Gravity Dog in "We March on Arkansas!"

The Gravity Dog Serialized Story

2007-10-17T20:13:00.000-07:00

This is a story so powerful, so compelling, so heroic -- it had to be told by Gravity Dog himself. Please select a chapter from the archives below, and begin your spine-wrenching, gut-flushing, hair-teasing journey with the soldier of the future: Gravity Dog.

Chapter Sixteen: Every Dog Has His Day

2007-09-16T19:17:00.000-07:00

Life is like a White Castle double-cheeseburger: meaty, delicious, and satisfying. Just don't think about the sodium, fat, and cholesterol – Gravity Dog doesn't. Chapter Sixteen adds fries and a cola, making sure the conclusion to "We March on Arkansas" delivers everything you wanted from fast food, and more.

The next part is hard to describe. It was all about bright light followed by darkness; deafening sound followed by silence. I did not feel tired, nor was there any pain. My beautiful mother appeared in the darkness, gazing at me over the squirming pile of bodies that would have been my nursing siblings.

“You made me very proud today,” she said, and I thought I would melt into her deep brown eyes. She was so lovely—her sleek coat shone like moist dog food.

“Proud?” I said, “How could you be proud of me? I failed my mission. I lost the war.”

I was sad, but like I said, there was no pain.

“You won by going back.” She faded and blurred, and her perfect form was replaced by the angular shape of Colonel Orion. I did not even try to snap to attention.

“12-249CAU-7836-K9, you have failed. You did not achieve your objective,” he said, squinting his hard little eyes at me. “I would have detonated you, but I could not locate the button. I am going to use both hands and a flashlight to find it, and then you’ll see what happens. Dismissed!”

If I had been capable of insubordination at this point, I would have bitten one of his tough old legs, but I let it pass. He faded away like my mother. I had to figure out how to get her back. Slowly, another face revealed itself to me. It was Jonny Cosmic. He was filthy with mud, blood-streaked, and spattered with chunks of exploded zombie.

“Gravity Dog! Wake up!” he shook me roughly, and I felt pain again. “Get up! We gotta go, this whole place is starting to blow!” He was really being a pain in the ass.

“Don’t shout,” I growled. “Go away. Talking to Mother.”

The fuzzy, cottony silence in my head lifted like a curtain, and chaos surrounded us. I watched in dim amazement as zombies bumped into each other, walked directly into the flaming wreckage of battle, or randomly fell to the ground. I didn’t understand, and my side really hurt.

“We did it, Dog. You drew them off, and I launched my missile right down the shaft. We won!” Jonny was crying now, something humans did that always made me uncomfortable. It was just kind of creepy and disgusting, the way water came out of the corners of their eyes. The tears left streaks down Jonny’s face and he smiled at me, gently rubbing my neck.

I looked up at him, grinning my own toothy canine grin. The war was over, the United State was saved, and Jonny could get his walking papers. It looked like I was out of a job, too. I licked the mud, blood, and tears from my friend’s face. I was fortunate—my body armor had deflected most of the plasma bullet’s impact. Lucky dog.

Jonny lifted me up from the drying mud and began to carry me away from the carnage. The sun eased itself above the horizon, revealing a scene of devastation and hope. It was a bad day for Arkansas, but very nice indeed for the rest of the world.

“Come on,” he said, cradling me in his arms, “let’s get to the extraction coordinates. We’re going home, buddy.”

I wagged my tail a tiny bit. I knew I would be strong again.

“Good dog,” Jonny said, walking to meet the jetchopper.

The End

Chapter Fifteen: Gravity Dog has Skills

2007-09-09T19:39:00.000-07:00

You just have to wake up and smell the breakfast sausage. Spicy, savory, a little bit of sage, and enough cholesterol and saturated fat to stun a bear. If you want a reality check, go poke a sleeping grizzly. If you are looking for subtle insight, ask Gravity Dog…

Jonny Cosmic crawled on his belly like a worm, so painted with mud he had achieved the ultimate camouflage. He was smart enough to know that the cold, wet coating would mask his infrared signature. To the zombies, he was effectively invisible. The only reason I was able to find him at all was that I knew the route he had taken. I guess you could say it was etched in my brain.

He had crawled underneath row after row of electrified razor wire, his slim human form giving him a distinct advantage. Crouching low now, he approached the air vent opening that sprang from the mud like a square white mushroom. Jonny’s next task was to blast the protective grating open with a smaller charge, before releasing a hand-launched SKANK-79 missile directly down the shaft to the fusion reactor core many feet below. He had but one missile—I had three remaining in my backpack launcher. The smaller first explosion would alert the zombies. Would he be able to fire the missile in time?

Without hesitation, he blew the cover off the airshaft. Instantly, flares were launched, a siren wailed, and previously hidden searchlights began to sweep the pre-dawn darkness. We were a fortunate distance away from the zombie barracks, but the undead Super-Mart forces mobilized quickly since they never slept. Plasma bullets began to snap and crackle around Jonny as he primed his missile for launch. I couldn't believe how quickly his fingers flew across the keypad, setting the launch code. A rapid-fire spread of projectiles shattered the concrete enclosure next to his head, and he fell to the ground, the missile at his side. The zombies were almost there.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned how fast I can run. Cat, rabbit, zombie—none of them are a match for Gravity Dog. I can keep it up for a long time, too. The funny part is that I was never artificially enhanced in that area. Good bloodline, I guess. I shot like a bolt from my place of concealment, running down the hill to the razor wire Jonny had just crossed. No way could I get under the wire quick enough to help him, not with a fully alerted garrison of zombies on the move. I had to try something else.

Still running, I launched one of my missiles. It is always amazing to watch them streak away, fast as thought. I never get tired of that. My first missile arced high overhead and vaporized about half the massed zombies in one shot. Yes, I have skills. Running parallel to the fenceline now, I turned while scarcely slowing down, leaped into the air, and fired a second missile at the razor wire itself. It tumbled along the ground, shredding the wire as it passed, before exploding in the midst of the deadly tangled briar patch of steel. Shards of torn metal flew past my head, but I was still running. I had cut the path for Jonny’s escape.

I skidded to a stop and turned, doubling back. I had the complete and total attention of the zombies now. I raced back and forth along the tattered fence, barking like one of my primitive forebears and hunching my butt low to the ground in an expression of defiance. No training could prepare you for this; no briefing could instruct; no download could compel. I was a dog of war, feeling the wind in my ears, and the stinging heat of zombie plasma bullets nipping at my beautiful tail. I would destroy all my enemies, and bury their miserable bones at my leisure.

Faster and faster I ran, taunting my foes, teasing my future victims. I was invincible. Without warning, I veered hard and charged directly into the path I had cleared with my missile. I had but one missile left, and I intended to launch it down the shaft. Colonel Orion would have to wait until another mission to push the button of my personal destruction. A few more feet to go and I would be out of the wire and right alongside Jonny and the shattered airvent. I jumped up and flew through the air, more eagle than dog, to clear the last of the ruined fence. That’s when the plasma bullet hit me in the side.

Chapter Fourteen: I Am a Conflicted Battle-Dog

2007-09-02T20:10:00.000-07:00

Was it fate when that meatball rolled off your plate and onto the floor? Destiny? A predetermined incident triggering a sequence of events—the ultimate conclusion years away and of profound impact? Gravity Dog thinks you're just not eating fast enough. Chapter Fourteen will do little to explain:

I was a ticking time bomb. No, I don’t mean all the pent-up emotion—I mean, an incredibly powerful yet compact high-explosive device had been implanted inside me. My download had revealed that the mission’s success pivoted on getting close enough to the zombie generator to fire our weapons, or failing that, for Jonny to detonate my device. If Jonny was unable to do it, then Colonel Orion was electronically monitoring our progress back at the base, his finger poised over the red button that could remotely detonate the bomb inside me. Regardless of who pushed the button, the expected outcome had affected my motivation.

There was no way to guess what Jonny thought he was going to do on his own. I was the one who bore the sophisticated electronic systems, as well as the massed firepower equal to that of a prehistoric battle tank. What could one human achieve? Worse yet, a human who had confessed his lack of commitment to the art and philosophy of war. All he wanted to do was go home. Home. What was that? It was hard to comprehend why humans felt such stubborn attachment to places and things. Objects, structures, aircars, TV screens—it did not make sense. It was far better to run free like a dog. To smell the world’s smells, chase the world’s cats, and poop almost anywhere you desired.

I knew what I had to do. I faced an opportunity to connect with my deepest dog desires. A crossroads, if you will, to choose the path leading to a destiny of fulfillment and satisfaction. I sprang up from the marshy gravesite of my fallen brothers, and trotted into the night to find my new independent canine destiny.

So what, if that direction was the same as the way to the zombie power generating station.

Chapter Thirteen: You Never Leave a Dog or Man Behind

2007-08-26T05:51:00.000-07:00

At the dinner table of life, Gravity Dog never lets a pan-fried pork chop lay abandoned and forgotten on the serving platter. He probably won't ask if you wanted it, either. This week's serving of crispy breaded adventure attempts to explain…

It was so strong that Jonny smelled it, too. He dropped to the ground without speaking, sidearm in hand, covering me as I slunk closer to the source of the horrendous odor. In the darkness ahead, I saw the familiar outline of a United State standard-issue combat boot poking out of the weeds and as I got closer I recognized the unique scent of synthetic leather/spun kevlar construction. The rank stench of burnt death lay on the scene like a dirty blanket of woven cat hair.

I gave the boot a little nudge with my nose. Nothing. I nudged again, and then carefully gave it a little tug. The boot came off the ground easily enough, but I dropped it as soon as I realized it contained the charred stump of a human foot. As I backed away from the legless boot, I saw the backpacked torso of a battle dog, lying in the weeds like an armored sack of meat. No head, no legs, no tail—just a stumpy husk of a dog. I couldn’t even tell who it had been, by sight or smell. I slowly sank to my belly, and began eating the bitter Arkansas grass. I really needed to throw up, and right now.

I am well acquainted with Death. I have looked into Its face many times, returning Its stare with my fanged grin and long red tongue. I am not afraid. If I am Death’s messenger, how can I fear my Master? So why was I having trouble picking myself up off the ground in the desolation of my enemy’s front yard? The zombies who had killed my comrades could not be far away. It was time to reap the grim harvest of murder and destruction. I was here to win. I am a killing machine, furry and lethal.

There were probably coyotes around here. I wondered if they were like the coyotes back at the base. Maybe their language was strange and incomprehensible to me. Were they the same muddy-yellow color, or perhaps smoky-gray? It suddenly became very important to me to find them and run with them. Get in touch with my inner dog, as it were.

Jonny was squatting next to me. He, too, looked like vomiting was on his short list of things-to-do. He bowed his head for a few moments, and stood up.

“C’mon, Gravity Dog, let’s go!” He adjusted his harness with one hand; in the other, his sidearm was still at the ready. It was obvious he was thinking about the shocking death of the team, and wondering if the others had shared that same fate. I did not move, or even look at him.

“Dog! Get up! Time to go!” Jonny’s voice cracked a little. He was stressing. For the first time since I had known him, I smelled his fear.

“Go. You go,” I replied, “I stay.” I licked one of my front paws to add emphasis to my argument. I wished he would just disappear and let me go find new friends. Couldn’t he remember that I had screwed the pooch?

Jonny slowly raised his sidearm until it was level with my head. A Browning Model 2170 Plasma Pistol carried the punch of a small cannon. Even with his hand shaking so badly, at this range the sidearm would render me as unrecognizable as the remains of our anonymous friends cooling on the ground. I hoped he would stop talking soon. I just looked up at him with big sad dog eyes, waiting.

“You,” he said, barely controlling his own voice. “You’re the big damn hero. This is the big one—it’s our only chance. I told you, it’s not about going home, now. It’s about having a home to go to.”

The Browning slowly pointed back at the ground. Even in the dark I could see that Jonny’s pale face was drained of what little color it usually possessed. I didn’t smell his fear any more—it was now something that I barely recognized. Disappointment.

Without another word, Jonny Cosmic turned his back to me and disappeared into the darkness.

Chapter Twelve: That Smell

2007-08-19T19:28:00.000-07:00

When your math skills are as bad as Gravity Dog's, the fact that there are ten wieners in a package but only eight buns in a bag doesn't matter. When they're gone, they're gone. Gravity Dog doesn't even know what "leftovers" are.

We crouched in muddy water that almost came up to the fringe of my belly-hair. Jonny adjusted controls on my backpack, fine-tuning the electronic countermeasures that would help conceal us from the enemy. The Arkansas nighttime air smelled of rice shoots, rot, and danger. I did not need a LOOKOUT-FA-5637 micro-computerized field analysis module to tell me that we were walking toward nearly certain death. No professional soldier like me ever used the term “suicide mission”, but my download had already revealed the likely outcome of our efforts. Courageous action had always come easily to me, but I was starting to wonder if my bravery had been fueled by false confidence—a belief that the odds were in my favor.

The download outlined the assignment of extraction coordinates involving one jetchopper dedicated to pick up a total of twelve man/dog teams. A jetchopper could carry two passengers. I’ve told you a couple of times that I’m not very good at math. Maybe the extraction was planned by a dog.

I felt the silted mud squish between my battle-hardened toes. Oh, how I wished we were on hard dry land again! This mission seemed to be calling for an amphibian, not a battle dog. Jonny trudged along just behind me, struggling a little in the boot-sucking sediment, but still marvelously quiet as he pumped through the water leaving barely a ripple. I found myself once again admiring the man’s basic skills—when it came to their merits as predators, humans did not usually spark jealousy or respect in the heart of a dog.

The water finally diminished and then changed to spongy, marshy ground covered with weeds. Small clumps of stunted trees and haggard bushes began to appear on either side of us. The ground was climbing now, but we were moving faster. Jonny carefully monitored the map display on my backpack, whispering directions to me in the dark. We twisted and turned, even doubling back occasionally, to throw off any pursuit and to avoid detection. As we approached a larger clump of trees, I smelled something bad, seconds before my LOOKOUT-FA-5637 module began flashing its red light. I had detected the peculiar, bitter, nauseating smell of burnt man and burnt dog.

Chapter Eleven: Infiltration is a Nice Way of Saying You're Screwed

2007-08-12T18:15:00.000-07:00

Just when you think your situation can't get any worse, you drop a Sloppy Joe sandwich in your lap. Thanks to Gravity Dog, at least you won't have to worry about deep-set stains from saucy beef, mustard, and pickles. Too bad he just ate your trousers, too…

Jonny and I didn’t speak during the outbound leg of the mission. The previous time was due to suspicion and resentment, but this time was because of shock and dread. Our assignment was huge—the biggest of the war. It was a desperate attempt by the United State to achieve through daring covert action, what could not be achieved on the battlefield. We had as much chance of winning as threading a cat though the eye of a needle, but we had to try. Thinking about threading cats through small openings usually cheered me up, but not tonight. I peered through my webbing at the evening sky above the jetchopper, and lost myself in the full moon rising above the flat emptiness of Arkansas. As I watched the cold light ripple over the rice paddies and razor wire below, I thought again of my coyote cousins.

Our mission was simple in its conception, but daring in its execution. It possessed an uncomplicated, magical quality similar to a plan of waiting until no one was home, and then knocking over a kitchen wastebasket to raid its contents. So too would we be raiding the Super-Mart empire’s fragrant trash receptacle to eagerly feast upon its delicious scraps.

A dozen separate assault teams were to be inserted into enemy territory in a simultaneous and highly coordinated incursion. The shared goal of each of the teams was to infiltrate the one fusion power station that was solely responsible for transmitting all power and purpose to the raging zombie armies. These sub-infrared emissions provided strict mind control, as well as the electrical energy that supplied essential life force to the reanimated corpse mercenaries. You couldn’t kill people who were already dead, but you could stop them from wanting to kill you. That, at least, was the theory.

Struggling to hide the feelings in my troubled heart, I looked across the cabin of the JC-125TAC and attempted to gauge Jonny’s mood. I wagged my tail through the webbing as best I could in an effort to cheer him up.

“Jonny,” I said, as casually as possible, “Where is home?” I didn’t know where I was born, and dogs as a species do not care, but I knew that it was a subject humans liked to talk about, like sports, wagering on the outcome of sports, and sex. Some of them even wagered about the outcome of sex.

My partner did not reply. He just dangled in his cocoon of webbing straps, swaying gently with the gentle pitching motions of the jetchopper. Whenever we hit minor turbulence, he bounced and jiggled like ripe fruit on a tree branch.

“Jonny,” I tried again, “This fight hard. Worst fight ever. You go home soon!” The stress of the mission, and the boredom of the long trip, compelled me to deliver this long dissertation. I hate it when I can’t shut up.

Something about the word “home” seemed to connect with the human. Dogs don’t think about home; home is where it’s warm and where the food is good. Home is with a human, wherever they might be. Jonny sighed and removed his helmet. I had never noticed that he was almost as hairless on the top of his head as he was on the front. I tried to ignore this repulsive deformity as he spoke.

“Gravity Dog, there is a big difference between us, and I don’t mean my height or your long tail. It’s about the way we have lived. You were bred and conditioned to be a soldier. It’s your life, the reason for your existence. Things are different for me. I’m an aircar mechanic who lives with his mother, and I’m a soldier because I was made to be one. I did not choose it.”

Jonny paused, looking down while rubbing his stubbly shaved head with one of his clawless hands. Maybe it was the moonlight, maybe I was just getting used to him, but he really wasn't such a bad-looking human.

“All I've wanted to do since I got here was get out as soon as possible, even if the fastest way was to take dangerous missions. If I don’t fight, I don’t go home. Now it's different: if I don't win, I don't have a home to go to. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

I have to admit, as much as I had come to like Jonny, I didn’t understand what he was talking about almost half the time. Maybe more often. My mind had kind of wandered; I was looking out the jetchopper window and thinking about the endless trees that flew past. He and I were friends, though, so I replied with the kind of thing only a friend would say.

“Jonny,” I said, with sincerity that surprised even me, “You fight good. You die, Gravity Dog not eat you. Promise!”

I did not mean to be so sentimental, but the situation seemed to call for it. We were warriors, but we were also friends. In this crazy, dangerous new world, friends simply did not eat friends.

Chapter Ten: War Cry

2007-08-05T20:49:00.000-07:00

Fate has a way of turning into an enormous spiral-sliced ham—and the jar of sweet-hot mustard is nowhere to be found. In this week's salty, smoky, honey-glazed chapter, Gravity Dog must decide whether to meet his destiny on white, wheat, or rye.

When I’m right, I’m right. I know I slipped up on that last mission, but I’m usually rather brilliant. Exceptional, actually. Comes with being enhanced, I guess. We received new orders before lunch, just as I predicted.

I was in my den, killing time and eating a bug, when Jonny knocked on the door. As soon as he entered my sitting room, I knew that something big was going to happen. Bigger than the invention of cat-flavored dog food, even. Jonny’s normally controlled and expressionless face was a twitching mask of uneasy excitement. His features only revealed part of the story; I picked up the rest from the unique but unmistakable bouquet of odors generated by his emotions. It was all there—anticipation, fear, anxiety, anger, and lust. Maybe not the last one. If he had eaten a lot of sausage for breakfast, it could have been the sausage that did it. To a dog, sausage smells like lust.

“Gravity Dog!” he gasped, holding a download in his hand. “New orders! We move out tonight!” My partner took a deep breath and composed himself. I sat up to give Jonny access to my electronic collar. I wondered if he got his orders the same way, and then remembered that he did. Humans used an electronic device called “TV” to inject ideas directly into their brains.

“We go!” I said, forgetting my training and running around in a vain attempt at catching my own tail. Someday, not today but someday, I would catch that Dogdamned thing. “Go fight! Fight! Fight!” I cried, a noble warrior-dog thirsting for blood and war like the canine champions of prehistory. Cerberus, Old Yeller, Marmaduke, Lassie—the Pantheon of Heroes.

“Hey!” Jonny snapped, “Settle down! I can’t load this thing if you don’t sit still!” The metallic download wafer gleamed as he held it above my head. “I haven’t even heard the orders yet, but I know that they’re big. This is important!”

Calming myself with an effort, I sat still long enough for Jonny to insert the download. Tail wagging in anticipation, I watched inside my own head as the pictograph of the mission unfolded, along with projections and analyses and risk probability calculations. My highly evolved and supremely capable mind was being primed, programmed, and polished for success.

Have you ever had too much information electronically inserted directly into your brain? The mission program beat me as if it was a broom—my ribs, head, and rump—and the depiction of its probable outcome burned my brain like a bugzapper.

Jonny looked scared and confused by my increasing agitation. I cried out in the same utter hopelessness and sadness I had felt only once in my life of service, duty, and honor. Recalling the day when I was a six-week-old pup torn from Mother and siblings, I sat in my den and howled. From far away, coyotes replied.

Chapter Nine: The Calm Before the Poopstorm

2007-07-29T18:58:00.000-07:00

This is not the first time Gravity Dog has stepped up to the Concession Stand of Life, hoping to taste the spicy-sweet Italian sausage of success. But will he pay the ultimate price for adding mounds of grilled onions and green peppers? With any luck, this week's installment will answer all those burning questions about acid reflux...

The war was going badly. Just after that evening’s mess call, word filtered through the ranks that the Republic of Texas had fallen—a major tactical and psychological victory for the enemy. Surrounded by an overwhelming force of blue-jacketed zombie warriors, the brave Texan Army had fought to the last man, dog, and battlesteer. I could picture the brave armored battlesteer lumbering across the battlefield, mooing their victory cry as they fired the ultra-cannon mounted on their beefy shoulders. Although tragic, our ally’s defeat was already becoming a rallying call, much like that famous Texas battle of old—Remember the Antelope—the Alhambra—something like that. The United State would make sure that the brave soldiers of the Republic would not soon be forgotten.

The next two days passed under ash gray skies. Percussive gunfire rumbled beyond the hills like thunder. While the regular troops polished their weapons and drilled their drills, Jonny and I trained on simulators, practiced on the firing range, and rehearsed complicated battlefield scenarios. My favorite routine was the one where Jonny would throw a long, slim map canister, and my job was to locate it as quickly as possible and bring it back to him. The procedure was called "FETCH" but I don't know what that was an acronym for.

Mostly we just walked. We walked everywhere: to training sessions, to briefings, to chow time (separate tents, of course), even along the inside of the fence perimeter. I found myself spending more time thinking about the dirty brown coyotes that roamed beyond. They prowled the barbed wire, growling, snapping at each other, playing with their youngsters, and looking back at me with haunted eyes. Late at night, as I lay in my spacious climate-controlled den, I could hear them calling me—calling me to come out and play with them under the full red moon. I buried my head under my leopard skin blanket, wishing I could launch a heat-seeking missile right into the center of their primitive cabal.

The third day dawned, dense and pale as cold cheese. It was only a matter of time before Jonny and I would receive a new assignment. I could feel it in the air, like the exciting smell of a possum rotting inside a tree stump. The United State had its back to the wall, as the humans said. The zombies would soon be knocking at the door. Outgunned, outmanned, and outspent by the corporate oligarchy of a sophisticated foe, our only hope was to be bold and decisive.

Time to call Gravity Dog.

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

2007-07-22T18:19:00.000-07:00

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?

Chapter Seven: I Wish Someone Would Blow Up Colonel Orion

2007-07-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

Fate is exactly like a grilled pork chop sandwich: crispy, smoky-sweet, and delicious when served between slices of freshly sliced white bead. This week's chapter explains...

The rest of the trip back to base passed without comment or murder. As the jetchopper settled onto its landing pad, the horizon became defined by the crisp orange-pink rim of dawn. Without as much as a growl for Cosmic, I padded quickly back to my den. I’ve been on a lot of missions, but none of them had ever left me more exhausted than this one. I was dog tired.

I fell onto my simulated leopard-skin blanket and sank immediately into twitchy restless sleep. Every time I settled into a dream of chasing rabbits, a laughing Jonny Cosmic would appear, annihilating my prey with the massed firepower of cluster bombs and a flamethrower. Unrested but hungry, I rose at 1200 hours and walked to the mess hall for lunch. The Canines Only area was in an adjacent building, the doors of which were scaled exclusively to the stature and species of soldiers such as me. As I entered, the enticing smell of creamed chipped squirrel on toast made me forget my problems, at least for a few minutes.

The debriefing for last night’s mission was to be at 1300 hours, with my Commanding Officer. Special operations like mine were reportable to the base CO and no one else—I told you, I was part of an elite unit. Unfortunately, I would also have to face Jonny Cosmic again. Would he throw me to the wolves?

Colonel Orion’s office was like the man himself: square, severe, and completely lacking in imagination. He was a small, barrel-chested human who gave the appearance of having once been extremely fit, but lately gone to seed. His reddish-blonde crew cut stood at attention above close-set eyes and a hard little beak of a nose. Cosmic was already sitting in a straight-backed chair in front of the CO’s desk; he did not turn or acknowledge me as Colonel Orion greeted me with a nod. I wondered how much they had already discussed, and what Cosmic disclosed about my part in the flawed mission. A low concentration of tear gas floated in the Colonel's office, burning my eyes and sensitive nose. Humans called it aftershave.

“12-249CAU-7836-K9, come in. Rested and fed after your mission? Sit!” Colonel Orion was one of those humans who liked to ask questions without listening to the answer. They reminded me of frogs or crickets: constantly making sound to fill up empty space—the difference being, frogs and crickets were quite crunchy and delicious. Orion looked tough.

The tough old soldier looked at papers on his desk. That Dogdamned human Jonny Cosmic had the edge on me, what with his ability to write and all. He had submitted a typed report in advance of our mission debriefing. Although I am normally very focused, my highly evolved mind wandered for just a moment. I flashed on walking the base perimeter fence line, wearing a humiliating MP harness, and scrapping with the coyotes or other Poor Fur Trash that prowled our borders in search of food or excitement. Involuntarily shuddering, I looked up just in time to meet Colonel Orion’s hard little eyes.

“I said, what was the outcome of your mission, soldier. Was it a success? Speak!”

The CO looked from me, to Cosmic, and back to me again. For the first time since I had entered the office, I felt Jonny Cosmic’s eyes on the back of my furry head. I did not look at him, but replied to Colonel Orion:

“Success, sir. Mission, success. Yes, objective.” Long speeches like this wore me out worse than battle, but before I could gather the strength to continue, Cosmic interrupted.

“With the Colonel’s permission, sir, I would like to make a comment about the Enhanced Canine Asset, sir,” said Cosmic, “His reputation is more than justified. He was key to the success of the mission, and it was my privilege to serve with him. It’s all in my report, sir.”

He finished by glancing in my direction, but he was back to the looking-at-me-without-looking-at-me mode from before. My surprise was total. I almost pooped right there on the Colonel’s floor, but that would have been a very bad career move—a definite sign of weakness. Humans are funny that way, especially ranking officers.

Colonel Orion had already stopped thinking about or looking at us. He harrumphed and then began to busy himself shuffling papers the way humans do when a meeting is over and they want to go relieve themselves. Jonny Cosmic stood up, saluted, and walked out of the dull, symmetrical office. I sat for a fraction of a second longer before following him out. It took every bit of dogged determination I could muster to keep from walking with my tail clamped between my hind legs. With a supreme effort, I flew that bushy flag high—the banner of a hero in full retreat.

Chapter Six: I Assure You I Will Bite Your Parts

2007-07-08T19:00:00.000-07:00

What does Gravity Dog like to sink his choppers into almost as much as he enjoys prime rib? Your ass. This week's freshly carved segment is also available with freshly grated horseradish.

Was I in the dog house, or what? No, I wasn’t home—we were back in the jetchopper, whooshing back to our base. For the first time, Jonny Cosmic was looking at me right in the eyes. He dangled in his webbing, looking relaxed, staring at me. In my mind, I replayed the mission that had so nearly unraveled. Many previous missions had also teetered on the brink of disaster, but it was always because of human error—it was up to Gravity Dog to be the hero. I had never tasted failure before, and I have to tell you, it tasted worse than worming medicine. With any luck I might still be able to get an assignment as—it almost killed me to think it—a guard dog. As I sank deeper into sullen self-pity, a human voice trampled the jetchopper’s soothing whisper:

“So, was it good for you?” It was Cosmic. I thought for a moment that he was going to attack me: he was baring his fangs, and then I realized he was smiling at me.

“Where I come from,” he continued, “It’s customary to give the lady a radiophone call the next day. Did you get her number?” Finishing with a question, he tilted his head like an inquisitive Border Collie.

He spun gently back and forth in his webbing, grinning like a bastard hyena. I did not have the tiniest idea what he was talking about, and I’m sure my face showed it. Maybe he had gone mad? Several of my other partners had cracked under the stress of combat. This could work for me. If he was thought to be insane, the brass would have to believe whatever version of the story I wished to tell. With my record unspoiled, my career and reputation could continue to grow.

“You screwed the pooch!” Cosmic was laughing now, the son of a bitch. Laughing at me, one of the most decorated veterans in the history of the Enhanced Canine Tactical Assault Initiative. I finally got the joke—I hate it when humans use the description of an act of love to describe an error or mistake. If it wasn’t for my professionalism, the heavy nylon webbing straps, and the fact that he had saved my life ten minutes ago, I would have bitten his ass and tossed him out of the jetchopper.

“Stop!” I barked at him, “Stop! Now! Now!”

Cosmic laughed even harder, loud enough that the JC-125TAC’s co-pilot glanced back at us over his shoulder.

As quickly as my partner’s jeering laughter had begun, it stopped. I gave up my futile attempts at climbing out of my cocoon and hung there, panting with fury. He leaned forward, still not too close, and spoke quietly so that the jetchopper crew couldn’t hear him.

“I’m not laughing at you, Rin Tin Tin, so relax.” His eyes twinkled in a way that made me uncomfortable. I felt my tail try to curl up between my legs protectively.

“I know all about you, hero. You are the center of your own doggie universe. I understand that. I’m not laughing at you,” he repeated, clapping his hands together soundlessly.

“I’m laughing at myself because I don’t know why I saved you. I hate dogs.”

Chapter Five: My Furry Ass Gets Saved

2007-07-01T20:09:00.000-07:00

Gravity Dog hates zombies almost as much as he loves steak. Why can't the United State of America ever get invaded by New York strip sirloins? The answer is not in Chapter Five!

It’s hard for me to admit, but Jonny Cosmic was pretty good in the dark. He wasn’t even wearing his night vision goggles. Of course, I was leading the way and it was difficult to watch him, but I have my ways of checking out the new guys. For example, he was quiet. As quiet as—and I mean it as a compliment in this context—a cat. Another important point: no matter how many times a tree branch whipped his face, or a root stubbed his boot, he didn’t hiss “Shit!” like all my other partners. Some humans are just born to be targets. I’m dedicated and committed, make no mistake, but if I could write a letter I would ask my Commanding Officer to please, just give me a dog partner. Someone more like me.

We were getting close to the enemy base, which was concealed in the wooded foothills of the Ozark Mountains. Although it was a fact that Super-Mart’s army of re-animated zombie mercenaries could not be distracted by the powerful attraction of Missouri barbecue, our Intelligence had reported that the ranking officers were susceptible to those savory, smoky charms. Let them gorge on brisket and pulled pork, and I would serve the rich dessert of their demise.

I’m not a barbarian. Think of me as a technician who writes the code of war and uploads the program. An artisan who carefully weaves the cloth of destruction, and embroiders it with beautiful gold threads of death. I am a craftsman of ruin, a student of mayhem. I get delicious treats when I return from a successful mission. Being a killing machine has its advantages.

Jonny Cosmic quietly read off coordinates from the display on my titanium-kevlar backpack. We were very, very close to our target—a cinder-block barbecue joint full of enemy officers. I can't read very well, but I recognized the letters "BBQ" emblazoned in flickering neon on the side of the building. Cosmic started to bury the shaped charges—mines—that would cover our exit from the scene. I dogfully resisted the urge to help him dig: my job was to get a proper lock on our assigned target. Using my nose to complement the state-of-the-art electronic gear on my back, I ran my equipment through all the standard routines. Nothing—but then suddenly, something amazing. Hypnotic. Not far from where Cosmic and I stood, an irresistible force beckoned. It called to me with a scent that subverted reason, rendered all logic void, and overrode common sense. The siren call of cat poop.

I trotted away from my target acquisition zone to find the object of my insatiable passion. The pull was too strong, like the way that the gravity thing pulls at the planet things. And there it was: close to the location of my intended assassination victim stood a cluster of young trees, and somewhere within that cluster of trees lay heaven. I crept closer, crawling on my belly like a reptile. The smell—oh! the smell was so sweet. Like mother’s milk and puppy breath. I wanted to roll in it, to carry the scent back to my pack. I wanted to feast.

That’s when shrill alarms pierced the quiet of the encampment. At the exact same moment, several things happened. The first: something large rushed up from behind me and knocked me down. It was my partner. I couldn’t breathe for a couple of minutes. Second: an amazing sizzling sound came from the tree grouping I was about to walk into, as a Tactical Anti-Dog Fusion Mine discharged itself with the fury of ten suns, in an area not much larger than a typical human sofa. The third and most important thing: Jonny Cosmic hit the manual override button on my target acquisition system, and launched my full payload at our target. As the BBQ building, the Super-Mart field commander, his associates, and some flavorful condiments were vaporized by my SKANK-79 missiles, the force of detonation pushed me backwards into Cosmic’s arms. It was time to get out of there. All hell was breaking loose, and the zombies were mobilized—I can’t recall with perfect certainty whether or not I licked Jonny’s face. I think I’ll just deny it.

Chapter Four: A Dog's Life During Wartime

2007-06-24T19:35:00.000-07:00

Gravity Dog's idea of a squeaky toy usually involves a zombie's ass. Squeak! Squeak! If only zombies were available in squirrel, cat, or cheeseburger flavors...

I’ll be honest with you. I’m very focused, and besides my career there are not many subjects that interest me. Obviously, I am a dog of war, dedicated to the military arts. I do enjoy a good roll in something that has just the right pungent smell. A satisfying rub underneath my bulky collar. Food. An attractive female—I loves the bitches. History? Geography? I like those as much as I like cats, but unfortunately, my job requires that a certain amount of arcane subject matter is embedded directly in my brain.

I’m a dog soldier in the proud army of the United State of America. The United State is the ultimate evolution of utopian democracy, consolidating the thirty-four constituent states remaining from a prehistoric construction of a similar name. The long-gone city called Washington is no longer the capital, having burned long ago. Its neighbor New Jersey complained about the smoke and smell until it found itself submerged under the rising waters of global warming. The new home for the government is Cincinnati. I’m not sure, but I think the city was chosen because it has seven hills like Ancient Rome—whatever that was.

These are tough times, indeed. From its humble origins as a discount bait shop founded by immigrant Pete Superdoupoulos, retail giant Super-Mart had evolved into a mighty corporate state wholly devoted to evil intent. The Commonwealth of Super-Mart declared an embargo against the United State of America and the United State's ally the Republic of Texas. Consumers staggered under the oppressive financial reality, and the United State seemed destined to disintegrate into its original component states. The launch of a carefully planned surprise attack against the United State and the Republic confirmed the mega-retailer's commitment to world domination.

Rumors circulated around our base that Oklahoma City had fallen after a direct assault by Super-Mart’s air and ground forces. Today, it was said that Memphis was encircled and besieged, the bridges over the Mississippi having been thrown down by the defenders. In a matter of hours the enemy would cross the river, taking the city. There was nothing we could do to help the poor dogs and humans in Memphis, but by Dog, we would strike back wherever and whenever we could.

Chapter Three: A Tail of Two Species

2007-06-17T18:08:00.000-07:00

It's not easy being a futuristic bionically-enhanced cat-hating dog commando, and humans just seem to make it worse. In this week's chicken-fried-steak-and-gravy packed chapter, Gravity Dog will explain...

I am the epitome of the German Shepherd breed, the genetic apex if you will, although it has been many years since Germany existed as a country. It had melted into the creamy soup that was once called Europe, which itself degenerated into a Babel of tiny feudal states whose loyalties and interests constantly shifted. I assure you, I am easily bored by the bizarre social-economic ruckus on which humans seem to thrive:

France, in a stunning masterstroke of tactical surprise, launched a blitzkrieg pre-emptive surrender on Great Britain. Britain’s fragile economy collapsed under the strain of occupation. French Quebec surrendered to the Principality of Vermont in a show of solidarity with France. Vermont rejected the surrender. Eastern Canada refused to take Quebec back, because it had been secretly negotiating to trade it in exchange for better cable TV programming options from the United State of America. Mexico was vacant—everyone left.

It was 2215 hours, and Cosmic and I were strapped into webbing in the back of the JC-125TAC jetchopper assault craft. The black aircraft hovered above the ground for a moment as if testing its own sense of equilibrium, and threw itself into the sky with testicle-wrenching force. Yes, I still have mine, so don’t ask. It usually takes a few minutes after take-off to unclench. In a matter of moments, we were tracking along the contours of the sleeping Earth, flying low to avoid detection—almost low enough to mow the grass that looked black in the darkness. I strained against the webbing to thrust my head outside the open window. The compressed riot of smells as it impacted my senses was like drowning in strong liquor. I was intoxicated.

I glanced back into the jetchopper cabin long enough to see Cosmic looking-at-me-without-looking-at-me the same way he did in my sitting room. His appearance was that of a typical soldier: black uniform, dull gray body armor, night-vision goggles pushed back on his helmet, sidearm at his hip. Something about his eyes was wrong, though. I can’t read humans particularly well, but I can read animals in general. This guy was neither predator nor prey. Fine. There was nothing like a covert mission to get to the heart of the matter—separate the dogs from the puppies. Unfortunately, it was going to be my furry ass at risk while I found out.

Considering our species were in different zip codes, Jonny Cosmic and I had a striking family resemblance. Although my coat is shiny polished brass and onyx, the battle gear I wore was the same as his in form and color. I did not need his night-vision goggles, but he sure could have used my finely-tuned nose. I looked quite sharp in my body armor, with my integrated backpack carrying electronic countermeasures, telecommunication devices, and a small rocket launcher. Mister, does your dog bite? Only with high explosive-tipped rockets, kid.

We were so close to the front lines that it only took forty-five minutes to get to our insertion point. My stomach felt like it did the time I ate bees. Jonny Cosmic did not twitch or curse or chatter at all—I decided that he must be mentally deficient. How else could he be so calm? It was not very encouraging to know that we were scraping the bottom of the barrel this early in the war. Once again, it was going to be up to the dog to get things done. Man’s best friend. The enemy’s worst nightmare!

The JC-125TAC dumped speed like a failed romance, and settled into a clearing surrounded by dark evergreen trees. Cosmic and I jumped out of the jetchopper before it came to a full stop. With a whisper, it spun around and headed back to our base. I can’t count very well, but I would have guessed there were at least twenty-five stars in the clear sky, maybe a million. It was close to midnight but the moon had not yet risen, which was perfect for our purposes. My download had revealed that our target was in the uplands of Missouri, deep within enemy territory. Our mission: a routine assassination of an enemy commander. Whoever the guy was, he was already dead—he just didn’t know it yet.

Chapter Two: Some Guy Named Jonny

2007-06-10T19:38:00.001-07:00

Here's the exciting, dynamic, sausage-scented second installment of We March on Arkansas!, featuring Gravity Dog:

The new guy looked exactly the same as the others: awkwardly vertical, flat-faced, and almost hairless. Sure, some are light-skinned, some are dark; there are tall ones and short ones, too. It doesn’t matter: humans all look alike to me. Some of them try to rub my head or tickle my ear when we meet for the first time. Those are the ones I bite. This man was different. He stood at a respectful distance, looking straight ahead. I could not smell the reek of fear, and his human eyes were unreadable. I sat before him, imperiously, waiting for him to do something stupid. They always do. My ears upright, my teeth polished and brilliant, my tongue hanging out to show my contempt—I waited. I have a slight problem with keeping track of time, but it seemed like we faced off for a very long while.

Shifting to a more relaxed stance, but still militarily correct, the man finally spoke.

“Specialist Cosmic, Jonny Cosmic” he said, but without looking directly at me. His eyes had wandered from me to all around my sitting room, and now to a point just above my head.

Sitting room—the humans called it that, but it was really the only part of my den in which they could stand. As a decorated veteran of many successful campaigns, I had earned the right to reside in a deluxe canine residence on the base.

I can understand basic human speech: simple instructions, tactical planning. I don’t try to keep up with technical details or science, or bizarre abstracts like poetry. Long-term strategies do not exist in my mind. I live for the moment: I’m a killing machine. There was only one reason why a new man would be here today, and that would be a mission. Willing my beautiful bushy tail to immobility, I said:

“When?” My voice was colored with a gargling, synthetic tone—the electronic voicebox implanted in my throat was designed to transmit comprehendible human speech, not soothing melody. The device was relatively new, and it invoked interesting and sometimes amusing reactions from the uninitiated.

The soldier did not flinch or blink, but held his gaze firmly between my pointy ears. This guy had potential.

“Tonight,” he said, not looking at me. “We move out at 2200 hours.”

“I have your download,” he continued as he moved closer to me for the first time, “With your permission?”

Cosmic opened his hand, revealing a small, flat square of dull silver metal. He inserted it into a slot in my electronic collar, and stepped back. I sat, trance-like, as the electronic file opened and began to present the elements of our mission directly into my brain. I reviewed the key steps of the plan, which were presented in a pictographic form much like the so-called “comic books” that some humans look at. As I followed the storyboard in my head, unseen bits of data were being embedded deeply into my subconscious. I do not understand the technologies involved—and I don’t care—but it sure saves a lot of time. I’m a dog of action. Did I already mention that?

Chapter One: I Know Humans

2007-06-03T19:31:00.001-07:00

I’m a soldier, a warrior. I’ve served my country for almost three years. I don’t know what that is in dog years—math is not my best event. While we’re being honest and up front, I’ll tell you something else: I don’t have opposable thumbs, either. Now go ahead and try to convince me that this so-called handicap has adversely affected my military career. It has not. My rapid advancement through the ranks has far more to do with my talent and application; not who my parents knew, or who I slept with. I’m here on merit. That, and because of some really impressive genetic engineering.

Dependable, decorated, and decisive: that’s me. Totally credentialed. You could say that I’m pedigreed. I’m a carefully calibrated, tactically trained, and rigorously ruthless killing machine. I even have a twenty centi-ton fusion bomb implanted in my belly in the event of my capture, or for the ultimate sacrifice. I've been told it's the size and shape of a candy bar, but has enough explosive force to clear out the contents of an entire bunker. That's dedication, I'm telling you. I am conditioned to think, listen, smell, and taste for victory. Duty and honor are my North Star. My full name is 12-249CAU-7836-K9.

You can call me Gravity Dog.

Sure, I’m gung ho. It’s my nature. Calling me a lone wolf would normally be insulting, but within the context of my military service, it’s a compliment. It just means that I am independent, as well as personally and professionally trained to do everything possible to make my mission successful. Unfortunately, this raises a question that has been on my mind lately: if I’m supposed to win, why slow me down with a human?

I know humans. If we’re being honest, I will have to tell you that I don’t like most of them. In my years of service, I have not seen many reasons to keep them around. This opinion is based on my experiences with seven different partners—that’s right, I said seven. The number would be lower if some of them had remembered to keep their head down. Others would have been served by having a tiny speck of common sense. You are starting to see why I was not optimistic about my new partner.

His name was Jonny Cosmic.