Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

“Bow wow!” Bruce yapped as Kip sauntered back into the room. “Or should I just say ‘wowsers’? You really are the little tugboat that could.”

  Kip’s face beamed as if he just got shot in the ass with a booster full of virility. Even if praise came from a dog, it was better than playing to an empty house. “Do you think I handled her pretty good?”

  “Pretty good? You were terrific, Kip,” Bruce said. “I take back that hasty remark I made about the drugged poodle. That performance could’ve tamed a rabid Rottweiler on steroids.”

  “You really think?”

  “Trust me. You were beautiful, just beautiful. I haven’t watched anything that funny since Ethel Mermen slipped on a banana peel in a sanatorium. You’re top dog, as they say back at the pound. And that line you delivered about the rogue squirrel: classic. If it wasn’t for that other thing you said about the bat and balls, I’d lick your face right now.”

  Kip still expanded his chest and ambled around the room like he had a sack of crap in his pants. “You can breathe now,” Bruce reminded him. “The pit viper has left the building.”

  Kip plopped on the couch cushion and exhaled before his lips turned blue. “I thought you were gonna lose it when she called you a mutt,” he said.

  “I’ve been called worse. Besides, some of my best friends are mongrels. I’ve got friends in lower places than Garth Brooks. I just can’t believe you were married to that shrew. I mean, I’ve sniffed around my fair share of foul bitches, but she’s brutal. I bet she’s seen more Wangs than a whorehouse in Bangkok.”

  “Apparently, she’s not too picky.”

  “Holy Sheena. For all guys only, huh?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t guarantee the ‘only’ part,” Kip returned.

  “Oh, so she likes carpet as well as hardwood flooring, huh?”

  “How should I know? I was just her husband. Last to know, last to blow.”

  “Good point. Ah, I’d say she’s really blown it, but that’s overstating the issue. Just look at her like the mascot for a neutering campaign.”

  Kip looked quizzically at Bruce for a moment. His seemed distracted. “This might be a little bit off-topic,” he said, “but I’ve always wondered what it felt like for a dog to…you know, have his testicles cut off.”

  “You were married for fifteen years, Kip. You know exactly what it feels like.”

  “I’m being serious, Bruce. Did it change your personality at all?”

  “I now squat when I take a piss. The last thing I humped was a vinyl camel with a squeaker, and the results were inconclusive. Does that sound macho to you? Take my word for it: if anybody ever tries to cut your cojones off and sells it to you as a health aid, they’ve got an agenda that doesn’t include your long-term happiness.”

  “I’m sorry I brought it up, but I didn’t know if I’d ever get another chance to ask a dog that question.”

  “Well, you can scratch it off your bucket list. But there’s no sense of weeping over snipped gonads or dissatisfied camels. We’ve got more urgent business at stake, and it’s gonna take a lotta balls on your part to get it done.”

  If there was any disbelief still simmering in Kip’s eyes in regard to the beagle, it had all but vanished. Man and dog now hunched alongside one another like two generals masterminding a blueprint for battle. If either of them smoked, it would’ve been a good time to spark up a cigarette. Instead, Kip poured a bowl of dog food and set it on the coffee table in front of Bruce. Kip glanced at his watch. He was due back at Bed Mania in less than an hour.

  “You most likely never heard of Project FIDO,” Bruce said, munching on a single nugget of dog food.

  “FIDO? No, but that’s a pretty clever name, don’t you think?”

  “Yeppers, the government spoons out nifty acronyms like mashed potatoes at a soup kitchen. Anyway, FIDO stands for Frequency Inspective Dog Operatives. I, along with fifty thousand other oblivious canines, became the first squad of domestic pets to receive Class IV RFID transponders. Select breeders then sold us to equally oblivious pet shops and homeowners across the fruited plains. Like earlier transmitters, the microchips contained GPS tracking. Only the Class IV chips included a few other perks. They also have the capability to record video and audio directly through the host’s observations.”

  “And you’re the host?”

  “You got it, but this isn’t a game show, Kip, and Vanna White ain’t turning over any tiles to spell out ‘America’. It’s Federal-spying 101. It’s NSA’s wet dream soaking through the linen. Think about it. Most pets have full access to their owners’ homes, particularly expensive dogs—pedigrees like me. We lounge on couches and beds, and sit near dinner tables, seemingly dumb to the private conversations occurring everyday between ordinary people. Imagine if all those interactions were monitored, and transferred from the technology implanted in pets to governmental databanks designed specifically to incriminate the public at large.”

  “But that’s illegal. The government can’t do that.”

  “You think Orwell had a clue when he exposed Big Brother?”

  “The government works for us. Not the other way around.”

  The beagle chuckled at Kip’s gullibility. “Kip, if you were any greener, I’d take a bleep on you and drag my itchy butt across your face. Newsflash: the government doesn’t care about what’s legal until they’re called to task, and since most humans are too busy dressing up their pets like four-legged dwarfs and waiting for the next kickoff or big sale on tea sets or lawnmowers, spying on their daily routines has become easier than shearing sleeping sheep. By the way, that’s a real tongue-twister.”

  “I’m confused about something,” Kip admitted. “Does this Class IV microchip also give dogs like you the ability to talk? If that’s the case, why aren’t there reports of other talking dogs?”

  “You’re putting the cart before the horse,” Bruce cautioned. “I’m gonna have to tie you on a short leash. Just listen and learn. Now, you asked a valid question, and the real answer is no, of course. The Class IV microchip isn’t intended to make any animal communicate through language. But the Class V prototype is the newest version and its side effects are still unknown.”

  “Class V? Your mean there’s more chips?”

  “When it comes to corruption in the government, the chips are never down. Henceforth, we have the Class V transponders. It’s the be-all and end-all of RFID microchips. I sometimes call it the Mac-Chip.”

  “Why?”

  “Because in a few years they’ll be more commonly sighted in American neighborhoods than McDonalds’ Restaurants.”

  Kip grimaced and said, “It sounds like an overly ambitious plot.”

  “Go ahead, think like you’ve been taught, but those Macs are about to go viral without the special sauce, only it won’t just be American house pets carrying them this time around. Well, at least not the pets walking on fours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you better not have any private ambitions that clash with the bigwigs in D.C. The Mac-Chip is designed for banal humans like you. Whatever they’re learning from FIDO has churned up a major bleep storm in Washington. Uncle Sam wants folks like you, Kip, but not in the way you once believed.”

  “So you’re telling me that the government is conspiring to put a microchip in every human in this country?”

  “It’s nothing new,” Bruce stated. “Even as we speak, Class II and III microchips have already been implanted in human volunteers, mainly children and the elderly. I call them guinea people. It’s only a matter of time before the chips become as mandatory in humans as rabies shots are for pets.”

  “But what about the Class V chips? Is that what they stuck inside of you?”

  “The smart money is on that bet,” Bruce said. “Of course, it wasn’t intentional on their behalf. Mark’s theory is that a screw-up at the lab occurred. I somehow received a Mac-Chip instead of the Class IV variety like the other dogs in FIDO.”

  “How did Mark get
involved in all of this?”

  “If you want that information, you’re barking up the wrong tree. You’ll have to wait until you see Mark and debrief him.”

  “But you’ve already told me everything else.”

  “Hardly. I barely scraped the bone.”

  Kip’s eyes returned to his watch. Although he was absolutely intrigued by Bruce’s report, the matter of arriving at work on time still loomed as an obligation. Ben Baylock despised tardiness more than renters, and he’d surely make Kip walk the proverbial plank if he wasn’t there to open the store as scheduled.

  “That’s the second time you checked your watch,” Bruce observed. “You got a hot date?”

  “Just work, not that I’ll be able to concentrate on selling many mattresses after what you just told me.”

  “That’s good. Go about your normal routine. Don’t make a spectacle of yourself. Oh, I shouldn’t have to remind you that what we discussed here this morning is highly classified. Loose lips sink ships, and that ain’t good publicity for tugboats like yourself, comprende?”

  “Who would believe me anyway? They’d have me locked up like Son of Sam if I told anyone that my dog was talking to me.”

  “There’s one other thing. You gotta tell your boss that you’re taking some time off. I’m thinking maybe two or three days if all goes as planned.”

  “What? I can’t do that on such short notice.”

  “This is a one-way street, Kip. As I already told you, there’s no backing up now.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with you today?”

  Bruce extended his paw and tapped the power button on the remote control. The television flicked on. Columbo was in the midst of interrogating his suspect. “I’m gonna do what dogs do best,” he said. “I got plenty of food and Peter Falk to keep me occupied. I don’t see any reason to twitch a muscle unless I have to use the john.”

  “So you don’t go outside?”

  “I can’t open doors. I still got these things called ‘front paws’. Outside of walking and digging random holes, they ain’t much good for bleep. Besides, it’s not safe for me outdoors.”

  “Why? Are you on the lam?”

  “Noppers, too much wool to go on the lamb.”

  “I said ‘lam’,” Kip said. “Seriously, are you being hunted or not?”

  “Now wouldn’t that be ironic?” Bruce asked. “Usually, I’d be the one doing the hunting, right? But as you’ll soon find out, nothing is as it once was.”

  On this point, Kip couldn’t disagree.

  Chapter 10