My dog Denver has been with me since I was a wee lad. We got him when he was just a lil’ puppy, a fluffy ol’ Siberian Husky with eyes that could make a lumberjack weep. And he grew up good – always by my side – only ever getting into one or two tussles with the neighborhood dogs. These days, though, he’s movin’ a bit slower and his fur is turnin’ a bit grey, and of course my hair is goin’ too. But we’re still having a good ol’ time, us two. That is, until today.
Today I came back early from work to find my husky, good ol’ Denver, running a dog-prostitution ring out of my basement. I walk in on a crew of Golden Retrievers – innocent, young things just tryin’ to earn themselves a little extra dollar – turnin’ tricks on my cheap linoleum basement floor. And Denver’s looking over it all, smug look on that grizzled face, raking in profit while a line of hounds wait outside itchin’ to spend the dollars in their collars.
I break the whole thing up, of course, and spray the lot with a water bottle to get ‘em to scram. But when I turn to confront Denver, he won’t talk. Won’t spill the beans of what’s going on—whose idea it was, how long it’s been going on, whatever. I do a little digging myself, and what do I find? It’s not just the dog hookers – it’s also the dog drug dealing, the dog protection racket, the dog extortion, the dog loan sharking, the dog gambling, and the dog financial fraud. The list just goes on and on, and every dog that I go to — I’m undercover at this point, I speak fluent dog — they say that Denver is at the center of it all.
I can’t even put into words how I’m feeling about Denver now, but “bad dog” doesn’t even begin to cover it. I don’t have enough evidence to turn him in – there’s not much more than my testimony. My only hope is that I can corner him with a loud vacuum and intimidate him into confessing. Until then, the evil goes on.