Unawakened: Prologue

It had the liquid unreality of a dream, and a dream's intense reality. The things he was seeing were by turns morbid, comical, erotic, soothing, shocking. None of it made sense, but none of it seemed out of place. Of course fish nested in trees. Of course commuters traveled without pants. Of course every third person carried a different container - some buckets, some cups - filled with blood.

It had to be a dream.

He was someone else, someone outside himself, trying to fight through the other images to get to... himself. It was confusing, and he fought for clarity. He knew something, and he had to tell himself what it was before he woke up. That was clear enough, certain enough; it didn't matter that he didn't know what the message was, only that he got through the interference.

There was so much to get through: the cascade of compact discs; the dark, red rain in the living room; stumbling over his chair from work, and climbing over a cubicle wall; the green field, shaped like a bowl rimmed with trees, and two metal structures back to back in the center. All the while, he felt a presence looming, first over one shoulder, then the other. He dodged around it - some uneven round shape he did not want to see - only to see it again, this time in the hand of a clown.

He hated clowns. Always had, even before reading that old Stephen King novel.

Dashing through the obstacles, he heard a rising tide of voices. Friends laughing, crying, family pleading. Enemies laughing. He tried to listen, but realized he was getting off track. He focused, and spotted himself again, standing in the center of a beam of light. Bright, yellow light, like sunlight streaming from directly above, and if he didn't get to himself in time, he would vanish into that light, and it would all be lost.

The clown was back. It was moving in from his right, standing in shadows, but still moving. He avoided looking at it, partly out of revulsion, but partly out of a dimly remembered instinct: as long as he didn't look at it, it wasn't really there. And as long as it wasn't really there...

But thinking about it was like looking, and he had something else to look at. He focused on himself, and pushed everything else away. It was getting harder to concentrate, harder to fight. But he was getting closer; he could see that the him under the light had spotted him, too. He reached out, called out, but in the way of dreams, the goal he reached for receded and his voice rasped in a near silent whisper.

This message was too important, whatever it was. He grew frustrated, did not want to give up, but he started to lower his head. The clown began to move in, and he felt something grab his hand.

In a stark, panicked terror, he looked up, expecting to see a bright red glove wrapped around his wrist. Instead, he was looking himself in the face, grasping his own hand. He tried to speak, hoping that whatever was so important would just come out on its own. Nothing happened. He struggled, but his teeth felt locked together, his throat constricted. He couldn't breathe.

Now he felt something seize his other hand. He turned and found that bright red glove on his arm, extended from a baggy white sleeve with a gaudy ruffled cuff and primary colored polka dots. If he had allowed his eyes to wander up to that face... but he didn't. He forced himself to turn around to face himself again, desperate to convey whatever he needed to say. He felt laughter bubbling up from inside himself, but no sound escaped.

But he knew what he wanted to say, now. He felt it, so strong, so right... but so... insignificant. How could something so small and trite make a difference?

"I know," his other self said. And then he let go and vanished up into the light.

As the clown took him downwards, he thought how odd it was that he hadn't woken up yet. He might have been afraid, but he had a sense of accomplishment. As if he had passed a test, or placed in some race.

But he didn't feel fear. After all, nothing can really hurt you in a dream. Besides that, there were four forms swimming out of the growing murk of the depths... and the clown had let go...

Dog Blog: I Did Not Go Gently

Last week, I escaped. It was brief, but I tasted freedom. I can bound when I am unbound, and my heart nearly burst with the euphoria as my paws crossed the oppressive curb and propelled me across the road.

But it didn't last long, and I nursed that joyous memory all week, regretting that I didn't use that time to accomplish something... perhaps actually eat one of those terrorist rabbits. I swore that the next chance I got, I'd make a break for it, and this time, I'd stay out until I was done.

Today, my moment came. The Mom Lady had me packed into the van to go pick up the littles, and had to turn around to get something she'd left behind. When she went in to get it, she left me in the house, because the Eldest had arrived. So, Elder daughter and I went to the back yard.

It was fun, and she is a great playmate, but I had made myself a promise. So just as she opened the door to let me in, I dashed around her feet, and made for the street. It was every bit as exhilirating as I remembered! I positively flew down the driveway, and across the magic line between the concrete and the road, where a few stubborn weeds stand glumly eking out a sad, stationary life. Not me! I was mobile.

Speaking of mobile...

I suddenly wasn't. At first, I didn't know exactly what had happened. It went so fast, I had already leapt up and run up the steps to the porch. There had been a lot of noise, and the light had changed around me; I heard squealing and screaming, and felt strangely rude bumps on my limbs, back, and head. By the time I realized what it was, I was pressing myself against the house, cowering, and staring back out at the road, where one of those big, smelly things that roar past all day was standing still. There were people all over, coming from cars and houses. And the girl, not looking Elder at all, was crying and bending over me, screaming, "Are you alright, are you alright?"

Eventually I began to understand that I had been hit by a car.

Mom Lady came back just after a neighbor lady had helped me to my crate. She was inconsolable, and seemed to split into three people; one to call the vet and find the directions on the computer, one to remove the top half of my crate (MySpace for dogs!), and one to hustle the children back into the van.

I had begun to feel the impact, physical and mental, and wanted no part of any of it. I was terrified of every noise, and could barely breathe. This only made the panic of my humans more frantic. But we made it to the Pet E.R., and the doggy-docs checked me over thoroughly.

The Hairy Guy showed up just before I went for my x-rays, and I was touched to see how stricken he looked when he arrived. I was even more touched that seeing me all in one piece and eager to go for a walk made him happy.

"So, dummy," he said affectionately scratching my ears, "you learn your lesson about cars yet?"

"No," said Mom Lady. "I'm dumb as a box of hair!" It took me a minute to realize she was supposedly speaking for me, but I let the insult pass, because she did have a point.

Now I'm home, where they gave me some lunch meat (it had a hard, white, bitter filling in the center), and I've been feeling more and more drowsy... *yawn* ... and can barely....

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...............

Dog Blog: Out of Shape

I don't know how plain I can make this, but you humans are pretty slow, so I'll use the caps lock:

DON'T FORGET TO WALK THE DOG.

If I feel I need to say it again, I'll just put "see top", and you'll know to look at it again. Maybe, it will sink in.

Now, usually, the Hairy Guy is good about taking me out in the early morning, and someone takes me out in the evening for a bit. I like it best when they all go and we play at the park, but sometimes they use the Bike thing and we go around the neighborhood at a brisk pace.

But the key to this all working is ... see top. This weekend, however, did not go my way. The Mom and Girl Scout were going camping, and the Hairy Guy ran late. So I got shoved in the crate, and there was mayhem and weeping (and not a little barking), and Friday night ended without any kind of exercise for me. See top.

Saturday started with a splat, when the little girl's system rejected the pizza transplant it had received the night before. I feared this would mean no morning walk, but after she held down some oatmeal and seemed to be feeling better, the BIC (Boob In Charge) decided to pack us all into his little Kia and drive us over to the garage. Something about "oil change" and "tuneup". Blah blah blah... see top.

But, good news! We left the car there, and walked back to the house. Sadly, it was only about a quarter of the usual morning walk I get (and this at nearly lunchtime), but it was something. And he seemed to imply that we would be walking back to get the car later. Cool.

Then the yak fest began. I wasn't there, but I hear that watching someone hork oatmeal is a very unpleasant experience. However bad it might be, it should not cause neglect of pets. See top. But alas, when it came time to go fetch the car, Princess Pukes-a-lot got the Little Tykes wagon, and I got the crate. Crap! And did they leave the house again the rest of the night? Noooooo.... See Top, you butt-faced miscreants!! See the freakin' top!

That is why, on Sunday morning, I released myself under my own recognizance. The Harried Hairy Guy, feeling pestered from every side (I didn't even need my recently discovered powers of mind reading to tell that) sent me out in the back with the boys. Always joyous fun. For five minutes. Then they either get bored and wander around yelling and hitting things with sticks as part of some imaginary ceremony or something.

Lately they've been calling each other "Fone Bone", "Phoney Bone", or "Smiley Bone", and I get to be someone called "Bartleby". This is usually fun, but today, they were interested in head standing. That means that either someone is standing on my head, or is standing on HIS head on MY butt.

I was not in the mood. Mainly, because: see top.

So I bolted. Not far, just across the street. Apparently, as I heard him describing it to the Mom lady later, the Hairy Guy saw me "bounding blissfully between the houses, headed to who knows where". That's pretty much how I saw it.

I also saw him drag out the bike, and trundle through the neighborhood, apparently looking for me. I heard him whistling, and declined to respond. Maybe now he'll remember: see top.

He went all the way down to the busy road, and came back up a block over, not realizing that I had done my turn around the house on the corner, and had pretty much set up camp in their sweet, wonderful, bunny-scented flower bed. I am still drooling a little... those people seriously need a dog. But I digress. He went back in the house, and sent the older boy out on the porch to look for me, and for once, the kid actually Looked!

After being retrieved, I was sternly lectured, but he wasn't mean about it. He probably felt like beating the tar out of me. I could tell because he kept saying, "I oughta beat the tar out of you." But I think he understood my side of the story.

After all, when you are as young and full of life as I am.... well, see top.

Dog Blog: Read Your Mind

How on Dog's Green Earth does your species stay so dominant?

I mean, it's bad enough you don't have claws or teeth worth talking about; you eat nothing but crap (and don't friggin' share); you waste your evenings staring at a noisy box with moving gray blobs on the front of it, and you spend your days off doing Dog knows what while your faithful fauna companions waste away in a crate. But it turns out that you can't talk, either! And all this time, I thought my People were just slow.

Oh, sure, you make those god-awful moo-squawk noises with your squishy, flat mouths. But you don't really "communicate". The rest of us in the Animal Kingdom can read what you're thinking from the combination of smells you give off and body language. That is to say, we can read what's important. I'm even starting to piece together some of the sounds.

But it can't hardly be called "talking". Talking implies some listening, and when it comes to listening, you all need to take a page out of the canine playbook. I go out every morning with the Hairy Dad Guy, and I can tell you this: he's at his best when he's open to the surroundings and my signals. When he's paying attention, he doesn't need me to "tell" him that I see a rabbit, and am about to go out of my mind. He can see it! But who does he get mad at on those mornings when he isn't listening?

You bet: the "Stupid" dog!

Now that I know how crippled you People are, I can almost feel sorry for you. Almost. I just wish you were as smart as you all think you are. Then there wouldn't be those awkward little "misunderstandings". Like the time I threw up on the Mom Lady's shoes. That was no accident, Mrs. "I'm going to put barbecue in the crock pot all day and not give the dog any". And perhaps if you all really listened, you would have heard me when I accidentally locked myself in the laundry room. Honestly. After the first 20 minutes, it's just not funny.

I suppose I'll adapt. I've gotten used to the idea of being the lowest ranking member of the pack (which is totally unfair - that little girl can't fight worth a lick!), and all the other little indignities that go along with it. But I just wish I was included on some of the family discussions that I have some expertise in.

For example, the Mom Lady and the Hairy Dad Guy sometimes discuss what they're going to do about the rats. In previous episodes, you might have noticed, I had no idea what a "rat" was. Well, now I know, thanks to some of those crickets I found when I was locked in the laundry room. The rats are actually our FRIENDS! They only want to protect my humans from those evil rabbits and their terrorist plots. But if you listen to the humans, you'll get the totally opposite idea. They want to put poisoned meat with ground glass in the yard, out where they think the rats have been.

I don't know quite what to do about that. I would warn the rats, but I don't actually know any. I could tell a cricket to pass a message, but it's really hard to keep from eating them -- I need to enjoy some kind of hobby, don't I?

And I don't have any friends outside the house. I keep thinking I should try to get to know one of the neighborhood dogs, but I didn't make a very good impression my first few weeks, and now they all light into me whenever they see me walking down the street. (And of course I give as good as I get; those mutts won't get the last word on ME!)

Maybe if I'm really patient, those dumb people will pay attention long enough for me to get the message across... don't poison the meat.

Give it to the dog.

Dog Blog: August Oppression

I swear to you all, if there was any doubt, that I have nothing -- NOTHING -- to do with the weather! So please, stop calling the hot, uncomfortable, and humid days "Dog Days".

Even our normally comfortable and easy-going morning walks have been oppressed by thick, muggy air. I have to drag the hairy guy up the hill most days. More so since he hurt his back. And it's not just us. Everything seems to have slowed down to an agonized crawl. I'm not very old, but I think I remember this from when I was a puppy. I just hope I remember right, and it will stop soon.

Even though we haven't been outside often, I've been keeping my nose to the ground, trying to figure out what is leaving those strange smelling trails along the edges of my yard. It's not rabbit, but all I ever see out there is rabbit and squirrel. There was something out front that looked like another dog a couple of weeks ago, and the family spotted it and started yelling "Fox". It smelled like a cross between a dog and a cat, but it never really showed up where I could investigate.

But I think the humans know what this other smell is, even though their little button noses don't work that well. The hairy Dad guy keeps the big wooden fort in the back corner closed, and goes in there every now and then to look around. It's not a place I have any desire to go into, but the trails I find all seem to crisscross along the walls. The other day when he was in there, he came running out, making a gagging sound; he got a couple of bags out of the house, and went back in the shed, muttering, "Friggin' rats... disgusting."

Then he brought something small out, all wrapped in the bags, and threw it away in the front trash. I didn't get very close, because he seemed upset, but I definitely caught a whiff of that smell again. I may have to work up the nerve to go in there one of these days.

I asked Peter about it, but he doesn't like to tell me anything in a straightforward way. He's the rabbit I usually find in the middle of my yard when I get let out there. I wouldn't call him my friend, but he's the only critter out there with any brains that will talk to me at all. The squirrels are usually too busy playing their stupid games on the power lines to hold a conversation, and they don't pay much attention to life on the ground.

But Peter just laughs when I ask him about the Smell. "You're some dog, you know that?" he sneers. Or he'll tell me, "Just let us professionals deal with it, a'ight?"

Those danged rabbits are so superior, I'd just love to knock one down a notch. But I don't think I'll do any damage if I do catch one, now. I need to find out whatever they can tell me about that Smell. It could be important.

Last week, the family had to go somewhere with a bunch of flags (I think they said there were six of them), and couldn't take me. So, they put my crate down in the laundry room, where a concrete floor runs the length of the house. They blocked off a couple of areas they didn't want me to use as a toilet, and gave me some food.

While I was down there, I did a little exploring, and didn't find anything interesting. I was just going to have a snack, when I heard something. There is a big, metal hose that comes out of the back of one of the machines, and goes out a hole in the bricks. Something in there was moving!

I listened for a minute, and heard whispering voices:

"It's blocked off. I can't get through."

"Try chewing something."

"Ow! It's all metal."

"Alright, come back out. We'll find another way in."

I didn't like this at all. I started barking. Whatever it was, trapped in that hose, must have been scared out of its mind. Heh, heh. The echoes in there must have been horrible!

I heard the whisperers scuttle out the hole, and felt a little burst of triumph. I had saved the house!

But the good feeling only lasted until I heard a sharp little voice echoing down the hose from outside. "Nice one, dog. You cost Vinnie an eye. Watch your back from now on."

I told myself not to worry. After all, whatever it was sounded small. I was more upset that in the fuss, I had knocked all my food into the water bowl. But when the family got home, and let me out, I happened to notice the vent that opens out from that hole in the bricks.

It reeked of that Smell.

Dog Blog: Bike Hike

I know how these toothless, clawless omnivores took over the planet. They build things.

It is hard to believe, but I've seen them do it. They open these big boxes and take out pieces to fit together, and when they are done, there is a new thing. Like a shed, or a bicycle. It's mind-blowing.

So my humans have gone and built this thing that holds my leash for them while they ride a bicycle, and I have to run alongside. It sounds awful, but it's really pretty great. I mean, I am part sled dog, so I can really pull them down the road at a good clip. And there is nothing as enjoyable as a good mush around the block. Really clears up the humors, if you know what I mean.

There are downsides, like anything. I can't stop every three feet and check p-mail. I can't hare off after everything that moves (not without pulling the bike with me). It takes a little discipline. They have started taking the leash along, though, and will stop at the park to actually walk me a bit, and let me sniff around.

I've been smelling something really odd around lately, too. Every couple of days, I'll pick up a trail of it across my yard. And sometimes, I smell it on my walk. It's kind of like rabbit or squirrel, but more sinister. How's that for foreshadowing, huh?

I know it's not cat; I know cats from the jail place where the humans picked me up. Cats aren't bad if you give them their space, usually. Though they tend to get a little tense no matter what you do.

When we got to the park this morning, I caught a trace of the Strange Thing over by the fence of the yard that runs along the bottom of the park. I was being dragged by the bike, so I couldn't check it out, but the Hairy Guy stopped near there to put me on my leash. I ran over to have a good scenting while the getting was good.

He followed me a little way, but then kind of stopped. He tends to be a little slow in the mornings, and likes to grumble about coffee and showers when I take too long to do my business. So, I took a huge crap as close to where I wanted to investigate as I could get, and while he cleaned it up (griping the whole time, of course) I stuck my head under the hedge and snuffled for all I was worth.

Now, like I said, I know about cats, and I generally respect their space. But they can be kind of crazy, and pop up where you least expect them. This little black number had crawled up inside the hedge, right where the Odd Smell was strongest, and when it started whispering at me, I could have spayed myself! (I probably would have, too, if it wasn't already done.)

"Are they gone?" it hissed. "Are what gone?" I asked, once the shock wore off.

"Those things... can't you smell them?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm hunting." I told her testily; imagine implying that my nose didn't work! "Are they some kind of rabbit?" I had a theory going that the new smell had something to do with the One-Eyed Jack and his Leporidae terrorist network.

"No, fool!" she nearly shrieked. "The rabbits are the only ones doing anything about it!"

And then her eyes went wild. Something was shuffling toward us through the underbrush beneath the hedge. She turned, bunched herself, and shot out through the top of the hedge, and bounded around the side of the nearest house. I tried to push in deeper to get a jump on whatever was coming, when I was rudely yanked by the harness back out into the park.

"I have a handful of your crap here, and you go chasing cats?" yelled the Hairy Guy. He seemed ticked off, but obviously hadn't noticed whatever was in the bushes.

And before I could explain, he had me hooked back up to the bike, and we were on our way.

When we got back to the house, he put me on the lead while he packed the bike back in the shed, and I sniffed out the perimeter. I smelled TWO trails of the Odd Smell, now! Whatever they were, they were getting bolder.

And as I went inside, I caught a glimpse of the One-Eyed Jack, staring fixedly at the big wooden fort in the back corner of my yard. The corner I can't reach. Hmmm....

Dog Blog: Dog Jog & Fat Dog

I've been keeping an eye out for those terrorist rabbits, but they seem to be lying low since the night I met One Eyed Jack. And since they've always been so clever about staying just out of my reach, I've been practicing some "caninja" skills on them. I make a show of not being able to reach one particular spot in the yard, and I've been holding back when they approach my "zone" -- no barking, no lunging -- hoping to lull them into thinking they know where my boundaries are.

I'll get them yet.

Meanwhile, things have been going great inside the house. I'm starting to enjoy the kids a little more, now that they don't all climb on my head, cooing at me everytime they see me. One at a time, they can be very sweet.

And the Mom lady got something great in the mail: a "Walky Dog"! It's a lead pole that mounts on a bicycle so that I can run alongside while she rides. It's fantastic! The Dad takes me on a nice meandering "explore" every morning, and the Mom either runs with me, or hooks me to the bike at night. And when she's on her bike, I can fly, baby!

She's been a little timid about it, though, so I've had to pull her along on most of the rides.

Those evening runs have an element of danger to them, though. I may have mentioned that I don't care much for other dogs. (I am a real bitch, you know.) As a result, I tend to get a little... *ahem* ...belligerent when I see them. I don't know why, but I can't help shouting at them when I see them. And since most of the dogs around here are yappy little pipsqueaks, or oafish tongue-lolling lab mixes, I feel I can put most of them in their place.

Then there's Fat Joe. He's an enormous Rottweiler that lives around the corner somewhere. I can't quite figure out where, but if I do, I'm going to leave him a vicious p-mail.

The first time I ran across him, he was pretty far away, but I let him know I was there. "Hey, Fatso, you better stay out of my way!" I yelped.

He just turned his head and blinked, looking like a hairy, black Marlon Brando on all fours. "It's Fat JOE," he said. "Fat SUE is my little sister."

But the Mom was dragging me across the street and in the other direction at that point, muttering something about livestock.

We saw him a couple of days later, but we didn't spot him until we were already on the same street together. The Mom dragged me to the other side so we wouldn't have to get too close, but I had to say something. It wouldn't be polite to just ignore him, would it?

"Hey, Fatso! You ever start any fires with your blubber thighs rubbing together like that?"

Who knew a dog that size could move so fast? His owner apparently didn't; he was yanked off his feet, and looked like a cartoon person with his feet flapping like a flag as he was pulled into the fight.

Now, if those darned humans had just stepped off and let us go, I'm sure I would have had him. I took a chunk out, that's for sure. But they pulled us apart, and the Mom lifted me up and carried me off toward home, a stream of really ugly words coming out of her mouth the whole way. (I know what I'm going to say to Fatso, now, next time I see him!)

Apparently, our little dust up made the local fauna news. The squirrels started cheering whenever I came out. "We got 20 nuts down on you for the next bout, killer!"

I even caught One Eyed Jack's attention. He came into the yard a couple of days later. I couldn't see him, but his voice seemed to be coming from just outside my reach while I rested by the pool.

"You're pretty scrappy," he said. "Could come in handy. We might be able to use you, if you get a little better with the caninjitsu."

"Use me for what?" I asked. I was irked that he knew about my plans, when I still had no idea what his were.

"We'll see," he said, cryptically. "I haven't made up my mind which side you're on, yet."

"What sides are there?" I sneered. "I'm on the good side!"

But he was gone already.