Inside the Mind of a Mutt

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A hunting dog recounts the story of how his owner and his friend got killed during a hunting trip. Note that how it happened was a result of his canine instincts (in other words, an accidental misunderstanding).

Submitted: October 01, 2015

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Submitted: October 01, 2015

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Gentlemen, the story I’m about to share with you all is an odd one. Here’s the catch; I’ve actually experienced it myself. In some way, I might have caused the outcome. But it wasn’t entirely my fault. My habits are just… strange; strange to my kind, but normal to humans.

Now, I am not a bank robber who got himself arrested, nor am I a CEO of a now defunct company. I am a mere hunting dog. Perhaps that should give you an idea of where this story is going to go from here.

Where to begin? A-ha! I can see it quite plainly; I can remember it like it was yesterday. Well, it pretty much was yesterday.

It all started when me, my master, and his oafish best friend took a trip to the woods to catch some game. Since it was in the middle of hunting season, what we were doing was perfectly legal.

Of course my master and his friend had drunk a little too much beer before setting out. Believe it or not, it improved their prowess on the wide open shooting gallery. They were terrible sharpshooters otherwise.

Our first prey of the day was a harmless duck; a mallard, if you will. As soon as they heard the sound of wings flapping through the air, along with that insipid quacking sound, they stopped what they were doing and picked up their rifles. They set sights on a bird with a purple head and blue feathers. They immediately recognized it as a duck. With that, my master fired one shot. That shot was enough to stop that duck in its tracks and send it plummeting to the earth, dead before it hit the ground.

Afterward, I was told to retrieve it for him and his buddy. I then eagerly went to do so. Twelve and a half feet later, I found the bird laying on the ground in front of a tall oak. I immediately grabbed it with my razor sharp canine teeth then trotted back to the two drunk hunters. They seemed satisfied when they saw me return, the dead mallard squeezed in between my jaws. I spit it out and my master’s friend grabbed it and put it in a cooler while my master patted me on the head and congratulated me. As a reward, he gave me a bacon strip. After I sniffed the hell out of it, I happily consumed it. 

After about a half hour of playing fetch and picking bark off of trees, my eyes met a ginormous, black haired beast wandering around the forest. Since the guys were sleeping, I had to bark really loud to get their attention. As soon as they got all the sleep out of their eyes, they immediately saw the bear. They grabbed their rifles and prepared to shoot the beast.

While the two drunk sharpshooters aimed their firearms at the beast's heart, I picked up an unusual smell, and so, according to my instincts, I ran off to see where it was coming from. I must have been as quiet as a mouse, since my master and his friend didn't take their eyes off of their latest prey.

In an area surrounded by dark green bushels and long logs, I had sniffed my way in front of a leafless maple tree. There I spotted a strange ball. As a dog, I naturally had the impulse to grab it and run back to the guys.
When I returned, I noticed that they had already slaughtered the deadly bear, as its now dead body lay back-first on the ground. As soon as they turned to see me, I dropped the "ball" to the ground. Unfortunately, I saw a panicked expression on both their faces. When I looked down, I began to see why. What I thought was a ball was actually a vintage World War II grenade. For years it was never triggered; until now.

Fearing for my life, I ran as if the devil were after me. As my master and his friend called out to me to come back (indicating that they were so drunk that they they didn't think clearly), the grenade exploded. After I returned, I saw the two bodies laying on the floor. I barked in order to wake them up, a process which took about five minutes (unsuccessfully). It wasn't until the fifth minute that I saw shrapnel poking through their skin, blood pouring out the wounds. That's when I realized they were dead. With that information, I ran off.

Here ends my tale. I hope you fully understand my role in that misadventure. Again, I'm no evil human who wishes to do harm; just an innocent dog who just made a misunderstanding.


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