Picture by Eden Fox

D.A.V.E. - K9 Agents


Jacob Mangas

September 10th, 2017

Not another night goes by that I don’t think about the organization. Schemes, scandals, stolen items, all of it. Do I miss the job? Yes. My name is Biscuit, and I am an undercover agent for the D.A.V.E. What is the D.A.V.E.? It is a top secret agency dedicated to truth and justice. And I guess you could say we’re more than just man's best friend. Truth is, we’re all dogs here. And I don’t mean in a personality kind of way. I mean we’re literally dogs. While I’d love to tell you more about the organization, I can’t reveal any classified information. So all I can really tell you are stories of the past.


To be completely honest, I wasn’t the best dog ever. In my younger times, I’d occasionally crap on a rug or tear up a pillow. After I went through D.A.V.E. interrogation, that all changed. I realized I had more to my life than I’d ever thought fathomable. This is my story. This is the story of how I hunted down the most scandalous villain of my time and destroyed my career at the same time.


MopHead. At least that’s what people called him. His actual name was Bentley Schwartz. But in reality, he did look like the head of a mop. Which is where he got his gang name. Now our background knowledge and government records told us that MopHead was a tailor’s dog at a high-paying place. However, I had a gut feeling that there was more to that place than the D.A.V.E. actually thought, so I requested to take the assignment of our latest case about MopHead. I was accepted and told to arrest and retrieve MopHead and bring him back to headquarters. This was the start of something bigger.


It was somewhere around 1:20 in the morning when I received a call. I thought it was quite strange to be receiving a call so early. I figured the D.A.V.E. had discovered new evidence that was important. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone. To my surprise, it wasn’t the D.A.V.E., but it wasn’t completely unrelated either. It was MopHead himself. He said to me, “So, Biscuit, according to my sources, you’re the new agent on my case, and from what I understand, you’re a good one.” I replied in astonishment, “Your gratitude surprises me. But what I don’t understand is why you would be congratulating the agent investigating you. And calling me directly? Surely you must know I’ve already traced your number’s location.” MopHead then gave me a slight laugh. He then said, “Well then you’d better check those results as soon as you get them. Because I guarantee I’ll make you want to negotiate.” I looked down at the computer and watched in horror as the address appeared on the screen to me. It said “NUMBER 628-193-1739: TRACE ADDRESS IDENTIFIES AS: 826 CHEW TOY AVE.”


Now if that was any other address, I might have been handling myself well. But that address was the address of someone I had some particular feelings for. It was the home of the wonderful actress, Doggolina. And while this was all happening—I didn’t notice until almost last minute—out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. It was a German Shepherd’s head. With a rifle pointed directly at mine. I heard the phone hang up and I ducked under the desk and I heard the shot fire. I knew I had to get out quick, and I’d have to lay low for a while. It wasn’t safe for me to stay in my household any longer. I decided to go see an old friend of mine. Someone I met in a Vegas casino. His name was Lenny.


Now I’d known Lenny for quite some time now. He was the one who gave me my first cigarette. Of course I hated it, but he smoked them anyway even though they could be fatal to canines. I met Lenny while playing poker at a bar, down CatScratch Alley. During that game, I thought I saw someone pass him an Ace under the table, and I called him out for it. He just gave me a smug look and held up the card. It turns out it was just a letter from one of his colleagues. After the game I apologized and offered him a drink. Ever since then, we’d been friends with little conflict. But he was growing old despite his stubborn mind. I was worried that when I knocked on the door, he wouldn’t remember me. Last his wife told me, he was having trouble with a certain form of Alzheimer’s disease that only affected dogs. But to my surprise when I knocked on the door, he welcomed me in and said, “WEEEELLLL IF IT ISN'T OLD BONE SMOKER!?” I could always count on him to call me that. Since my name was Biscuit, he of course took it as an opportunity to call me a nickname every time. “What can I do for you, you old fart,” he said with a grin as wide as a 40-gallon fish tank on his face. I replied in a rather serious tone, “I need a place to lay low.” He looked at me, wide-eyed with curiosity. Then he said, “What, are you in trouble with the D.A.V.E. or something?” To which I replied, “No; in fact, it’s the business I’m doing for them that brings me here.” He looked at me with a look of surprise and seriousness I’ve never seen from him ever before. He said, “Well if it’s absolutely that serious you have every right to stay here for a while.” “Thanks,” I said, relieved he understood.


The next day wasn’t looking too promising. It was early afternoon when a TV report from Bones 4 News said that the Doggolina estate had been found completely empty. No one home. And many valuables taken. I knew I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing, so I set off to visit the estate. When I got there, police were everywhere. I ducked under the gate and proceeded into the building. I didn’t find much that night, except for a few clues that might give me a place to start with this whole scandal. I found two rings. One that seemed to belong to Doggolina. The other had engravings I’d never seen before. It looked like some kind of secret language. I couldn’t be too sure, but I knew I could probably have the D.A.V.E. get DNA samples off of both of them. While uneventful, that night would prove to be very useful. After the D.A.V.E. gave me the results back, I was startled to find that the Doggolina style ring had only one sampling of DNA, which appeared to belong to MopHead. The even stranger thing that puzzled me was why the other ring, with the code or language, seemed to have Doggolina’s DNA on it. I took a bite out of a biscuit and crumbs littered onto the papers. I needed time—of which I knew I had very little.