The Case of the Belligerent Boxer and the “Simple Job”

“It’s a simple job,” Sandi Evans said to me from the doorway of my office. “Do you want it?”

“Sure” I said, “why not?”

The job my fellow adjuster was referring to was an appointment to photo an insured’s vehicle and to take a statement. Simple enough, and a chance to log some extra hours before the week ended. My supervisor would be happy about that as my billable hours had been slipping recently.

So, after battling L.A. rush hour traffic for an hour or more I finally arrived at the insured’s house. It turns out I’m supposed to photograph two cars, not one, and sort out a tricky coverage question. She did not mention that. I knocked on the front door and was met with a snarling, gnashing eighty plus pounds of roly-poly flesh and fur with a face that resembled a busted boot. This was my first encounter with “Bernard,” the insured’s boxer dog. I hear a voice yell from inside “The cars are out back. One’s in the garage and the other is in front of it.” Thank goodness there was a screen door!

I gingerly edge my way through the gate and into the back yard half expecting at any moment to have one or more limbs set upon and ripped off by some hound from hell, but fortunately, I’m still in one piece as I reach the garage. The first car, an El Camino, is there alright, but it’s almost in pieces and is surrounded by torn out seats, bumpers, old oil cans and engine parts. I pull out my camera and begin snapping. The angle is such that I can only manage at best to get half the car in the frame. As I edge myself around to the rear to find the license plate my backside brushes up against something oily. I turn around to see what it was and almost stumble on some engine parts and go flying into the bed. Coming awfully close to dislocating one of the vertebrae in my neck, I manage to get a shot of the plate.

I leave the garage thinking the other car will be easier to photo. By this time, the insured’s wife who is in a wheelchair is outside with Bernard. Both eye me suspiciously. There are several cars in the yard. I check with her for the right one and she indicates the one that is right up against the garage door with another car alongside it leaving about three inches of space. Great! I manage to get the shots again resorting to stances that a professional contortionist would have been envious of.

Now it’s time to take the insured’s statement. For some reason she wants to do it outside in the back yard. I look around for somewhere to sit but the yard is an absolute rubbish heap. There are six cars in various stages of decay, old tarpaulins, rusty tools, old engines, broken chairs. Over in a corner is Bernard’s place for doing his “jobs.” There are weird looking insects flying around and a putrid smell in the air. As I look around for somewhere to sit, a mangy old cat that looks like it’s infested comes up and begins to rub itself up against the bottom of my trouser legs. I try to tactfully kick it off without the insured’s wife noticing. I eventually settle on an old suitcase that’s on top of a bench of an old picnic table and get out my notebook. I begin asking my questions.

I had gotten about 30 seconds into the statement when Bernard decides that I have encroached on his territory for too long and comes and stands by my right leg and begins to growl, his bared fangs about six inches away from my calf muscles. He receives a reprimand from his mistress and falls silent. But, not for long. He does a 180 and decides he now likes me and leaps up onto my lap sending my notebook flying and, in the process, depositing half a gallon of rancid dripping dog saliva, which had been hanging precariously from his jowls, onto my trouser legs at the thigh.

I try to pretend this isn’t happening and press on with my questioning. Let’s get this over with and get the hell out of Dodge! Bernard dons a look of rejection on his face and backs away. Out of the corner of my eye I see him go over to the corner where his dog bowl is and begin to lick the basin which sends a flurry of flies into the air and buzzing around the yard. Meanwhile, the insured’s wife is telling me that she can’t find her policy, doesn’t know who her agent is or where to find him and doesn’t know when she bought the insurance! I look down and there are ants on my notebook. “Oh yeah,” says the insured’s wife, “we have an ant problem.”

I notice Bernard returning from his snack of dog biscuits and maggots. As I am writing I am also holding in my left hand the claims file. For some unknown reason, best known to God and dogs, Bernard decides that the file constitutes some form of deadly threat. With one huge leap, he goes for the file — jaws open wide, teeth bared. I manage to snatch it out of the path of his hot dog breath just in time. I save the file from teeth indentations but not the saliva, which begins to run in sticky rivulets down the outside covers. The insured’s wife leans forwards and snatches the file from my hands. “You see,” she says, “he’s alright when I have it!”

I let her keep the file for now and try to get back on track and to sort out this complicated coverage question. Bernard is prowling around the yard occasionally giving me “hurt feelings” looks, probably because I wouldn’t let him digest my file. Suddenly, he decides that my right leg would make an ideal mate for him, and he begins humping it. “Bernard!” scolds his mistress, “Bad boy, get down!” He reluctantly ceases and desists his amorous maneuvers and goes off to sulk in the corner. The flies reappear.

I push on through and get the information I need and hurriedly say goodbye and I am out the gate before Bernard can wreak any more havoc. As I close the gate, he is up on it with his front paws, barking at me as if to warn me to never return. As I walk towards my car, I feel a gooey wetness on my thigh and begin to feel little bites all over my body. I begin to scratch my legs, my ears, my hair.

As I drive away, I get the picture of Sandy Evans standing in my office doorway.

“It’s a simple job…you want it?”