was hopeless.

All my life I often wished I had hands, maybe only once, even just for a day. Convinced that hands were one of the few real differences between me and a human being, I had always asked myself how many things I could’ve done if I had them. I could’ve played around with the most futile (but also fun!) like make a cat rotate in the air by holding him from his tail, to then open my fingers and see it fly away, or throw rocks and pine cones on my own to then chase them and bring them back. But I could’ve also used them to do useful things, like for example open the door on my own when I had my needs or throw a blanket on me when I was cold, also I would’ve owned the fridge and the television. That time I found myself wanting that so intensively like I had never done. In fact I was aware that if for some miracle it could’ve been possible, even if just for five minutes, I could’ve got the mystery object that Steve lost and with that I would’ve put the murderer to the wall! Instead I felt like just a useless dog, with four useless paws. I fell in a deep state of depression and spent the following three days lying on an improvised doghouse in the waiting room of the Police District, with my mouth placed on my front paws, without eating nor ever lifting my eyes. Sometimes I would turn my ears without moving, when I felt that someone was pointing at me or said my name or my mate’s one, but I really couldn’t react.