Pet Spotlight: Bill Cameron and The Dark Poodle of the Apocalypse.

The Dark Poodle of the Apocalypse

It was in the deeps of time that the Dark Poodle of Apocalypse rose from her long slumber. Which is to say she was born in February 2001 outside the charming town of Hood River, Oregon. Little did the people of that sleepy hamlet realize the terror which was soon to emerge from their midst.

I would meet the Dark Poodle on a foray with a woman who was then my friend, though romantic inclinations were certainly in the picture. She announced she wanted a puppy, and by golly that puppy was going to a poodle.

Wait. What?

Seriously? A poodle? In my mind, I picture a creature more fuzz than flesh, with a teased bouffant the size of a tractor.

My suspicions were damped by the gleam of romance in my eyes and so we went forth into the hills northwest of Mount Hood. And there we met the Dark Poodle of the Apocalypse in her larval form. At that early stage, the depths of her mighty power was not yet fully apparent, but once we returned home her power began to assert itself. On its surface, overwhelming cuteness might seem harmless enough, but Her Royal Highness Nene, Cat of the Manor, recognized the Dark Poodle’s evil from the beginning. Through the searing power of her catly side-eye and a tail-swishing silent treatment, Nene communicated her displeasure.

Alas, the awesome spell of the Dark Poodle had already taken hold of us. Things would never be the same.

In the years hence, Her Unholiness has come to be known by many names. Dark Poodle is her title, but in the vernacular she is known as Jasmine. In the style of ancient Roman patricians, she bears a cognomen, Muffin, and can also be summoned by calling out to Doodle, or even Dipsy Doodle Poodle. Only the sturdiest of souls dares summon her thusly, for to do so is the bring down the wrath of the wiggling, and face licking, and even a leg bump with one of her multitudes of plushy victims.

There are few who can resist her terrible spell. Within moments of an encountered, most people are reduced to dribbling and fawning. Such is her power. I have long since given up trying to fight it. All I can do is accept the cold reality of my existence: I provide for her needs, and in return she sleeps on my legs while I watch Justified, or licks my face, or brings me her blue bunny.

Such is my doom.

Bill Cameron lives with his wife and a menagerie of critters in Portland, Oregon. His stories have appeared inSpinetingler, The Dunes Review, The Alsop Review. He is a member of Friends of Mystery and International Thriller Writers, and serves as Vice President of the Northwest Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. For more, head over to his site. He can also be found on Twitter.