- "Ignoring the severed heads in the closet does not make for a good relationship. It makes for an unsanitary closet and possible accessory charges."
- How to Train Your Hellhound
Callie always got the impression that Mrs Nesbit, their landlord, was vaguely upset that Nils wasn't a criminal mastermind. That did not stop her lecturing her, Nils, or anyone unlucky enough to stop for a minute that there were Rules that had to be followed. She could call the law down on any single one of them at any minute.
"Are you ready for them to inspect you, Mrs Nesbit?" said Nils innocently. "I read in the news that the police are going to start investigating the people who make too many complaints to their offices. They might confiscate your lovely pet."
Nils had long since mastered the art of false witness. Everyone in the flats knew that Mrs Nesbit's little doggy was an ill-tempered force for entropy that thought it was a re-incarnated attack dog, and everyone who wasn't Mrs Nesbit was a terrorist after the President. It also laboured under the false impression that the entire world outside of Mrs Nesbit's house was its personal toilet.
Mrs Nesbit looked alarmed for all of five seconds before she 'remembered urgent business' and took her leave. And that was how everyone on the complex was allowed to keep one (1) pet, as long as it was clean and well trained. And how Fluffles remained inside Mrs Nesbit's for his own safety and the relief of everyone else.
And that was how Nils and Callie got a hell-puppy. Most of the time, it looked like a regular, black Lab. Those who had partaken of interestingly illegal substances would swear she had glowing red eyes and more than one mouth. She came to heel for Nils without a problem and acted -well- like a little angel.
They called her Spot. And she responded just as well to Callie's cooking as Nils did. And, according to Nils, she had a very special trick. Callie, however, had to carry a pocket-full of liver treats with her to get Spot to do anything. But it still counted as 'trained' by the numerous police called in to examine the otherwise sweet little hound.
A trick that Callie finally got to see one afternoon when Mrs Nesbit was clearly picking on both him and their dog. Callie had learned to tune out her racist, sexist, xenophobic ranting, but more than a few obnoxious keywords filtered through and made her nauseated. Clearly, Mrs Nesbit hated renting to 'those types' just as much as everyone hated paying rent to her.
Nils, a picture of Buddhist-like contemplation, said, "Spot? Scary-face."
Spot's head opened up like a banana, revealing too many teeth and tentacles that also had teeth.
Mrs Nesbit fainted dead away.
"Good girl," cooed Nils, scratching Spot behind her now-completely-normal ears. "Who's a good girl? You's a good girl!"
Nobody in authority would believe Mrs Nesbit about Spot ever again. Or, for that matter, anyone living in her flats.