Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

Right from the starting block, no one ever promised Bruce a Disney-like conclusion to his marathon run in FIDO. Then again, nobody ever hinted to a possibility of him being stung to death by a colony of enraged killer bees either. He wore his brave, come-and-get-me face, because that’s what most dogs did before they got their tails kicked. But Bella sensed some second thoughts brewing in the canine’s cranium. She had every intention of getting him out of this situation alive, and with as few beestings as manageable. Bruce glanced at the computer screen anxiously alongside Bella and Kip. They only had a few more minutes of preparation.

  “You look confused,” Kip said to him.

  “I haven’t been this disillusioned since I saw Harry Potter in Trolls,” Bruce said.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” Bella assured them both. She then revealed a small remote no bigger than her hand. The device had a single red button on its casing and a knob on its front side, which she twisted all the way to the right.

  “What’s that thing for?” Kip asked her, gesturing to the remote.

  “It's a remote control to activate the sonar waves for each hive. Once we’re outside, I just have to hit this red button once. The bees will do the rest.”

  “Not that I don’t appreciate your escape plan, Doc, but what do we do if the bees don’t feel like playing along with us today?”

  “That won’t happen,” Bella assured him.

  “Well, the Lorax may speak for the trees, but since when did you become a cheerleader for the bees?” Bruce returned.

  “Since I’ve earned a degree,” she replied.

  “Good answer. You score a B+ for that effort,” Bruce said. “You know, Doc, you’ll always be A-number-one in my book. But I’d still feel a whole lot better about things if I had Donald Pleasence bleeped-off and standing next to me with a machine gun right now.”

  “Hey, didn’t he play the POTUS once?” Kip asked.

  “I don’t give a bleep about your president,” Bruce fired back in a voice sounding like Kurt Russell with a soar throat.

  “Look,” Bella said, stepping between them like a referee. “You guys can duke it out later. If everyone stays calm and Bruce does exactly as planned, we should come out of this without taking too many licks.” As soon as she finished her statement, Bella knew that she had selected the wrong phrasing. Bruce was all over it like hidden owls on architecture.

  “Uh, call me inquisitive, Doc, but just how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie like you?”

  “More than Pavlov’s dog’s salivary glands could’ve produced in a lifetime,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I’m no Mark Spitz, but I can go a few laps.”

  “Bruce, this tootsie would rather bleep Dustin Hoffman while he’s in drag,” Bella returned. She then stomped to the far end of the bunker, purposely separating herself from the beagle.

  Bruce turned to Kip with sheepish gaze. His ears folded against his head. “At least she didn’t say Dabney Coleman in drag,” he sighed. “By the way, did she just use a ‘bleep’ in place of a curse word?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure she did.”

  “She’s playing hard like a coquette.”

  “No,” Kip refuted, “I just think you’ve repulsed her into censorship.”

  “Don’t let jealousy get the best of ya,” Bruce said. “I guess you don’t recognize sexual tension when it’s taut.”

  “Maybe not, but I know vomit when I see it, and I think she just wiped some of it from the corner of her mouth.”

  “Ya gotta learn how to read between the lines, especially the bikini lines.”

  “If that’s reading lines, you’ve taken illiteracy to newfound heights.”

  “Then why do I feel like Dudley Moore running on a beach in slow motion right now?”

  “She’s not your 10, Bruce,” Kip said flatly.

  “Do you think I gotta shot if she styles her hair in cornrows?”

  “Even less so.”

  “Maybe she likes older Derek-licks.”

  Bella returned to them with a sterner expression. If this was their idea of playtime, it was coming to an abrupt halt. She looked serious as she approached the computer and punched in an electronic code to unlock the bunker’s steel door. Kip and Bruce sighed simultaneously. It suddenly occurred to them that they might never have another chance to verbally spar with one other.

  “Looks like this is it,” Kip said to Bruce. “Are you ready?”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re not talkin’ to Chicken Little here. Even the sky falling down wouldn’t scare me now.”

  Kip then pivoted to Bella and said, “I guess he’s good to go.”

  Bella checked the hives on the monitor, and then the signal on her remote control. “Perfect. I think the bees are ready too,” she said.

  “They’ll be breaking out in hives when I get through with them,” Bruce assured her with a smile. They all referred to the digital clock. The time read: 42:07.

  Kip then reached out his hand and patted the top of Bruce’s head repeatedly. “I know that we might not ever see each other again under these same circumstances,” he said, “but I liked working with you, Bruce. You’re a good dog, and that’s saying a lot.”

  “Don’t get all mawkish on me,” Bruce stated, “otherwise you’re gonna spew out a Jerry Mcguireism. And once you spurt one out, you can’t ever take it back. Now, I for one have already eaten enough crow to last me two lifetimes in dog years.”

  “I was never really good at goodbyes,” Kip admitted.

  “Unless you’re the son of a deceased Beatle, it’s much too late for goodbyes,” Bruce said.

  “Why do I keep trying to have a meaningful conversation with you?”

  Bruce then resorted to his Bogart impersonation once again. “Look at it this way, Kip. We’ll always have Paris Hilton.”

  “Uh, I don’t think that’s the way the line goes, does it?”

  “Noppers, it’s just wishful thinking. But it’ll pass, just like her fifteen minutes of fame did.”

  The bunker’s door clicked and vibrated from above them and a subsequent spray of late afternoon sunlight flanked the shelter’s interior. Without apparent justification, Bruce narrowed his eyes and began growling in an almost feverish pitch. He spun in circles, nipping at his own tail and fidgeting in a spasmodic display of lost awareness. Kip had never witnessed anything quite like this before from the beagle.

  “GRRR! GRRR! GRRR!” Brue sounded.

  “Bruce!” Kip shouted. “Are you okay? What the hell are you doing?”

  The dog needed a few additional seconds to get his temperament under control, but then he stopped growling and drooling just as rapidly as he started. He appeared refreshed and bright eyed. His tail curled like a kaiser blade.

  “What just happened?” Kip asked. Bella peered over his shoulder, equally confused.

  “Wowsers. I felt as engorged as Marmaduke there for a minute,” Bruce panted.

  “You looked like you were having a seizure or something!”

  “Take it down a peg, Ahab,” Bruce said to Kip. “I was just growlerbaiting.”

  “That’s deeply disturbing,” Bella commented. “But it looks like you’ve got the thing mastered.”

  “It helps me relieve stress,” Bruce stated, “and keeps my pelt shiny and soft.”

  “How long have you been doing that?” Kip asked, appalled.

  “Beats me,” Bruce simpered. “Probably ever since I saw Phobe Cates do her iconic poolside top-drop. Holy Reinhold, that’s one piece of crow where I’d like to have a second helping.”

  “Do you ever think about anything else?” Kip said.

  “Ah, don’t judge me. Growlerbation is a fact of life. You’re just lucky I can’t grip anything with my paws,” Bruce grumbled.

  “I give up,” Kip said, throwing his hands to his sides. “You know, Bruce, you’ve gone way beyond Matt Hooper on the irritating scale. You’re entering Lethal Weapon 4 territory right no
w. I don’t even think Jodi Foster would talk to you.”

  “What if I taught her how to put a hand inside a beaver?”

  “Mel’s already shown her how to do that.”

  “Was it before or after she was a little girl living down the lane?”

  “Many years after that. Just drop it, okay? Try to be a little nicer.”

  “Do ya expect me to act like that sappy dude from The Notebook or something?”

  “Sure, why not? People adored him, especially women.”

  “I’d rather rename myself Sparky before I bought into that maudlin tripe.”

  “Boys, I hate to break up your little routine, but we’re trying to save our own asses here,” Bella reminded them. She then directed her hostility at the beagle. “Now, Bruce, if you want to growl-off, do it later. Right now, we’ve got a job to finish.”

  “I guess it’s always bees-ness before pleasure,” Bruce said to Kip. Kip tried to act disgusted with the dog, but it was hard for him to stay mad at such a silly beagle for more than a few seconds. Bruce and Kip began to climb the steps toward the open door.

  “OKB begins now,” Bella said, while checking the computers one final time before joining them on the stairs. She then concealed the remote control in a pocket of her lab coat and said, “Bring on the sting.”

  “Rest assured,” Bruce said to Kip. “You’re gonna be a new man after all this stinging is over.”

  “Are you sure you remember what to do?” Kip asked Bruce. The beagle nodded.

  He still beamed with a fresh puppy’s vigor, but he trembled a bit.

  “Let’s do this before I lose control of my bowels again,” Bruce suggested.

  “You’re a little nervous, huh?” Kip asked.

  “Only about as anxious as a Christian in Egypt. It’s likely that I’m probably in more danger than I realize,” the beagle noted. “But I plan to die another day, preferably while chowing down on a blackberry.”

  “Only one blackberry?” Kip questioned.

  “Why? Do you know where I can find another one just as juicy?”

  Bella simply shook her head and stopped on the stairs, “You know, Bruce, I wish I had a kitchen sink in here now, because that’s just about the only thing left you haven’t thrown into the mix today.”

  “I wouldn’t toss good trail mix on that, Doc. Because contrary to the pervasive cliché, some old dogs never run out of new tricks.”

  Chapter 32