Detective Doggo 1 & 1.5 (Short)
They say I’m a good boy. They tell me to bark, to roll over, play dead; and I obey. Nobody wants the newspaper roll. But what they don’t know, what they can’t know, is that I’m a bad dog. I never much cared for rugs, and the perps really hate it when you piss on them...
My favorite thing is when they run. I was born for this, bred for the hunt. And this little piggy thought he could outdo me. I let him have a head start, counting off his brothers. This one went to the market, this one stayed home; alright, that’s long enough. Life’s not fair.
Catching him was easy. Backed him into a corner alley. His cheap v-neck was torn from one too many fences. As I approached him I could smell the fear, sweat, and something sweet. Then it was less easy. The aromatic blood on his pot-belly get into my brain. I started sweating.
He had a knife, his hoof holding it in an untrained motion. Kid was out of his element. I was just gonna bust him for drugs but now... the blood had a hold on me. I had him pinned in a blur of technicolor hawiann shirt and panicked sequels. Cuffs on and he screamed more.
Little porker stopped screaming when he heard me panting though. His blood mixed with the grit of the pavement and it gave me such a thrill. My back was stiff, hair erect, I drooled. It had been years since the last fight but I still couldn’t shake the thrill of it. I panted.
I was giving into it, I knew I was too far gone now. This little guy was going to die here and I would have nothing but paperwork for a week. Didn’t matter, paperwork or no, kid was going home to his ancestors today. Bent down to pull in the terror in his sweat. Damn, it’s good.
Then that prick came around the corner. Freaking young kid, a little Good Boy cop. My partner, slow ass. He held up a gun. “Freeze!” He gasped out. Then he stumbled and caught his breath. Idiot kid saved my life there, just didn’t know it. I backed up, pulling the piglet too.
“Bag him.” I told the kid. “Drugs... probably. Let’s patch him up too. Blood making me sick.” I feigned disgust. Kid put him in the car, asked if I was ok. I said so, but stayed back. Hand was covered in blood, piggly wiggly blood. Just one taste won’t hurt. Pavlov’s an ass.
1.5
I made it back to the office. Captain was waiting for me already. Turns out some bleater called in and reported some “police brutality” in her alley. I would tell him the sheep was full of wool but my little piggy was a canvas for my work.
So I just took my lashings and made my way to the washroom. Washed away the pig’s red temptation from my hands. It swirled around the sink and took my hunger down with it. Looked up in the mirror and saw my matted fur, rattled ears, then my eyes. Bad mistake.
Suddenly the bathroom was worse, a light handing behind me. History decided to make its grand appearance once again, throwing me back into my ring days. My paws were bound in tape and scabs. My fur was covered in a mix of blood from myself, the red,and some dead dog. Same eyes.
I had the pre-post-fight sweats. I was going in again and my spunky pup energy was the only thing I could count on. It was fight number 7, damn lucky number. I was worn and considered letting the next dog use me as his chew toy. But the thought of more blood was intoxicating.
I salivated, dropping bits of blood and drool into the sink. Felt something sharp in my mouth, spit it out. It was a tooth, not mine. Put the thing in my pocket. Room came back, standing with the tooth in my hand. Kept it as a lucky charm. Won that 7th fight... barely.