- "Outside of a dog, man's best friend is a good book. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." Groucho Marx
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Disclaimer from Tyge: This was a drunken conversation, held in jest. Harry the Warrant, nor myself, condone the kidnapping of people or animals—Canadian, British, or otherwise.
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"Tyge, what ya think about starting a kidnapping business with me?"
The voice belonged to Harry the Warrant, and he had sneaked up behind me at the bar. His arm was around my shoulder, and I could smell a combination of beer and Jagermeister on his breath.
"Someone already tried that with Steve Wynn's daughter and it didn't work," I said.
"I know, that kidnapper was a complete idiot," Harry replied.
"The Warrant" is Harry's nickname because every time the police check his identification, Harry tends to have an outstanding warrant, or two. It's always for minor infractions, like missing a court date for being intoxicated while in public. Harry is pretty much harmless though—he lost his driving privileges years ago. When he's drunk—which is pretty much whenever I see him—he's always thinking-up crazy shit. Last fall when I climbed Mount Charleston, Harry told me about his plans to climb the highest peak on each of the seven continents. He had at least done some homework on the subject, and was able to rattle-off all the names of the summits, along with their altitudes. I told him he should try climbing Mount Charleston first, since he's in no better physical shape than me, and being that Mount Charleston had kicked my ass.
"Kilimanjaro. I'm going to start with fucking Kilimanjaro," he replied.
"So who you thinking about kidnapping?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know, maybe that Canadian Diva's kid."
"Little Charles?" He'd probably be too much of a handful to deal with."
"Okay then, what about Sir E.J.'s dog?"
"Arthur? That dog was Best Man in E.J.'s wedding—now you're onto something," I said.
"The dog's collar is like, embedded with jewels and shit. I hear it's worth a fucking ton of money," Harry said.
"Well, instead of kidnapping the dog, why not just steal the collar?"
You could see the drunk gears slowly turning in Harry's head.
I told “The Warrant" about how I used to walk Arthur, back when Sir E.J. was performing regularly at the hotel. Every three hours or so, a bellman would have to go to the suite and get the dog—a very sweet and playful Cocker Spaniel—and walk him around the area behind the swimming pools, so the dog could take a shit. After walking him a few times though, I requested to be taken off the rotation because really, being a peon of a bellman is enough, and I didn't want "Dog Walker to the Stars" added to my list of minor accomplishments. Besides that, I was afraid Arthur would suddenly drop-dead while on my watch.
"Did you ever think about kidnapping the dog?" Harry asked.
"No, but I often thought about putting his poop on Ebay."
Harry's face lit up. "Dude, you could have totally video-tapped the dog taking a shit, ya know, as proof."
I nodded.
"I wonder what you could have got for a pile of celebrity dog shit on Ebay," Harry mused.
"I know exactly what I would've got," I said.
“Fired."
FiN.
