Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

For the most part, Kip was a shy man who always found it a chore to converse with extroverts. But however gregarious he hoped to become, no amount of preparation would’ve helped him exchange insightful words with a dog. Nevertheless, this very situation presented itself without pretense.

  Bruce was almost distracted by an episode of Columbo. After all, it was the one directed by Steven Spielberg, with Jack Cassidy as a co-star. Because they were limited on time, Bruce hit the remote control with his paw. The television’s screen faded to black. Peter Falk would have to take a rain check.

  “I know you’ve got a lot of questions,” Bruce resumed, “and if you don’t, I probably shouldn’t even be wasting my TV time talking to you.”

  Kip leaned forward on the couch, clasping his hands in front of himself in a posture he usually reserved for the commode. “Maybe you’d like to explain when and how you learned to speak fluent English?”

  “I knew you’d cut to the chase,” Bruce returned. “Mark told me that you were a matter-of-fact kind of guy.”

  “So I’m assuming that Mark just didn’t pick you up off the street?”

  “B-I-N-G-O,” the beagle chimed.

  “What’s your real story, Bruce?”

  “You know anything about microchips and espionage?”

  “Spying? Don’t tell me you’re a spy too,” Kip tried to contain his amusement.

  The beagle didn’t snicker. “No,” Bruce said, “at least not anymore.”

  Kip waited for the dog’s punch line, but the beagle wasn’t throwing any jabs at his funny bone. He kept looking at Kip as if he was a raw scrap of sirloin, but meat didn’t simmer in his thoughts now. Kip then noticed the beagle’s rather peculiar bottom fang, which visibly protruded from his closed muzzle. It looked almost triangular with a serrated edge.

  “So what’s with the tooth?” Kip asked the dog.

  “Don’t ask or you’ll be crusin’ for a bruisin’.”

  “It almost looks fake. I know a few good vets who can fix it for you.”

  “They can’t handle the tooth!” Bruce yelped in his best Nicholson voice. “Besides, I think it gives me a little character and makes me look kinda rough.”

  “Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.”

  “Listen up, or you’re gonna look like Hamburger Helper. What I’m about to tell you is gonna sound wackier than Chuck Barris’s claim that he was an assassin for the CIA. But since speaking dogs don’t lie, you can bet it’s the truth.” At least Kip stopped snickering as Bruce’s tone became increasingly humorless. “Are you familiar with the trend of implanting microchips in house pets for identification?”

  “I’ve heard of it. I haven’t owned a pet in over twelve years, though.”

  Bruce dipped his head, displaying the scruff of his neck to Kip. “They tagged me when I was still a pup,” he said. “They never figured I’d get away.” Kip reached his hand forward tentatively; he wanted to pet the dog to see if he felt any lump beneath his fur. But Kip retracted his fingers before touching Bruce.

  “I feel kind of weird petting you now,” Kip confessed.

  “Why? Is it because I can talk?”

  “Maybe that’s it. This whole thing just makes me nervous.”

  “You’re being anal, Kip. You won’t be able to feel anything anyway,” Bruce explained. “The RFID chip they inserted inside of me is no bigger than a grain of rice. Undetectable to the human touch, really.”

  Kip conceded to the curiosity, lowered his hand, and dragged his fingertips through Bruce’s pelt. The beagle tilted his head accordingly and muttered, “You see, that’s not so bad, is it? You keep this up, I might even keep you around for awhile.”

  “You’re right,” Kip replied. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “The technology nowadays is a real mind bleep. But nothing beats the human touch. Keep scratching, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Did you just say ‘mind bleep’?”

  “Yeppers,” answered Bruce. “I wanted to spew forth the F-word, but my chip filters out any cusses. Censorship sucks the big bone. Keep scratchin’.”

  Kip honored the dog’s request for a few seconds, before withdrawing his hand again. He waited anxiously for the beagle to resume. Bruce didn’t keep him in suspense. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be chatting here with you right now if it wasn’t for Mark Flyer. He’s the guy who rescued me.”

  “Were you in a city pound or something?” Kip still scanned the dog’s expression for a hint of insincerity, but Bruce’s visage remained as unflappable as Molly Brown.

  “I did some time there, Kip,” Bruce clarified. “That was before they trained me for this job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “The kind that people aren’t allowed to publically discuss—at least not more than once.”

  The grin splitting Kip’s mouth displayed his disbelief better than his forthcoming words. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is all getting rather ridiculous.”

  “From where you sit, it must sound that way. But there’s nothing silly about what I’m saying now. Very few people know the truth, and it’s not likely they’re gonna let that change.”

  “You keep referring to ‘they’,” Kip said. “Who are these people who supposedly implanted you with a microchip?”

  Bruce paused and maneuvered his snout closer to Kip’s face. The beagle glared at him raptly before growling, “There’s no turning back now. You’ll be part of this until its finished. You game?”

  “Let me guess,” Kip interjected. “If you tell me anything else, you’re gonna have to kill me, right?”

  “I don’t have the temperament for violence. However, I might take a pungent leak on your face when you’re sleeping, but that’s about it.”

  “How could I refuse you now?”

  “Cogent answer, my friend, because you can’t unless you have a taste for beagle urine. And here’s the kicker: I eat a lot of asparagus and garlic.”

  Before Bruce divulged anything further, he jumped off the couch and did a quick reconnaissance of the living room, which had been mercilessly stripped of most of its furnishings since Kip’s divorce. After he was wholly satisfied that they were alone, the beagle returned to the couch and hopped back up on its cushion.

  “Let me see your hands,” Bruce demanded. “Palms facing down, please.”

  Kip studied his own hands in confusion before displaying them across his lap. Bruce sniffed the area between his thumb and index finger on each hand. “What are you doing?” Kip asked.

  “Double-checking. Mark said you were clean, but he’s been wrong before.”

  “Clean? I just washed my hands.”

  “Never mind. It’s not important right now.”

  “Hold on a second,” Kip insisted. “I’m assuming that Mark has known about your unique talent for a long time. Why didn’t he just come out and tell me himself?”

  Bruce shook his head in disbelief. He then offered a rhetorical question. “Would you believe a guy if he told you that his dog could talk? You needed to find out about me on your own.”

  “So I guess Mark’s father really isn’t in the hospital, huh?”

  “Now you’re catching on. Boy, I can tell you’re a furniture salesman ’cause you’re starting to put all the pieces together like a real crackerjack.”

  It impressed Kip that the beagle was adept at sarcasm, even if he employed it as a mechanism to point out his naivety. At least Bruce had his undivided attention now. “A number of years ago, way before I was born, elite agencies from around the world began implanting microchips in house pets—dogs, cats, birds, etc. It’s now common to sell the technology to pet owners as a registry system to help locate their animals in case they’re lost or stolen, and initially that seemed to be the primary focus.

  “More recently, as the program expanded across the globe and upgrades in RFID, chips became inevitable, the powers-that-be, better known as the federal government, opted to conduct a series of covert tests utilizing popular breeds of d
og. As luck would have it, my parents didn’t mingle outside the pack, and pedigrees of my class have been a top-ten draw in North America for the past fifty years. I blame that faux pas on Snoopy, and I got peanuts compared to what they paid him, but that’s another story.”

  “Are you saying that you were used in some type of secret experiment by our government?” Kip asked. His face was drawn entirely too close to the dog’s nose in these seconds; one sneeze from Bruce would’ve certainly lacquered his cheeks with beagle snot. Luckily for Kip, Bruce had no known allergies.

  “Imagine my embarrassment when I found out that this sort of stuff only used to happen to guinea pigs? But there’s no sense in denying the facts any longer. I was indeed an unwilling pawn of a countrywide scheme to spy on Americans in the security of their own homes.”

  “That doesn’t sound logical. Why would our government want to spy on its own people? It’s unconstitutional.”

  “I got two syllables for you, Kip: Snowden. It’s not just an inconvenience in the wintertime anymore, is it?”

  “This just doesn’t sound rational to me.”

  “Are you gonna make me roll my bleeping eyes again?” Bruce groaned. “You’re on a couch nattering with a dog, and in the same breath you’re calling me irrational? You mustn’t confuse logic with reality. They aren’t meant to mesh like Starsky and Hutch.”

  Kip suddenly felt lightheaded. He stood up and hobbled over toward the foyer, near the front door.

  “Don’t tell me you’re gonna faint again?” Bruce griped. “I’ve seen poodles on Ritalin with more moxie than you.”

  “I just need some fresh air.” Kip clasped the front door’s handle and opened it. Before sunlight glazed his face, he noticed a woman pacing up the sidewalk toward the townhouse. This wasn’t just any woman, however. It was his ex-wife. Kip immediately slammed the door, hoping that she didn’t see him.

  Bruce sniffed at the air with his nose, but he didn’t need his scent tracking skills to verify that company was on the way.

  “You expecting someone hawking stale perfume?” Bruce asked.

  “No. It’s my wife, I mean…my ex. She never comes over here.”

  Bruce then served forth his best James Cagney impersonation. “Get rid of the moll. We don’t need any dames to complicate things, see?”

  “Bruce, that’s the best advice you’ve given me thus far.”

  Chapter 8