Burble - A Good Boy

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Authors Note:

On September 11th, my life changed for ever. The year was not 2001, it was 2010 and on that day, I started to date the love of life. We spent the night cuddled together on big comfy couch and the next morning we watched hours of the Westminster dog show, both of us needing to pee and stretch but not wanting to ruin the moment together.
The first draft of this story was started on our tenth wedding anniversary and now, a year later, although still unfinished because I don’t think a writer ever finishes a story, it is at least in a form that I am happy enough with to share. I hope you enjoy it and thank you for taking the time to check it out. Please share and subscribe if you find that do enjoy. - Orin

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PROLOGUE 

Sitting high above the city of Philadelphia, in the rooftop penthouse of Mr. Hyatt, three men sit in overstuffed leather chairs with crystal glasses of scotch and thick cigars. 

“Charles tells me that the chemist is ready. I vote to move forward now.” Mr. Rodes leans back in his chair and sips from his glass. 

“Now? We discussed waiting until next year. I shouldn’t have to remind you how important this is. We should be patient and prepared.” Mr. Barks snaps back with noticeable venom. 

Both men turn to Mr. Hyatt, the ultimate authority on this and all other matters, who doesn’t respond or react. Mr. Hyatt takes a big drag from his cigar and watches the smoke rise from mouth, pulled up to the high ceiling by the slowly spinning fan above. 

“Mr. Hyatt, should we wait? The chemist says it is ready now.” 

Mr. Hyatt leans forward and knocks ashes into the heavy crystal ashtray on the table between them. He moves his heavy eyes to the men and speaks in a slow, raspy voice. 

“We move forward now. These fools do not deserve another year to wallow in their arrogance. Call those idiots at the kennel and get this done.”

Mr. Hyatt sits back and smiles at the thought of what was to come.  

BURBLE, A GOOD BOY

Burble can roll over, bunny hop, lay dead and even growl on command. He dominates the hurdles, pause tables, and tunnels, but his favorite is the weave poles. Burble, an Australian Shepherd, comes from a long lineage of award-winning dogs and it shows. His coat is blue merle with blotches of black, tan and gray on his back and a bib of pure snowy white. Burble is a champion dog, but most importantly, he is a good boy. 

Burble’s father, Bronson, was the Westminster best in show for two years in a row before he lost it to an Alaskan Malamute named Birdy. Bronson later came back to win one more time, defeating Birdy in a close race. After that, Bronson retired and passed the torch to Burble. 

Burbles’ owner, a man named Nate, worked and trained with him every day, running drills through the ever-changing obstacle course that filled Nate’s back yard from fence to fence. He worked him hard all year, preparing for the big day, when Burble would compete, but Nate was never mean to Burble. He never yelled, and he never yanked the chain. Nate was also a good boy. 

Today is that big day, the day Burble was born for. The day he got to do all the things he loved to do. But right now, he’s doing one of the few things he doesn’t enjoy doing. He is in a cage and has been waiting for a long time. The other dogs are all being nice, but a few have started to yip and whine. Burble doesn’t whine or bark. He sits, drinks water and waits. 

Two men walk into the kennel, men that Burble had seen earlier, but now they smell intoxicated, reeking of smoke and rot. Burble watches them, feeling a growl building in his chest like a soon to erupt volcano. He doesn’t like these men; they are bad men. 

“You think it’s going to work?” The men walk through and look at dogs. 

“We followed his directions, so it should. What do you think is going to happen, though?” They stop in front of Burble’s cage.

“I don’t know. I figured they would just die or something. This was one, right?” 

“Yeah, Burble, I remember the name.” 

“You trust this guy, right? He’s going to pay us, I mean.” The men were still watching Burble. Burble wanted to growl. He wanted to bite them and make them go away. 

“You should have seen him. Black suit, nice watch. He was a real CEO type of guy. Guys like that pay their damn bills.” 

“I hope so. If I can’t make rent this month, Sarah is gonna leave me.” 

“He’s going to pay. We just have to finish the job. The water was only part of it.”

The two men leave, taking their stink with them, and Burble lays down, waiting with his head on his paws. He waits for a long time, but Nate doesn’t come. Burble goes to sleep, but it is thin, his stomach burns and after another hour his ears are ringing hard enough to sting. Burble thinks of Nate and how if he would just come and let him out of this cage, he wouldn’t feel bad anymore. If Nate were here, everything would be better. Burble doesn’t hear the person approach. The ringing was too loud to hear the footsteps, but he smells vanilla and opens his eyes to see a small woman standing in front of his cage. 

“Mr. Burble I presume? There has been some sort of incident, and I will be your dance partner today.” The woman crouches in front of the cage door. “Are you a good boy, Burble?” Burble is a good boy and wags his tail.

Moments later, the two of them are on the field, lined up with the other fluffed and groomed dogs. It is the opening ceremony. There is a marching band, a table full of television hosts and dozens of cameras capturing it all, broadcasting live on five channels.

Burble is thirsty. This woman is okay, but she isn’t Nate. He wants Nate. This is their big day and spending it with a stranger is wrong. She holds the leash too tight, without the respectable slack that Nate gives him, and her vanilla body spray is itching his nose.

The band is too loud, and the noise hurts Burble’s ears. A thin man with a huge camera comes by filming the line of contestants. He stops in front of Burble and speaks to the woman. Lights are flashing all around him and Burble doesn’t like it. 

Burble had been here before. He won Best in Show last year. The lights and loud music were nothing new. He was a professional, but something was different. Burble wants Nate, he wants to go home. He wants this woman to stop pulling his leash. 

It is time to prance around the field. The woman is waving to the crowd and showing a toothy smile. Burble’s legs feel like they are on fire, his head is ringing like a constantly blowing whistle. Burble slows his pace, and the woman jerks his leash with a twitch of her wrist. 

Burble has had enough of this, enough of this woman and enough of this show. He pulls back and stops. When the woman’s head snaps back in shock, her face is twisted in anger and embarrassment. Her cheeks are red, and Burble can hear her teeth grind. 

“Let’s go!” She hisses and yanks the chain, but Burble doesn’t move. Burble begins to growl. 

A couple of the judges are crossing the floor, walking toward the hold up. Behind them, there are another two dogs with their handlers. Crowbar, the Dalmatian with Mrs. Crowell, a redhead and Sabrina, the German Shepherd with Mr. Thorn, who was bald. All four of them looked like they were seeing a ghost.

Burble’s ears are back, flat on his head. He is growling and showing his teeth. A thick stream of foamy drool leaks through, dripping onto his foot and onto the floor. The woman pulls the leash again and Burble launches himself at her, snapping his teeth, desperately trying to get to her throat. 

The room explodes in excitement and shock. Leashes drop and people run in every direction. Burble clamps his teeth down on the woman’s frail forearm and thrashes his head back and forth, ripping through skin and cracking bone.

Burble is no longer Burble. He is something else, something dark and horrible. He isn’t a good boy anymore. Burble is now, officially, a bad dog. Burble likes being a bad dog. He likes the rush of power he feels when he tastes the blood, igniting something buried deep inside of him, some vestigial remains of his wolf ancestry. 

Burble can see other dogs being bad across the wide green field of sod. He sees Crowbar chewing on Mrs. Crowell’s ankle and another with a mouthful of bloody fingers. Burble can see enormous crowds forming around the exits as panicked people try to flee, trampling each other in the process.

Sitting in the stands Burble sees the two men from the kennel. Through the heavy stench of blood, Burble can smell their rot and hear their laughter. He releases the woman’s destroyed arm and moves in closer. With another quick chomp, he ends her whaling cries, and Burble shifts his attention to the men. He wants to bite them. That will make him feel better and stop the ringing in his head. 

One of the two men is holding a cell phone, recording the scene, and they are both smiling. Burble looks for a way off the field and into the stands. When he doesn’t find one, he runs and leaps over the short wall on his first try. In all the commotion, the two men don’t see Burble. He sneaks his way through the toppled chairs, stalking his prey. 

Burble’s mouth oozes saliva, and bubbles of snot explode from his nose with each breath. Fever and rage set his body on fire, while each beat of his racing heart hammers his brain. Engulfed in rage, all thoughts of Nate and their happy times together are lost in the maelstrom of his anger.

“Hey right there, get that shit on film.” One man says to the other, pointing across the field where Crowbar is tearing into the abdomen of Mrs. Crowell with terrible speed and efficiency. 

“I think that’s enough. We should blow this hotdog stand and get fucking paid.” The two men laugh and stand up. Neither of them sees Burble moving in. 

Burble makes his move, lunging over a row of chairs and chomping into the right bicep of the man with the camera. The man is knocked to the ground, and the camera goes flying. When Burble is finished, the man’s arm, and his face are unrecognizable, and his dental records will be required to identify his remains. 

The second man doesn’t go for the camera, and he doesn’t run out of the stands and into the streaming crowds of people fleeing the scene. The second man pulls something from his belt and points it directly at Burble. Burble doesn’t care. He moves in, snapping his dripping wet, bloody teeth. 

There is a bang, and Burble feels a burning kick strike him in the back. There is another bang and Burble is pushed back with another burning kick to his chest. Burble registers the pain, but he doesn’t feel any of it. He pushes forward, snapping his teeth and growling. Burble launches himself at the man with everything he has. His teeth make contact and he tastes the man’s sweet blood and there is another bang and everything goes black for Burble. The once champion good boy of all good boys dies in a bloody heap of mucus, fur and feverish heat. 

EPILOGUE

It’s been three weeks since the bloody massacre that was the Westminster Dog Show. Three hundred thousand households across the world watched it happen live on television and many more have seen the carnage lurking in the dark corners of the internet. 

In the rooftop penthouse of Mr. Hyatt, the videos play on an almost constant loop. Bloody and unedited, the violence is watched and re-watched. It is pure vengeance, immortalized on film to stand forever as a testament to his power, a lesson for those who would conspire against him and his best friend, Birdy. 

END

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