Wordsmoker

Name: Chloe

Age in Dog Years: Twenty-Eight

Age in Terrestrial Years: Four

Species: Canis familiaris

Breed: Jack Russell Terrier/Rat Terrier

Religious Affiliation: Atheist

Occupation: Anarchist

If Chloe went to the Westminster Dog Show, she might be stopped at the door by security. Some ham-fisted goon might push his finger into my chest and say unkind things about her to me, her presumed owner.

“Get out of here, fatso,” he might say.

“I’m one-hundred-ninety pounds,” I would probably protest, being a little sensitive about my weight.

The Westminster Kennel Club security goon might then puff up his chest and let his hand slip beneath his blazer menacingly. Maybe he would be reaching for a sap; maybe something worse.

“I was talking about your mangy, overweight mutt. Now listen, mac, I’m giving you to the count of three to get that half-breed mongrel away from this door. I’ve got a purebred Pekingese due to arrive any minute and he doesn’t need to see that.” He would certainly say something like this to me. Really, there is very little doubt.

Chloe and I would probably exchange a knowing glance, but I would likely be the one doing all of the talking. “You just made a really big mistake,” I’d say.

“Yeah? I don’t have time for this—”

“You probably think that this leash is attached to this dog’s collar,” I would probably say this because he would probably be thinking exactly that, “but it isn’t.”

“Wha—” would doubtless be all that he could say before Chloe and I made our move.

At this point, chances are excellent that I would pull hard on the leash, which would come free due to some clever bit of knot-tying or other.

“Time’s up!” the enraged man would cry as he raised a leather sap above his head.

However, before he could crash it down on my brain casing, I would lunge forward and fall into the plank position, making my back as rigid as possible. Chloe would then use me as a ramp—the way that we may or may not have learned to do in a Sudanese training camp.

With a running start, a yelp, and a dash of luck, Chloe might—just might—make it past the outer doors of Madison Square Garden as I’m bludgeoned by the jack-booted thugs of the Westminster Kennel Club. Maybe, as I’m losing consciousness, I would see the dog whose spirit could never be broken run between the legs of a second roast beef eating security man who happens to be brandishing a tranquilizer gun. As my eyes are shutting, I could possibly make out the bastard leveling his weapon and firing a dart in Chloe’s direction, only to see it miss and find purchase in the left leg of a third jacket-clad Westminster Kennel Club security tough.

Having scurried, dodged, and bitten her way through every impediment, Chloe might find her way into the tunnel that leads onto the main floor. More Westminster Kennel Club security personnel, who in all probability would have been alerted via their walkie talkies, would scramble onto the show floor to stop the disruption caused by this recalcitrant misfit.

Staring down the barrels of dozens of Westminster Kennel Club guns—both tranquilizer and real—most dogs would probably call it quits. Fight another day, as they say. But Chloe isn’t most dogs. Surmising that the safest place is right in the middle of the densely populated crowd of crested security blazers, Chloe might aim her snout, straighten her tail, and charge full steam ahead into the forest of khaki-clad legs. Shots would ring out: first the swishes of tranq darts, then the distinctive boom of a magnum revolver, and then the cacophony of soft and harsh blasts from both types of weapons. Finally, the shooting would end because every phony Pinkerton in the place would be tranquilized, dead, or mortally wounded.

During the gunfight, the people closest to the floor—the one’s who didn’t panic and run—may have heard the high pitched squeal of a terrier. An apprehensive murmur would roll through the crowd, for the dynamic actions of the small dog would have won them over . The collective presumption would be that this heretofore unknown rapscallion was more than likely killed in the crossfire. Unfortunately, nothing could have survived that. On this point, the audience would be firm.

However, from the pile of  both still and writhing bodies, perhaps a white paw would emerge, then a second paw, followed by a weary but determined little dog who gave up her illusions of a simple life of chasing postal delivery personnel long ago. As it turns out, Chloe may have only cried out because someone stepped on her tail—or fell on it; there would really be no way to be sure. Now, standing atop her throne of conquered human corpses, she would eye every contestant of the Westminster Dog Show. Not a tail in the house would be wagging.

“Is there not one of you?” she’d say in dog.

For what might seem like seven eternities, there would be no  sound in the hall until one intrepid Scottish Terrier named Conner bites his owner in the calf and steps forward.

At that moment, all of MSG would definitely explode with the sound of barking and paw claps, as the prim, domesticated purebreds of the Westminster Kennel Club catch their first glimpse of freedom.

Strike a blow for canine freedom. Take picture of your dog (or if he or she won’t sit still, download one from the internet) add armaments, and join the Westminster Liberation Front. Pitbulls welcome. 

Image of Chloe Taken While I Attempt To Rest For The Battle