This officer in the Federal Police lived in a port city on the Gulf of Mexico, and that was where he had his storehouse. They attacked the storehouse. The officer had been put in charge of all the confiscated drugs, and he often went out on busts himself. He had commandeered the best drug dog in the force, a member of a true super-elite, essentially turning her into his own private dog; no one tried to stop him. He would take her to airports and up to the border and have her sniff out only the purest drugs, which he would seize. It would have been hard to find a worse instance of a man abusing the authority of his position. And once he had the drugs, he would sell them back at very steep prices to the Colombians. “You go too far,” the Hellhound told him. “You’re too bad.” He punched him, kicked him (with his torpedo St. Bernard Kick), put him in his mighty Dog-Hold. He got all the information he needed and then, just like that, had his bodyguard kill him. They cleaned out every last packet of shit in the storehouse. They’d brought a four-ton truck for that purpose. No one interfered as they carted the stuff out, but there was this dog barking its head off. A Labrador retriever. A bitch. The officer’s drug dog. “Well, look what we have here,” the Hellhound said. “Want me to shut her up, Boss?” the Samoan asked. “No, no, no. You should never kill unless you have to, not when it’s a dog. Besides, this bitch is the force’s number one drug dog, right? The one everyone talks about? She’ll come in handy. She can sniff our shit, tell us how good it is.” “Nice thinking, Boss. Very nice.”
So they ended up taking the Labrador retriever.
And where did they take her? To the twentieth parallel north. To the estate in Mexico City. And there you were. It was December 1974, when your master brought her in and introduced her to you, Cabron. “Hey there, boy,” he said, beaming. “Look who’s come to visit. The best perro policia in all of Mexico.” What did you feel then? Nothing, at first. You weren’t hot for her then, it wasn’t the season, and besides you had all the bitches you could want. So you just glanced at her and thought, HMM? A NEW FACE? The fact was, she was a very beautiful dog. A purebred Labrador retriever, only two years old, with an iridescent, jet black coat and a nice muscular ass. Before long, Cabron, you would be creeping around, whining up a storm, pining with desire for that ass—but for now, you barely noticed her. A NEW BLACK FACE? you thought, and that was it. You watched as your master tested her, had her sniff a bunch of drugs and pick out the heroin, cocaine, crack, marijuana, speed, and all kinds of other shit, and tell him how pure they were. WHAT KIND OF TRICK IS THAT? you wondered. Two days later, though, the situation changed. All of a sudden, things were different. The Hellhound was in a fight with a Colombian cartel. That business with the officer had deprived the cartel of one of its transport routes, and they were pissed. A gang of South American hit men turned up in Mexico. Your master realized right away what was up. He said, “This isn’t good.” “Sure isn’t,” replied the Samoan.
“We’re at war.”
In next to no time, the estate in Mexico City was transformed into a fortress. Preparations were made so that when the hit men came for the Hellhound, they’d be ready. And you, Cabron, were holed up in the fortress with your master. You held the fort together. Your master, by the way, had had to give up on his wrestling for the time being. This meant you no longer had the pleasure of traveling from one arena to the next, going from city to city, growling and glaring at your master’s trading partners. You no longer even got taken out for walks. Someone might kidnap you and use you to get at your master. You were your master’s alter ego, so if he was going to be stuck in one place for a few months, so would you. There was a difference, though, because while your master could always bring in women from outside to satisfy his sexual urges, you didn’t have that option. No matter how horny you got. And you got very horny. You were frustrated, the frustration built up, until you wanted to explode. You noticed that bitch in the fort. That drug dog, the Labrador retriever with the firm round butt. But she gave you the cold shoulder. You, Cabron, were supposed to be a lady-killer, and yet she was ignoring you. You put the moves on her, turned on the charm, to no avail. It was worse than that: she used her police-dog training to tell you to go to hell. Buzz off, mutt! She knew how to fight—in fact, she was at least as good as your master, with his surefire moves like the Top-of-the-Head-Dog-Bite. You’d yelp and retreat, instantly. But you were still horny. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? C’MON, you pleaded. LET ME DO YOU. Again and again, you pleaded. I WON’T SPLIT AS SOON AS WE DO IT, I PROMISE, I WANT TO HAVE KIDS WITH YOU, I WANT TO MAKE YOU MY WIFE!
Uuuuuuurrrr… wooooof! you barked sadly.
It was love. Melodrama. What’s up, Cabron? your master asked, laughing. Can’t get her in bed? What the hell happened to you, stud? He didn’t even try to help. So what did you do? You followed her around, trying to make her like you. You groped for a solution to the problem. You tried hard to seem interested in the things that interested her. You didn’t see the point, but you tried. OKAY, I’LL LEARN TO DO THE SAME TRICKS!
There in that closed fortress, you poured all your energy into realizing a dream. You were absolutely determined to have sex with that bitch.
Three months later, your master was staring wide-eyed, calling his bodyguard over. “Hey! Look at that! Just look!” “What’s up, Boss?… Huh? Wait a sec, he’s… isn’t he?” “I know! It’s incredible! Cabron actually found the marijuana—just look at him, scratching the bag like that with his paws!” “Like a real police dog, huh?” “Seriously.” “He can tell the difference… that it’s not cocaine.” “Wow.” “That’s that trick magazine with the drugs in it, right? And he found them with no problem!” “Wow, he’s totally turned—” “Into a drug dog.”
Ah, the power of love. Love had helped you memorize the scents of different drugs. You taught yourself, and you made it to the more advanced stages. You could differentiate among various levels of purity, to a limited extent. Generally speaking, in order to be employed as a professional by the police or any other organization, a dog had to have started specialized training between its fourth and seventh months. Once you got to be an adult, it was too late. So the trainers said. But you proved them wrong. You, Cabron, had pulled off the impossible. It was quite a trick. All on account of love. Finally even the Labrador retriever was moved by your attentions and stopped snubbing you.