Chapter Eight: It's Not Like We Hugged or Anything

Like saucy barbecued chicken, danger is spicy, tangy, and sticks to your chin. Will Gravity Dog use his tactical field ops experience to deploy the wet-nap of military success? This week's installment bastes the danger on thick with one of those little brushes.

I didn’t want to walk with Jonny Cosmic, but we were both going in the same direction. We ambled along in silence, passing between rank after rank of armored tents and fortified temporary housing structures. My usual routine between missions was to work out a little in the exercise area, or train on the hi-tech battle simulators. Today I wasn’t so sure. To tell you the truth, I was feeling a little lost. I didn’t like it.

Cosmic walked right at my side. We seemed to have fallen into the same comfortable pace. It was funny: humans have the advantages of greater height and (supposedly) larger brains, while dogs have better stamina and superior sensory capabilities—yet here we were, man and dog, matched in pace and mission.

“Why, Cosmic?” I said to my companion before I even knew I was going to say it. “Why help me?”

Cosmic did not reply; he just kept walking at the same relaxed but ground-covering pace. The air smelled sweet and fine to me, even in the midst of a military base not far from the front lines of deadly war. Jonny Cosmic looked straight ahead, not down at me. His lips stretched in a smile again, but without teeth. I thought that he too might be enjoying the smell of the day, within his limited human capacity.

He shot a quick glance at me as we approached the human barracks.

“Gravity Dog, I signed up for hazardous duty so that I could go home faster. The greater the risk, the sooner I’m discharged. All I wanted to do was hitch a ride with a hero, and I did. Maximum exposure to danger comes from getting the right assignments. Saving the hero’s ass is just the icing on the cake.”

He stopped now, standing at the blast shield in front of his barracks tent. Just as he was about to enter, he turned back, hesitated, and patted me on top of my head—gently.

“Just call me Jonny. See you later.” He disappeared into the tent; it would have been a huge breach of social and military etiquette to follow him, but my mind was too tumbled and confused to even consider doing so.

I shook my head as if I had a bad case of ear mites.

What exactly was icing, and cake, and what do you do with them?