Common scientific knowledge dictated that dogs were incapable of conversing in any language other than through their own rough methods. Kip reminded himself of this biological fact, which suddenly required a deeper evaluation. Perhaps he was still confined within the elements of a dream, and he had simply imagined that the beagle had addressed him in plainspoken English. If this was truly the case, the dog continued to defy everything thus far chronicled about its species.
“Don’t pass out on me now,” advised the beagle. “I’m not in the mood to lick you back into consciousness. Besides, I’m running a bit low on saliva this morning.”
The beagle swiped its pink tongue across his chops and said, “That toilet water sure doesn’t go down the pipe easy.”
“I must be dreaming,” Kip said, smearing his palms across his eyeballs.
“Can we skip the clichés? God, if I had a doggy bag for every time I heard that one I’d be fatter than Orson Welles in that Black Tower board game commercial from the 80’s. By the way, I was just joshing about the toilet water.”
Kip remained on the floor at this point, keeping his head eye-level with the dog’s face. He crawled around on his hands and knees, searching for any electronic devices that might’ve been attached to the animal’s fur. “This is a joke,” Kip said. “Albeit, a damn clever one.” He continued to examine the beagle, even going as far to check under its legs and four paws for hidden wires or a microphone.
“I haven’t been groped like this since obedience school,” the beagle said. “But as long as you’re going for the gravy, don’t forget to check my prostate.”
“Very funny,” Kip said. He no longer addressed the dog when he announced, “I know what you’re trying to do, Mark! It won’t work.”
“Hey, I don’t want to confuse you more than you already are, but Mark isn’t here right now.” The dog then resorted to a suitable Humphrey Bogart impersonation. “It’s just you and me, Kip.”
“How do you know who Bogart was?”
“What can I say? I’m a dog. I watch a lot of throwback T.V. and movies. Since I can only see in black and white, I get a penchant for old flicks now and then.”
“You know, not to brag, but I’m somewhat of a movie buff myself,” Kip said.
“We’ll soon see how much polish you’ll really need.”
Kip chuckled only because he didn’t know what else to do. His hunt for a suspicious voice recorder on the dog revealed nothing, however. After exhaling a few measured breathes, he decided to get on his feet and splash some cold water on his face. The beagle waited tolerantly as Kip staggered into the bathroom and attempted to wash away any traces of trickery still flitting inside his brain. He returned to the corridor feeling remarkably alert, and was now convinced that the previous few seconds never occurred.
“For a minute there, I actually thought you could talk,” Kip giggled.
“And I actually thought you were going to drown yourself in that sink, Captain Sparrow,” the beagle remarked.
The color drained from Kip’s cheeks as he stared fixedly at the animal. His legs wobbled as if he was on stilts, but he managed to clasp the wall this time and hold himself upright. The beagle lifted his eyes and said, “If you’re trying to amaze me with your steely grit, you’re going about it the wrong way.”
“This can’t be happening,” Kip said. “Dogs can’t talk.”
“Woof, woof,” the beagle barked mockingly. “Does that make you feel any smarter?”
“It’s a good prank, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. Something fishy is going on here.”
The beagle yawned and scratched its mottled fur with a hind leg. “This shtick is starting to bore me. When you’re finished with all the theatrics, I’ll be downstairs lounging on the couch. We got a lot of crap to go over, and I’m not talking about the kind that you pick up with a pooper-scooper.”
Rather than boggle Kip’s mind with an overload of information, the dog trotted toward the staircase and descended. Kip’s mouth dropped like a sinkhole, but nothing in the form of syllables made its way between his teeth. Before rejoining the dog downstairs, Kip scrambled toward his bedroom and grabbed his cellphone off his nightstand. Several frantic calls to Mark produced no sort of closure; he wasn’t answering his phone. Ultimately, Kip had to settle for the beagle’s account, which spawned more mystery than a plausible solution.
By the time Kip ventured downstairs, the beagle had already found the T.V.’s remote control and toggled through four channels in search of something aligned to his mood. A rerun of Columbo captured his imagination.
“I just love Peter Falk,” the beagle gushed. “Probably the greatest one-eyed private eye ever, don’t ya think?”
“I don’t want to talk about Columbo, okay?”
“That’s akin to sacrilege in my world. I’m tempted to do a false exit right now.”
Kip plopped onto the leather cushion next to the dog, staring incredulously at the animal. “I still can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered.
“Hey, stop overacting. You make Faye Dunaway look like an underachiever in Mommie Dearest.”
“Excuse me if I seem a little shocked. It’s not everyday that I get summoned to a conference by a talking beagle.”
“You’re too hung up on appearances. Are you tryin’ to make me feel self-conscious?”
If there was such a tactic as a pregnant pause, this one nearly gave birth before Kip mustered the humility to continue with his dialogue. “No one is going to believe any of this,” he said. “I’m not even ready to say that I do.”
“Look,” the beagle said as he lifted his paw for a shake. “Maybe we got off on the wrong paw, err, or whatever you humans get off on nowadays. I should’ve properly introduced myself upstairs.”
The beagle set his paw on top of Kip’s wrist, causing the man to involuntarily flinch. At least he didn’t yank his hand away.
“My full name is Bruce 5,” the beagle said. “But you can call me ‘Bruce’.”
“Bruce? That sounds almost too unoriginal to be real.”
“Well, I was named after that animatronic shark from the movie Jaws. Other than paying homage to a drag queen on Bosom Buddies, I’m hankering to know what your name’s claim to fame is, hotshot.”
“What’s the number five stand for in your name?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
It was futile to bicker over what neither of them could’ve changed. Kip reluctantly elected to shake the dog’s paw, but he was still certain that Mark had masterminded this scenario at his expense. If he sought further evidence, Bruce had enough on tap to breach a dam.
Chapter 7
Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom! Page 6
