Apocalypsis 01 - Kahayatle

out how the hell we were going to make it to safety with a barking spastic poodle as part of our group.
    ***
    I had to admit.   Buster looked a hell of a lot better bald.   Or nearly so.  
    “Damn, Peter.   You cut so much off, he looks like a newborn mouse.   His skin is pink!”
    Peter shrugged, obviously unconcerned.   “His hair was matted all the way to the roots.   I tried to comb it out, but it was hurting him too much.   I figured we’d start from scratch and try to keep him brushed out.”
    I eyed him suspiciously.   “What comb did you use?”
    “The one in your bathroom.”
    “Dammit, Peter, you can’t use my comb on the dog!”
    “Why not?” he asked me, his voice all full of innocence.
    “I can’t believe I even have to explain this to you … because I use it on my hair, dummy.”
    “Your hair isn’t any cleaner than his is.”
    He had a point there.  
    “I could cut yours if you want,” he suggested.
    I pointed my finger at him threateningly.   “You stay away from me with those things.   I like my braid and I’m pretty sure I’d be ugly bald.”
    “Fine.   You should put a feather in it or some beads or something.”
    I laughed and shook my head at him.   “You are so gay.”
    Peter smiled.   “So.”
    “Hand ‘em over, Rover.   I don’t trust you not to give me a mohawk while I sleep.”   I held out my hand out for the scissors, which he willingly turned over.
    “I’m serious about the feather.   We’re going to be living off the land and learning how to do what the indians did.   You’ve got the right bone structure to do the whole beads and feather in the braids thing.”
    “Whatever you say, Peter.   I think instead of making fashion decisions for me you should start working on training that dog not to bark.”
    “Oh, he’s already been trained.   George left a list of instructions for Buster detailing all the things he can do.   Apparently, poodles are one of the smartest breeds there are - for small dogs anyway.”
    “Pfft.   I’ll believe that when I see it.”
    “Come on, Buster,” said Peter.   “Let’s go work on your skills.   We’ll show that meany wienie beanie who’s the smart one and who’s the ding-dong, won’t we?   Won’t we?”   His voice kept getting higher and higher, sending Buster into spasms of delight.   “Won’t we Buster Wuster Muster?   Colonel Mustard in the library?   With a rope with a dope?   And a board game for doggies!   Yes!   Yes!   You are a handsome boy, aren’t you?   Aren’t you?”
    “Dope is right,” I said to no one, the two of them already out of earshot.   Normally that kind of nonsense baby-talk made me crazy; but hearing it now almost made my life feel normal.   Another human being was standing in my house goo-gooing over a silly dog, like I’d seen people do a thousand times in other places.  
    I picked up George’s journal and began reading.   Within the first few sentences I was hooked.   George could tell one hell of a story.   He started out with his recruitment and detailed things he learned in basic training and then things he learned while out in the field.   He’d actually been sent overseas and had killed people, nearly dying himself of the cold and starvation before finally being wounded so badly he was sent home.  
    I went over and put his journal with the other books we’d be taking with us.   I had the absurd desire to put it in my pocket instead, but fought against the sentimental feelings.   I looked at its smooth leather cover, thinking about the man who’d taken the hours to sit down and hand-write all of that information for me, in exchange for watching out for the little guy he loved.   I sighed, knowing that Buster was now a part of my club.   Or my group.   Or maybe even my family.   I really didn’t know what we were at this point, but I knew at least that I wasn’t alone.   And it felt good.
    ***
    Peter convinced me that we could both sleep without fear of attack, now that we had Buster with us.   He said that all dogs had a natural instinct to protect their pack, and we were now part of Buster’s pack.   At the time Peter said that, I’d looked down at the fuzzy pink thing that was now defining my place in this world, and laughed.  
    Pack, my butt, I’d thought.   This is the sorriest pack I’ve ever seen - a social misfit, a seventy pound fruitcake, and a smelly pink mouse-dog.
    A few hours later, Peter and I were