As told from the perspective of Oskar, a most bold, magnificent wiener dog.
1:28 am, Saturday morning, May 17th, 2014
I am awakened from a deep sleep by a mysterious sound from the living room. The noise itself is unexceptional. In quality and character it is a dull noise - a thumping noise as if a large bag of meaty bones has been dropped on the floor and dragged across it, slowly. Tauntingly. As if to say, "Oskar...come and get me...Oooossskar...you know you want to..."
I immediately begin to warn my new human, who may not be as finely attuned to midnight noises as I. The alert system begins with a few wiggles and grunts, and then escalates to full-throated baying if the human does not immediately respond. The red-haired human - whom I suspect to be a long-lost relative of mine, since our fur is the same color - awakens and jumps out of bed, also barking. I take a mighty leap from the mattress and slide across the floor into the living room, ready to attack and possibly devour the intruding bag of bones.
But nothing is there. Hmmm. I don't understand. I am quite sure I heard...but no. The only inhabitant of the living room is the large yellow fur-ball that my new human calls the "Tucker". He is sitting by the kitchen door with his tongue lolling out. I could come to two conclusions. One, he was here when the bag of bones was introduced and he consumed them all in one vicious chomp. Or two, he himself IS the bag of bones, and he is engaging in the time-honored ritual of flopping his butt upon the floor and dragging himself across it with his front feet. This is a signal used by some of our kind and it is intended to convey the urgent need to defecate. Upon sniffing the air, I decide immediately upon the latter. My heart is heavy at the loss of the imagined bones, but I shrug off my disappointment. If a poop-outing is to occur, then I plan to take part. I join the Tucker at the door and make it known to my new human that I, too, could use a walk.
My human barks and growls a bit more, and as I am coming to understand her particular language, I can glean that she is not enthusiastic about going outside in the middle of the night. But she dons the detachable skin that humans often wear, and puts on her detachable feet, and collects leashes. By this time, we are joined by the small, grey, curly-haired dog-demon who also inhabits the house. I am not sure what this creature's name might be since she is called by several appellations. The most common one seems to be the Crab, and as it suits her nature, it may indeed be her name. The Crab dances, which is her own particular pre-defecation ceremony. My human attaches leashes to each of our collars and opens the door.
The Tucker is the first one out, by virtue of his size and impatient nature. He lunges away and his leash slips through my human's paw. She barks loudly, but the Tucker has already disappeared. Her anger is palpable and I try to calm her by joining her in barking insults after the ridiculous furball who has disappeared into the night. My human fastens my leash and that of the Crab to a long cord that is fixed to a metal tree in the yard. Then she begins searching and calling out after the Tucker.
I feel much pity for my human. I know that she does not like to be awakened in the night and I also know that she does not appreciate cold, brisk air. I would gladly join her in her search but she has apparently deemed it necessary for me to oversee the Crab's defecation. So I wait, occasionally voicing my approval for both the hunt and the toileting, though only one seems to be fruitful. My human comes back empty handed and growling. She detaches both myself and the Crab and takes us back into the house. Standing at the door, she occasionally pushes it open and calls out the Tucker's name, interspersed with irresistibly sharp whistles. Each note drills to the core of my brain. How can the Tucker ignore them? Unless, of course, he is not within the sound of the call.
Then, on the breeze wafting through the barely open door, I hear a sound that chills my very bones. It is the mocking voice of the neighbor dog, calling out epithets of such rampant villainy that I am immediately cast into the deepest rage. All my sense leaves me and I must - MUST - find and vanquish the vile creature. I dart through the door into the night, heedless of the barks and calls of my human.
Plunging through the deep grass, I fly into the darkness. The cold, crisp air fills my lungs and I bay out my fury at the ridiculous neighbor dog, whose parentage is of the lowest sort, and whose mental capacity I compare to that of a field-mouse. He replies in kind and the battle is on! Bounding fast, I leave my human's yard and fling myself through the fence and into the trees. Now silent, I tunnel through the overarching vegetation on the forest floor, intending to arrive at the neighbor dog's enclosure unanticipated and thereby win the day.
But then...something goes wrong. The wretched creature is silenced by the angry howls of it's human. The blood-lust leaves me and I am standing in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by oily vines, with the faint calls of my human reverberating in my ears. The disappointment and anger in her voice are unmistakable. The sharp, whistled notes are irresistible. I am a long way from home, in disgrace, and at the bottom of a deep ravine. I turn and look up the slope, which seems interminably long. My human is calling and I must go, but perhaps I could find a quicker way back than up the tangled embankment. I begin nosing my way along the bottom of the vale. Yes - there ahead, a gentler rise. It has been cleared of the ridiculous vines and the way seems easier. My human's calls grow fainter, but I have no doubt she is still waiting for me. The punishment may be severe, but I soldier on.
I reach the end of the vegetation and stop in dismay. There is a barrier here - not the wooden-rail fence of my human's boundary, but one made of long, twisted strands of metal. I must not be vanquished! I sniff along the boundary, and am rewarded by a shallow trough in the earth, which is just big enough to accommodate my long, narrow form. I wiggle through. Then, unexpectedly, a bolt of lightning streaks down my spine! I howl in agony and lunge forward, bolting into uncharted territory. I hear my human's answering yelp of sympathy. What strange wizardry is this, to call down lightning from a clear night sky? I tremble in terror.
Get hold of yourself! I say sternly. I cannot - must not - be defeated! My human calls - I must go. I get up and steel my bones. Looking around, I determine my direction, and begin the journey. Going is easier here without the impeding vines, but my path must take me perilously close to the source of the lightning. I shiver, but press forward. Then, from out of the darkness, I see a cluster of glowing eyes. A low sound, sinister and bleating, flows past me. A strong odor fills my nostrils and I choke, gagging on the musky scent...the scent of GOAT. Rage fills me - there is little I detest as much as I detest GOAT. Daily these creatures, who live in the enclosure next door, mock and scorn me, shaking their horned heads and calling out in their hideous GOAT voices, putting on shows of strength by clashing their skulls together and threatening to trample or even eat me, the Crab, the Tucker and, possibly, my new human. I have inadvertently stumbled into GOAT territory, one lone soldier in the midst of an enemy encampment. And my human lies beyond it - there is no way out but through.
I set my teeth and prepare a volley of barks designed to make even the boldest GOAT shiver. And then - oh then! Wonder of wonders! I see a dancing light and hear the sharp notes of my human's whistle! The GOATS retreat in terror. My human is crouching by the gate, and I see her paw reaching through, showing me the way out. The way out! I muster my strength and gallop toward her, casting a contemptuous yelp over my shoulder at the GOATS as I pass them. I plunge through the opening and into my human's arms.
She growls over me for a bit but carries my tired, shivering form back toward the house. A warm light glows from the door. Through the glass I can see the Crab and yes, even the Tucker, waiting. My human warns me of the dangers of running away into the night, but there is no punishment - while grumbling, she also wraps me in a warm blanket which feels divine to my cold, wet fur and skin. She rubs me dry and deposits me in the bed, then growling about something called "poison ivy", she douses her arms, hands, and feet in a foul smelling, clear liquid. I can only conclude that Poison Ivy is the name of the neighbor dog who started this mess, or possibly, one of the demon GOATS next door.
As she finally settles into the bed next to me, I realize that I never had the chance to complete my defecation. But the bed is warm, and my human is tired. It can wait until morning. I lower my noble head, snuggle into my blanket, and sleep the sleep of the just, the righteous, the pure.
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