Note to Therapist: I Think My Dog’s in a Cult | The Absurd Files #001

Case file #001: Subject is concerned about pet's highly unusual behavior—submits note to therapist detailing strange events and cult activity of dog, Chompy. 

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Okay folks, today's case file is a real noggin stumper. Our subject's dog, Chompy, appears to be in well, a cult. You heard that right, Darn Tutin. A cult. Now, the Upy Ups here at the Shepherd Company uh want to share these rather absurd case files with the public as a sort of public service. So, uh, here we are. He only kicks ass with the proper paperwork, takes names, and files them alphabetically. He's Milton from the Department of Paradoxical Incidents, Sector G. I like to think the G stands for good at my job. Welcome to the Absurd Files, where bureaucracy meets the bizarre. It's time to get absurd. Okay, folks, here we go. Alright, let's begin. My dog Chompy has always been a quiet sword, not a barker in the slightest, and the most human eyes I've ever seen. Sometimes when we're just chilling on the couch or something, I glance over and just catch him staring at me. Chompy! I'll snap my fingers in front of him to try and break his eerie look. If I've got a plate of food, I'll even offer him a piece of chicken. Nothing. Staring and staring like I'm his dog deity, about to share the sacred pooch word or something. I don't know. But that actually brings me to my next point. He's a big chewer with a jutting underbite, hence the name. And so I'll leave him in this crate when I go out usually. He doesn't need something nasty. I don't lose socks and furniture. It's a win-win. So I leave him in this crate with his more indestructible toys he likes. Occasionally when I get home though, I'll get a feeling or hint that he hasn't been in the crate the whole time I'm out. Last month I found dirt residue on his snout and paws, but he was perfectly clean when I left him. I know because I gave him the dang bath before going out with buds that night. Weird stuff I'm saying. And just last weekend, I go out for no more than an hour to get groceries. Beforehand, I put him in the very same crate. It's got a double latching feature. The first, you lift the front gate up, put it in place closed. Then the second, you grab the pin and twist it to the side till it's in and drop the latch. Well, I get back and sure enough, the front gate part is in place, but the latch pin is out. Tricky dog. I swear on my life, I had that thing set in proper. You say, Oh man, that's a little suspicious, sure. But there could be a reasonable explanation. Okay, okay. But what about this little doozy? A few nights ago on the full moon, I'm doing your usual evening routine stuff, right? Making some tacos for den den, laying out my work clothes for the next day. Real casual schmuck stuff. Well, I like to leave Chompy out in the yard. It's fenced, and you can see most of it well enough from the kitchen sink window. No big deal. About ten minutes of him outside, and I call his name so he can eat his kibbles. No Chompy. I call louder a second time. Still no Chompy. I poke my head outside the sliding glass door, and see him kinda digging in the yard near the corner of the fence, only instead of digging up dirt and grass, it's more like he's pullin' a little pile of dirt onto something. Whatcha doing there, Chompy? I ask suspiciously, but he doesn't respond at all, just keeps at it. Come on, buddy, dinner time. I remind him while I wander over. A few steps away from him, and he stops what he's doing, looks up at me, jaw agape, tongue hanging slack out the side, and a dopey look on his face. Trots past me like nothing happened, but I'm eyeing his little dirt patches made. Padded smooth. Initially, I don't think much of it. Dogs bury bones and things sometimes, right? But something's bothering me as I lie in bed that night. The last bone I gave him took days to get through, and this one was gone in a single afternoon. And the only toys outside are a few tennis balls lying around. Restless and curious, I grab my trowel from the garage and slip out the door before Chompy can follow. Flashlight in mouth, I start scooping dirt from the smoothed-out patch in the yard. I'm nearin' a foot deep and ready to throw in the towel. Guess it's nothing then. But not three trowel fulls of dirt later, and the tip contacts something hard. I dig around it a bit more and find it's it's a bone. What did I expect, I guess? I yank the thing out, feeling somewhat let down, but it reveals the edges of a couple more bones. Ah, hit the treasure trove, huh? But pulling these next ones out reveal even more. By now I've got a small pile of the bones he likes sitting by the hole I unearthed. A few more staunchly buried bones, stuck firmly in the sides of the dirt. I poke at the edges of one, give it a few solid jabs to loosen it up, and it falls down. My expectation of its buried nature versus it falling down startles me a bit. What the hell? A small hole is now revealed in its place. Without much thought, I reach through it. I'm shoulder deep in dirt before I realize the bones aren't just buried. They're guarding something. A smooth surface, navy blue. I wrench it free. A book. My hunch was right, after all. The back is plain navy blue, and it's pretty dense page-wise, but the front is something else. Pearlescent gems line the top, and ornate text below reads, Kananomicon. Kanonomicon! The heck does that mean? Perplexed, I turn back and meander to the house, staring down at the title. As I get back to the sliding glass, I look back up, and Chompy is right on the inside, staring as he does. Hey bud, you been reading novels without me? I jest with a chuckle. Chompy wags his tail and then drops into a playbow. Not playtime now, Chompers. Betty bye time. Chompy gives a playful growl, then grabs the book in his mouth. Chompy, no! Drop it, we're not playing Tug of War. He doesn't listen. Using a bit more of my strength, I wrench it free and hold it aloft where he can't reach it. Come off it, Chompers. Come on, let's go to bed. Chompy lets out a dejected sigh and follows me up the stairs. Book in hand, I toss off my slippers and grab the sheets to tuck myself back in. Placing my reading glasses on my nose, I study the front cover once more. Then open it and flip to a random page. Hmm. There are text-like symbols in here, but nothing I'd understand without the dang Rosetta stone. I flip through a few more pages, then a few more, and I come upon a page not filled with text, but some kind of image. It's crudely painted, but I can make out what they're getting at. A giant chicken, and it's floating above a red and yellow inked fire. Surrounding it are the black figures of little dogs. Weird taste in literature you got, bud, I tease him, and he remains sitting at the opening of the bedroom door looking at me. At this point, I'm tired and I've seen all I can with the book, so I close it up, set it on my nightstand, and turn off the light. The mysterious canonomicon can wait till tomorrow. Sweet dreams, Chompas, I sleepily whisper. Then I hear him do a few circles on the carpet and plop down. Sometime later, the strong urge to pee disturbs my sleep. I stumble to the hall bathroom and flip the light switch. My eyes take a minute to adjust to the brightness, but when they finally do, my other senses have room to kick in. Is that smoke I smell? Not very strong, and no alarms going off, but I figure I better check downstairs anyways. No billowing smoke and no flames to speak of in the living room. But I notice a flicker of light coming through the kitchen window. I walk to the sink and look out back. Smoke rises beyond the fence, thick, earthy, not like a campfire. And under it, faint but unmistakable. Howling. Not distressed, but musical. Ah hell! Grabbing my sneakers by the front, I hop out the back sliding glass, stumbling as I pull them onto my feet. As I reach the back gate of the fence, I notice it's slightly ajar. The greenbelt behind the gate is puffing smoke between the masts of the evergreens, and off in the distance I start to hear some kind of melody. It's muffled and echoing, but clearly some kind of group vocalization. Some little shits having a bonfire, huh? I knew the neighbor kids were well into their teen years, but a fire in the green belt? Come on, they oughta know better. Dodging around the trees and exposed root for about a minute, I finally reach a thick wall about 50 feet wide of Arborvida, and I can feel the heat from the fire's flames poking through the tiny gaps in the hedge. Moving shapes block the light on the other side, and I go to call out, but something stops me. The shapes outlined by the light are much shorter than the teenagers I know round here. So I stop for a minute and slink to a slightly more exposed opening in the shrubbery. Crouched now, I stick my chin past some feathery branches. It's clear now that I was seeing a dog. No, two dogs. A few more dogs, but but no owners? I'm caught off guard as they begin the vocalization I heard before. Given my new perspective, it's so obvious now. It's like a howl, but pitched up and down in a shared melody with occasional harmonizations. Well now I'm sure I'm cuckoo. Yep, a big old group of doggies trot around just past the hedge, circling a monstrous bonfire. I can't believe my eyes. Believe my ears! In sequence, they hop twice on their right front leg plus left back leg, then alternate to hop twice on the opposite pair of legs with their snouts held high and howling a melody which has some energetic intent to it. Then they bow their noses down, shoving them into the doggy butt just ahead of them in the circle. And you can hear a collective inhale. It's all like some kind of ritual dance, and I'm dumbfounded. I just crouch and stare, my mouth hanging open slack, befuddled by the sight. The gathering of pooches marches on, and after the circle goes round a couple more times, a dog breaks free and saunters towards its center and in the front of the raging bonfire. From this distance and the brightness of the fire, all I can make out is its outline. The silhouetted dog slides an object across the ground and whips it open with a quick paw swipe. Pages flip up and open. Moments later, the dog begins barking in fast repetition with differing tones. Then a gurgling, growling, and some woo woo-woo type moaning. The other dogs complete one more lap, then in unison, sit and turn towards the pontificating pooch in the center. The speaker now buries its nose deeper into the pages of the book. And its box and growls begin to deepen down past its normal range. And then the single voice splits into a chorus of two overlapping, yet both coming from the same dog. Breaking through the air medium, it cracks and warbles with low frequencies and sharp sibilants, which pierces my ear. It echoes and reverberates through the ground now and vibrates my chest. My spine reacts with a shiver. What in the world is this ungodly sound? Growls, grunts, and a guttural bellow reminiscent of Tuven throat singing resound from the chanting hound with finality. And together, the rest of the hounds join in with a group howl. As the leader lifts its head high, I notice something on the profile of its jaw. An unmistakable underbite. Chompy! With frantic energy, I double-take across the dense hedge and spot a bare patch with a small opening. As I huddle my way over, the air above the fire begins to hiss, and the wind whips up into a swirl around it, blowing and bending the branches in its current. I reach the opening and race my arms in front of my face, plowing through branches and finally break through to the other side. Chompy! What the hell is going on? I yell out, hands cupped to my mouth. Chompy snaps his head with blinding speed at me and lets out a single staccato belting bark. The bark sends a shockwave of air past the ring of dogs, and I feel the pressure wave smack against my body. In an instant, six dogs rush me and snag my clothes in their teeth. Two drag out my sleeves in opposite directions. Two bite down on the front corners of my shirt and yank me to my knees. And two more latch onto the butt pockets of my pants. Miraculously, none of them manage to break my skin. I struggle against them for a second, but it's no use. Strong buggers. Hey! Chompy, what are you doing? Help me out! But Chompy simply turns to the bonfire, the flames of which are now swirling upwards into a twister with the intensifying currents of the wind. Sparks and arcs popping flare out around the air above us. The dogs not pinning me to the ground begin a new howl together, and the pitch rises and rises till it's so high it becomes white noise. And then I fail to hear it anymore. The fire and surrounding air swirl up, and then, in a split second, implode inwards to a bright point, and all the sound deafens with instancy as it does. The collapsed flame explodes out, and a blinding flash disorients me. My vision transitions from the white light burned into my retina, slowly back to the forest scene. Floating above the fire now, a great shape has spawned. It floats for a second, and my eyes regain clearer vision. Gargantuan, roasted, chicken, perfectly golden brown, and limbs twitching like it still had some flight left, but clearly cooked. Its skin crackles and splits as it twitches, steam hissing from its tenderly glistening skin, seasoned somehow with rosemary. Floating for a second longer high above, the great rotisserie glistens before descending gracefully into the furnace of the fire, and finally it stands on bony legs at the center on a stone altar. It lets out a chickeny call from nowhere, as if on cue, all the dogs, including my captors, rush the chicken. Dinner time in Dogland. Ravenous rending of roasted flesh and the snarl of dozens of gnashing jaws. Dogs with eyes of frenzy lunge at the flaming chicken as it bucks and clucks and tries to jump away with desperate drumstick thrusts. It's no use. The dogs have it surrounded. Little chihuahuas wearing ceremonial bibs, big great Danes donning chicken leg hats, Rodwilers, golden retrievers, labs, shepherds, and terriers dressed in similar garb, rip flesh and pull bone in a match struggle. Now, from the grip of the dogs, I remain kneeling, frozen and placed, shocked by the scene unfolding before me. After a minute of madness, the rotisserie chicken behemoth falls, and the pack of berserking dogs entirely covers its body now. My expression stays frozen, a thousand yards stare straight through the carnage. A few minutes go by, and the animated energy around the chicken seems to be waning. Dogs begin passing by me with great big bones and toe. Big and little doggy voices pop up here and there with the same phrase. I regain my composure and stand up, dusting my dirty knees off. I look up to find Chompy sitting right in front of me. He looks up with an innocent and dopily pleased expression, tongue hanging out to the side. Tail, wagon and wagon, with those same human eyes, and just a bit of chicken stuck in a sponder. Well shoot. I can understand what a delicious meal, for sure. But I think Champion Company maybe took this one a bit too far. That being said, I respect their commitment. Okay then after review, absurdity, confirmed. We'll get this little sucker file here. Lickety split. Now, folks, if you notice your dog joining midnight meetups, er speaking in tongues, well, give us a call here at the Shepherd Company. We got a whole containment unit for these dang gain dynamics. Alrighty, uh super. I think that about wraps it up. Well, thanks for joining us here at the Department of Paradoxical Incidents. We'll see you in the next one.