The Day the Attack of the Killer Dachshunds Didn't Stand Still

Mack Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Day the Attack of the Killer Dachshunds Didn’t Stand Still

“I perceive that you do not own an Afghan hound but rather a dachshund,” Holmes remarked to Doctor Watson.

“Remarkable!” exclaimed Watson. “How did you know?”

“Elementary,” replied Holmes. “I observe that your fashionable and understated Cole-Hahn loafers are missing their tassels.”

Okay, Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t really begin A Study in Scarlet quite like that, but he missed a chance to write Die Dackel von Baskervilles.

Dachshunds make a career out of chewing their humans’ possessions, eating the debris, and then throwing up all that and more on the floor: shoes, plastic water bowls, rugs, their own collars, the cat’s toys, and things that we don’t even want to think about.

What if a dachshund were to be exposed to fast-food, global-warming, and a near-fatal overdose of Glenn Beck, and transformed into something out of an old American-International film? The result could be The Day the Attack of the Killer Dachshund Piranhas Didn’t Stand Still. I am sending the first treatment to Martin Scorsese:

Mild-mannered reporter Cliff Hangar comes home after a long day at The Trout Creek World News and Empire Defender and decides to take a dip in the pool. While sloshing in the cool water he notices that the head of his dachshund Thunderbolt rises out of the water, eyes glowing an eerie green, baring his fangs. As the camera fades out we see Cliff’s horrified and distorted face as he cries “No, Thunderbolt, no! I promise – I’ll get you the really good doggie treats instead of the dollar-store brand…noooooooo…!” Later that same day, Cliff’s wife arrives home to wonder where Cliff is. Thunderbolt sits innocently on the doormat wagging his tail.

The next afternoon, Girl Scout Priscilla Ponsonby arrives at the Hangar house selling Girl Scout Hungarian Shortbread cookies. Unknown to Priscilla, Mrs. Hangar is at the police station reporting the disappearance of Mr. Hangar, and the only being to observe poor, doomed Priscilla (cue the grim harpsichord music) is Thunderbolt, his eyes beginning to glow a mysterious green.

When Mrs. Hangar arrives home with Deputy Cuffenstuff, certified peace officer and defrocked computer guru, they observe on the lawn a fragment of Girl Scout uniform and a broken box of Hungarian Shortbread Cookies. Deputy Cuffenstuff whips out a magnifying glass and a diagnostic CD. After evaluating the scene carefully he holds up the box and says “Hmmm…I think your cookies are disabled.”

“Oh, no!” exclaims Mrs. Hangar. “What are we going to do?”

“I’m going to call in Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard? But they’re in England.”

“Yes, but they now have a branch office in Buna. They specialize in cereal killers.”

“But Deputy Cuffenstuff, a box of cookies isn’t cereal.”

“Cookies contain wheat, and Girl Scout extremists are pushing whole grains on unsuspecting citizens. And notice this stray dog hair – dog fur. That’s why we need to call in a furrin detective force.”

“Oh, no!” exclaims Mrs. Hangar. “I’ve had occasion to paws – paws, get it? – lately. Something, some mysterious force, has been dogging my dreams.”

“Ma’am, you’ve got to know – I feel something terrible has been unleashed, and I’m going to sniff it out.”

“Is there a catastrophe looming?”

“No cats, but there’s a strophe here somewhere. I feel it in my Milkbones.”

“Is there anything I can do to make the fur fly?”

“Yes, if you would, please keep your ears to the ground.”

Note from Martin Scorsese: “Thanks, but I’m booked up with dog stories, so stop hounding me. But now if you could come up with a piranha barking in the nighttime, you might have something.”

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