Man's Least Best Friend

Here's a nice story for you. Once upon a time, a punk bitch named Gary decided to take a shopping trip in search of a companion to help alleviate his loneliness, and he decided to check out a quaint little pet store nestled away amongst a cluster of local vendors in a quiet and secluded suburban neighborhood in ancient Greece. It would be just another one of the numerous, yet defining bad decisions of his life, and as he walked into the shop, the little bell chimed charmingly to announce his arrival, and fate decided to take a break from kicking Gary in the face, simply with the goal of winding up to kick him in the face twice as hard. The man at the counter in the cheap vinyl vest stared at Gary with judgemental eyes and went back to feeding the reptiles without saying anything. It smelled peculiar, and not just like fish food and hamster cages, some far fouler stench hung in the air. As Gary made his way to the center of the store, he saw a rusty metal enclosure, upon which hung a crudely hand painted sign reading "PUPPY(s)." Gary wanted a puppy particularly. A good dog can be considered man's best friend forever. It was at the moment where Gary leaned over the cage that fate's kick connected solidly with his face.

Three-headed dog.

Contrary to the normal human reaction of "fear" when seeing such a frighteningly misshapen and clearly accursed creature, the broken and gnarled cogs in Gary's idiotic brain twisted and turned to deduce almost immediately that because this particular dog had three heads, that would simply mean that he would be receiving three times the friendship, love, and companionship that a regular, well-trained dog can bring. He brought it to the checkout counter and paid a nominal fee; apparently nobody would take this dog, and in actuality many people left the store upon seeing it. The pet shop clerk even threw in three food and water bowls as a perk for Gary's presumed charity, and a lifetime supply of dog food. Gary was pleased that he was so good for business. He named it Cerberus, though he doesn't really remember or care why anymore.

He did not for a second consider all of the other things that would be multiplied by three. Three times the food and bones for chewing. Three times the drool. Three times the simpering whining and barking. Three times the biting. Three times the amount of nice velvet slippers, chewed to bits. Three times the amount of grass vomited and redevoured on the living room floor. Three times the amount of legs mercilessly humped.

And the strangest thing about Cerberus, was that no matter how many times he naturally lived a normal dog lifespan, no matter how many neighborhood cars accidentally crushed him while being pursued, and no matter how many times Gary tried to feed him cyanide capsules wrapped in little scraps of cheese, he simply would not die. Cerberus became a regular staple around the cave, biting friends, snarling at relatives, chasing the mailman and generally making people paranoid, even around the holidays. Gary tried to warn people. He even hung several of those little "Beware of Dog" signs on his fence, but Cerberus just ate them every time, fence and all, with his insatiable goat-like appetite and bad morals.

Even the local Animal Control people didn't know what to do with Cerberus. They would try to wrangle him up with one of those metal loops attached to a pole that you tighten around the neck of the dangerous animal, but the other two heads would simply eat the loop, and the pole, and nobody ever thought to make a pole with three loops. Tranquilizer darts didn't work either because Cerberus ate those too, and also, he never slept, because that would get in the way of his incessant barking schedule. Luring him into giant cages with big lemon merangue pies didn't work either, because Cerberus was three times as smart as a regular dog, and therefore figured out that each time he should eat the open door of the cage before he ate the pie, a routine in which he showed incredible self-control for a seemingly wild animal.

No, all in all, Cerberus and Gary had a very Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote-esque relationship, with Gary trying to plant expensive and preposterous traps to capture Cerberus on a regular basis, traps that invariably failed. Cerberus could always devour or manipulate his way out of them to go ahead and further terrify the neighborhood. Gary would remedy his failures by locking his doors, ignoring the angry phone calls, and crying, a lot. Man's best friend, indeed.