The detective story promised to be intriguing. Page after page, John followed the highly enlightened investigator and his mellow side-kick.
The problem was when John's dog, in an unacceptable attitude of contempt, decided to rip the book to pieces and wrap things up by peeing on the ruins of the mystery plot.
John was horrified. How could he now find out who the killer of the prestigious banker was? And why was the crime committed? Was it for his fortune? Or was it a crime of passion, considering his wife had found out he was entertaining a voluptuous woman on Thursdays afternoon in their downtown apartment.
The dog sat next to its work of art, huffing and puffing, perfectly content with the final result; the art of destroying the written text was excruciatingly tiring, apparently.
In an incomprehensible frenzy, so the dog thought, John started to rummage through the torn pages to find a sentence, a lost paragraph, anything that would tell him who did it.
John then decided to flatten the pages and pile them up, skimming through the text, until he found one page almost intact. At the bottom, the following sentence jumped out of the page "Mr. Downey looked at the gate, and like a blood hound, he scanned the area, left and right, sniffing the air and kneeling down to place an ear to the ground, suddenly saying "Beware of the Dog".
There was no dog in the story, but the cryptic remark was the answer to the well established culpability of John's dog and the crime committed.
It turned out that the Dog was a hitman hired by the banker's wife.
How the detective sniffed the air and immediately knew who the culprit was, was a mystery to John. But then again, as many say, fiction is nothing but a pack of well fabricated lies, fun lies, but lies nevertheless!
The true certainty in John's life was the fact that he definitely had to take his detective-killer dog out for a walk… and… well, other things.