The Ransom Note

The true story of a busy library, a jigsaw puzzle, a severed ear, and a missing dog.

Back in the day – we’re talking the Carter administration, folks – I worked as a library page, shelving books returned by patrons of the Burbank Public Library.

Upstairs, situated next to a space filled with mainframe computers boasting the total memory of one Radio Shack floppy disc, was the staff break room. It was used by librarians and other fine civil servants who relaxed by scarfing down delectables from the Sputnik-era vending machine (the snacks were free, provided you knew how to body-slam it with just enough finesse), catching the latest episode of “Happy Days” or “Charlie’s Angels” on a 13-inch black-and-white Zenith, and incinerating all manner of Swanson frozen dinners in the break room’s newest gizmo: a silver 50-pound microwave oven that leaked like a Chernobyl reactor. (I’m pretty sure that thing permanently lowered my sperm count … but that’s another story.)

In addition, some of the staffers enjoyed assembling jigsaw puzzles.

One day, after shelving a cartful of books, I headed upstairs to the break room, smacked the vending machine to procure a free Hostess Twinkie, and headed toward one of the lime-green beanbag chairs that, along with conventional furniture, were situated against the far wall. But before I plopped my 18-year-old keester down and tore into the treat, I glanced at the latest jigsaw puzzle, a nearly completed 2,000-piece item depicting a cute “Peanuts” cartoon, of Charles Schulz fame. It’s something like this, only with many, many more jigsaw pieces:

That’s when I spotted Snoopy.
And I had an idea.

Despite being alone in the break room, I instinctively looked left and right, like a black-clad burglar who’d just slinked through a jimmied window, before reaching down and lifting Snoopy from the puzzle. Deftly placing him in the front-left pocket of my Levis, I smiled to myself and bolted stage left.

I’d just dog-napped Snoopy.
And I felt drunk with power.

That night, at home after my shift, I grabbed the latest issue of my sister’s “Teen Beat” magazine and removed a pair of scissors from the kitchen’s junk drawer. With the patience of Job and the down time of a tax cheat cooling his heels in Sing-Sing, I cut out hundreds of individual printed letters. Then, using a bottle of Elmer’s glue, I meticulously pasted each letter onto a sheet of what was then called “typing paper” to form a note.

A ransom note.
It began like this (click on the graphic to bring up a larger version):

Before we continue, we must pause to discuss a real kidnapping, one that had occurred not long before I abducted Snoopy.

Fasten your seat belts, folks. This takes a dark turn.

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In 1973, John Paul Getty III, grandson of J. Paul Getty (the World’s Richest Man, with more money than the Catholic Church), was kidnapped by the Italian mob and held for $17 million. When the elder Getty, who apparently was also the World’s Richest Cheapskate, initially balked, a local newspaper soon received – I am not making this up – John Paul Getty III’s severed ear in the mail, courtesy of the aforementioned Roman goombahs. The old man soon coughed up a negotiated $2.2 million, and John Paul III was eventually returned.

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With that in mind, here’s my entire ransom note, re-created to the best of my memory from 1977, which I left in the break room atop that radioactive microwave:

We have Snoopy. He’s in good hands, at least for now. But you don’t want to mess with us. We’d hate to fit your mutt with four cement boots and invite him to dog paddle in the East River.

To get him back, leave two bottles of Coca-Cola on the top shelf just west of the building support pillar at the end of the cooking section. Your DEADline is Saturday, July 17, no later than noon.

No funny stuff, or your dog does the backstroke.

To show you we’re serious, we’re leaving you a little gift. Do NOT push us.

Placed in the same plain white envelope that contained my goofy ransom note was one small piece of the jigsaw puzzle, a piece that depicted – are you paying attention? – Snoopy’s ear. Since the world-famous Getty abduction had occurred just three years prior, library staff must’ve understood exactly how deadly serious sick and twisted amusing this was.

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Nobody at the library ever said a word to me about this.

I never noticed any lantern-jawed thugs, coppers or G-men trailing me.

No, life at the Burbank Public Library went on as usual. Except some very important people in town must’ve realized that someone had kidnapped a world-renowned celebrity.

How do I know this? On July 17, 1977, while shelving books in the library’s cooking section, I headed over to the prearranged location, and there they were: two bottles of Coca-Cola.

And I smiled.

Later that evening, a librarian on break discovered that Snoopy had been miraculously returned to his jigsaw domain, reunited with his severed ear.

I learned two things, at the ripe old age of 18: (1) Pulling victimless pranks was a load of fun, and (2) I really didn’t have what it took to lead a genuine life of crime.

Nearly a half century later, I remain quite certain that no library staffer ever determined who’d kidnapped Snoopy, lopped off his floppy ear, and left the ransom note.

And I have absolutely no idea who paid the ransom … which I enjoyed later that day with a few freebie Twinkies pilfered from the break room.

It remains a mystery to this very day.

Special thanks to Alden Cox, Dana Allen, Kathy Ayers and Linda Kaun, who provided encouragement and helpful feedback while this essay was being written.