K-10

If I were a betting dog, I'd wager you've never heard of a K-10? The next step in the evolution of my parent K-9 species. Now before you think I'm a robot, or some genetically engineered designer doggie from some sci-fi breeder, hold your cats (you humans would use the word horses, but I like cats). My name is Ajax and I am a K-10! I don't know how I happened, I just happened.

From the time I was born the sixth in a litter of seven pups and immediately understood the importance of pushing your way to the teat to get to the life sustaining milk I knew I was different. Hey, I knew that the others were my siblings, but nourishment trumps brotherly love when you can't even see yet because your eyes won't open for another two weeks.

Now as the teller of this story you must bear with me, for though I can think and reason, tense isn't my strong suit, so as I recount this tale you may find my narrative switching from past tense to present tense to something in between (is there something in between past and present tense? And where does future tense fit in), but remember... I'm a DOG!

A special dog to be sure, I may look like a chocolate labradoodle, with killer brown eyes, that can make any bitch go into spontaneous heat, but I can figure things out, like any human. As a matter of fact I'm usually able to think rings around my human master: Trip Ariadne (yeah, from the Greek story about the thread).

Of course no one with a name like Ariadne had Trip as his proper name, but given the boy's free spirit and downright bouncy way of being, the name: Theopolis, ill suited him. Trip also brought new dimensions to the word: KLUTZ, so his nickname fit perfectly.

He was a good master. Of course one trait I had kept with my K-9 brethren predecessors was the philosophy in reference to "good masters." If they praise easily, scold rarely. and always have treats at the avail... They are GOOD MASTERS.

We lived a mundane, pedestrian life in our small town of Shipper's Cove, on the Southern coast of Oregon. Trip relentlessly skating his way through High School with grades that would make me blush were I allowed the expansion of my mind that would come with a formal education. Trip was a classic underachiever. Cleverly smart, but no genius, he still could've made better grades than most of his schoolmates, if he only applied himself. If only he put learning on the forefront of his thinking like say, pizza and video game playing most often were.

From everything I'd read (and yes I can read, a habit I picked up as a pup listening to Katie, Trip's mom, read stories to his little sister Kylie. Poor Mom never quite understood WHY I always stationed myself behind her, straddling the back support of the sofa so that I could not only hear what she read, but could follow along with the words on the printed page) it was merely a matter of adjusting Trip's priorities. Many a slice of pizza I scarfed down to keep him from reveling too much. I can't count the number of times I used my nose to push a book he was assigned to read towards him, or out and out brought him a page of an unfinished homework assignment in my mouth (being careful to NOT get drool on the ink, runny ink would be just another excuse for him NOT to finish it).

I was happy caring for my young master, his WAY too handsy little sister, and Mom, until the day our lives changed. The day I encountered another of my new breed. And I don't mean another bitch magnet chocolate labradoodle, but another K-10!

Lobo was a K-10, that I could instantly communicate telepathically with, a huge French Mastiff with a severe slobbering issue, but my dear K-10 brother had been and was being... Abused.

Trip and I had made an unscheduled stop at a Farmer's Market on the other side of town to get some fresh veggies for Mom (she really liked it when Kylie "helped" her toss a fresh salad, even though a good portion of it ended up on the floor). It was there, as I sniffed around, checking my pee mail deposited by K-9's all around the marketplace, that I first saw Lobo... Heard him really.

I don't know what she wants of me. Everything I do seems to be another excuse for her to hit me. I'm so tired of being hit, and thrown outside all night, or tied to a stake in the heat of the day. She doesn't enjoy making me suffer, but she is always in so much pain herself. Lobo thought to himself, thinking those thoughts were private.

Are you alright? What can I do to help? I thought to him in response.

Lobo looked as shocked as such an expression could show on the stoic, wrinkled face of a French Mastiff.

Who is that? he thought to me.

Over here! The chocolate labradoodle with the tall, lanky, blonde boy master.

Trip took that moment to run into and knock down a display of tomatoes at the booth he had gotten too near, and I had been too preoccupied to shield him from.

The clumsy one? Lobo thought, looking at Trip from head to toe.

That's my boy!

How can I hear you in my head?

Not sure yet, but you must've figured out by now that you are no ordinary dog.

Yes. I don't see other dogs as depressed as I always am, because they can't seem to reason that it should be any other way.

But, you do, don't you? I'm Ajax, or powerful eagle. And the destroyer of displays over there is Trip my proud Greek owner.

I'm...

The air was cut with the screech of a very angry young woman's voice.

“LOBO! You idiot! What do you think you're doing? Leave that other dog alone!” she said as she switched him with the slack in Lobo's leash, on a spot on his back that already seemed to have a fresh cut.

My lead, as always, was much more lax and I had stretched the expanse of its extent as I communicated with Lobo, getting very close to him.

Lobo! Are you okay? I asked.

It stings. You get used to it.

But you shouldn't have to get used to it, my brother.

It's all I've ever known, Ajax. Is there another way of being?

At that, Lobo was yanked away by a young woman whose muscular biceps made Trip's arms seem all the more thin and inadequate in comparison.

Where do you live? I communicated quickly. Like a burst, a mental picture of a map of the neighborhood surrounding the Farmer's Market appeared in my head clear as crystal. Don't worry, Lobo. I'll find you.

Lobo looked back at me forlornly, and was given another whip of the leash across that sore spot on his back for his perceived insolence.

I felt so horrible. I pulled at my leash. Trip pulled back as a farmer yelled at him. That was when I turned my attention back to my young, well meaning, but oh so ungainly master and sent a distinct protection growl in the direction of this old guy in the coveralls. The farmer noticed and deescalated his demeanor quickly.

I knew I would have to get Trip to take me back to that Farmers Market. It dawned on me that I would have to destroy every vegetable in the house to get us low on them again after today's shopping, but I would do it. Every veggie I could get my paws on MUST DIE!

Once Trip got me back to the Farmers Market it was up to my sense of smell, after I checked my pee mail of course. My K-9 tracking skills (and yes I kept them, they were even somewhat enhanced because I knew what I was sniffing FOR) helped me track Lobo to a small ranch style house about ten blocks from where I had met him. I must admit the map that Lobo had put in my head that day helped too, and Trip was a good sport to take me on this LONG unscheduled walk with two sacks of assorted vegetables in his arms.

Lobo's master was Aubrey Janes, a background check I did online with the use of Mom's American Express card (sorry, Mom, but it was the one she owed the most on and would never notice one extra charge) revealed that she had been a soldier, and had fought bravely and often in Afghanistan. Lobo was issued to her as her emotional support dog to help with the post traumatic stress disorder she had come back stateside suffering from.

Even though I understood and sympathized with the plight of Sgt. Janes, I was more concerned with a K-10 that aced all his support dog training courses, because of what he was, but that now was serving as a surrogate for all of Janes' rage issues.

I had to do something, but I was limited. I needed a human, but my human wasn't quite up to the task... Or so I thought.

It was a dreary, rainy weekend as Trip played his game in the family room on a TV screen big enough for me to sleep on were it laying flat against the floor. I was feeling particularly blue (even though I was chocolate brown, and—as a dog—I was colorblind and couldn't tell the difference anyway) about not being able to help Lobo. If only I could communicate with Trip the same way I could with Lobo. I could explain what was going on. I know he would help. My boy had a good heart to go with those two left feet.

Wait a minute! I had never tried to think AT Trip, a concentrated attempt. I screwed up my determination and thought a word at my young master: Trip! Again and again. Trip! Trip!! TRIP!!! And finally...

“Ajax! Shut-up, I'm about to beat the 17^th level!”

That was when he froze as his controller dropped from his hands just as quickly as his lower jaw dropped, leaving his mouth agape.

“Ajax?” he said as he turned to me.

Yes, Trip. It's me! I should've tried this a long time ago, but I never even knew I could do it with one of my own kind until just recently.

“One of your own kind? Then you're not really a dog? Are you an alien?”

No, Trip.

“Are you gonna suck out my brain and leave me like Uncle Roger after his stroke?”

No, Trip.

“Are you a poltergeist inhabiting the body of my dog?”

This kid had some imagination, I made a mental note to try to get him to take a creative writing course in the next semester. NO, Trip! Now will you please calm down and listen to me?

I grabbed the controller in my mouth and gave it to Trip so he could play while he listened (after all he was on the 17^th level and before this soggy Saturday he'd never made it past the 15^th). It seemed to calm him. I explained about K-10s. How I was one. How Lobo was one. What was happening to Lobo. I tried to be slow and gentle with my delivery so as not to inundate him.

Trip paused the game and put down the controller as he turned to look at me.

“You mean that big, drooling mutt at the Farmers Market a few weeks back? I remember the way you two were staring at each other. No butt sniffing, just staring. I would've noticed more if I hadn't been getting my head handed to me by that old fart about the tomato display disaster.”

Yes, gravity has that effect on tomatoes.

“Wow. I got me a sarcastic dog.”

With your grades and lack of effort, sarcasm is the only thing that's kept me sane!

“Hey! Remember who feeds you, makes sure you get all your shots?!”

I wouldn't remind me about the shots! I growled, low, just a bit, for affect.

“Keep your teeth in your mouth, big boy! It's not like I don't try.”

Not near enough and you know it.

The look on Trip's face told me without thoughts or words that he knew I was right, and in that moment I loved him more than ever for that honest realization. It was going to be different now, but this bond we shared, that was always there was sure to grow with this newfound ability to communicate.

I could see the wheels turning in Trip's head, ever the pragmatist he got back to the root of the situation.

“Okay, but how do we help, Lobo. I'm just a kid, and you're a... You're a... Well, they're less likely to listen to you. Uuuuuh... Can other people hear you?”

I'm surprised you can at the moment. The short answer is I'm not sure. But as a K-10...

“You really like calling yourself that, huh?”

What's wrong with it?! I was trying very hard not to seem as defensive as I felt.

“Nothing."

Trip had always been a lousy liar, but I appreciated the effort.

"So, again, how do we help Lobo?” Trip said, earnestly.

I've done some background checking on the sergeant, but I'll need you.

"Uuuuuuh... How?" Trip gulped, uneasily.

Don't worry, it's not like you'll have to bite somebody or anything like that. But you see... I can't call Maj. Rachel Henson, the psychologist treating Sgt. Janes, anonymously. But you can.

I could almost see the light bulb forming over Trip's head, as he started making loud guttural sounds to deepen his voice for the impending call (I already had the phone number committed to memory). He was a good boy, and he was my boy.

The call, ever so brief and rather stumbling, had the desired effect. Lobo was removed from the care of Sgt. Aubrey Janes. Trying to place him with another wounded warrior didn't pan out and Trip and I learned (quite by accident) Lobo had been tossed aside and placed in that doggie death camp known to you humans as the local pound.

Trip, with me at his side, happened to be doing a bit of community service at said euthanasia facility (mostly so I could scout for more K-10's among the inmates) when Lobo was brought in, thinking that his life was over. He had no idea that after Trip and I adopted him that those thoughts were far from true.

The three of us, Trip, Lobo and I, spent many years seeking out and finding more K-10's around our town and eventually around the country. It wasn't the beginning of the end, but it was definitely the end of the beginning! Okay, so I ended it on a cliché to tantalize you for more stories ahead, but, hey, I'm a DOG!