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The Alien in My Home

The Alien

He eats plant life.  He eats everything.  Very expensive x-ray photographs reveal that he eats slate hearths.

Really.  His first pen backed up against the fireplace.  Every now and then you would see him chewing on the corner of the hearth.  How cute!  He is sharpening his little teeth.

Then, one evening, he started breathing funny, prompting a trip to the all-night vet.  The x-rays revealed pneumonia in one lung and a number of pebbles in his stomach.  No, the lung thing was probably passed to him by another dog, probably the one that growled in his face at a previous vet visit, but upon returning home, we discovered a small corner of the hearth was missing.

He’s just teething, you understand.  Yeah.  His special “puppy teething ring” lasted slightly more than an hour.

They tell me he’s just a puppy.  A Boston Terror.  Um, Terrier.   “He’s only a little thing!”  I remain unconvinced.

I mean, for one thing, if he is a baby dog, why does he continually try to eat the big dog?  I have never read anywhere that dogs are cannibalistic.  Yet, time after time, he runs up to our older dog and tries to take a hunk out of her – face, legs, flanks, he doesn’t care.  Even a violent shake and a warning growl from his elder does not seem to dissuade him.

If he is a puppy, why is he constantly eating plants?  He just trots up, rips a plant out of a flower pot or the ground, and starts chomping on it. dissecting it liberally.  Dogs are carnivores, no?  Meat eaters!  Sure, Lassie ate beef stew, but she/he was just a midget in a dog suit anyhow.  Real dogs don’t eat plants.  No, this is scientific research.

If he is a puppy, how come he can replicate by fission?  What do I mean?  It is Six in the Morning, my wife enters the bedroom with one puppy.  I groggily acknowledge their presence and my wife places the one and singular puppy on the bed.  Suddenly, there are six puppies on the bed, all moving at warp speed, biting and nipping at everything and everyone at once.  Reach for one, another raptor gets you from the side.  This is not one puppy, this is Multi Man with fur.

No, this is not a puppy.

I think he is an alien, conducting reconnaissance.  Whether it is simple scientific inquisitiveness or more elaborate pre-invasion  surveys, I don’t know.  But he shows non-canine abilities.

For one thing, despite the fact that he pretends to be an uncoordinated little twit, constantly tripping over his own paws and such, his ears are precision instruments.  You can see them on top of his head, twisting from one position to another, even touching them together at the top.  He often seems to be using them in tandem, to triangulate: target ball in sight, range twenty-two point six meters, heading 15 degrees.

He spends much time at my stepson’s side, watching him surf the internet, learning all about human society and technology.  Then, if he notices you looking at him, he starts chomping on a convenient rope, ball, or shoe.

When you play tug-of-war with him, you soon get the sense that he is not looking at the rope.  He is focused on your hand.  He tugs the rope, bites the rope, shifts on the rope, all the time staring at your hand, then, quite by accident, takes a nip of your hand, then goes back to the rope.  Does much the same thing by moving a chew toy closer and closer to your foot, then on top of your foot, before quickly biting a toe.  He is taking blood samples.

The pre-invasion scenario is somewhat bolstered by his constant combat training.  Several times a day, he goes into monster mode, attacking everything, eating the dog, jumping at hands, feet, and legs.  Faces are not out of bounds.  He will do this for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, unless captured and forcibly restrained which, as you might imagine, there are few volunteers for.  We usually only do it to save the older dog’s life or dignity.

He even looks like an alien.  When viewed from the side, ears back, with his mouth wide open, displaying his array of little sharp teeth – a stance he holds often, I might add – he looks like he just stepped out of John Hurt’s chest.  Whether he will one day slither off to the chains to grow immense and threatening or whether he will do a Michigan J. Frogby is yet to be determined.


I suppose I should report him to Homeland Security.  They could come and cart him off to Area 51, where counter-intelligence activities would ensue.  Not sure how the family would feel about that, though.

They have fallen for it, you see.  They don’t see an alien in a puppy suit.  They think he is “just a little thing.”  They think he is a furry bundle of love.  They are blind to the psychopathy.  They are blind to the ulterior motives of the beast.

Still, I see hope for the future.  He makes mistakes sometimes, gives himself away.  If I can see it, others will in time.  And the alien technology is not flawless.

One problem with the puppy suit seems to be temperature regulation.  Sometimes, he will run up to the bed and ask, sort of, to come up.  I place him on the bed gingerly, expecting an immediate attack.  Instead, he scoots to my side, sometimes crawls under the blanket, and cuddles up against my leg, trying to get warm.  He drapes his head over my leg.  Soon, he is snoring.

I understand these reconnaissance missions can last fifteen to twenty years.  I guess he can stay.

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