Dogs Training Blog

The Dreamer of WarThe young man had dreamed of going to war, dreamed of the honorable life of going to war for his country. The young man knew he would never do it though, he wasn’t an idiot, yet he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. What if? What if he had gone to war? What if he took the chance? What if he died? Would he ever come back? What exactly would have happened? No one knows. No one will ever know; it’ll never happen, but what if? He did it anyways. After all, the love of his life was already in the army. He was assigned to the United States 501st regiment with the ink of a pen and a shaking of hands. He was in luck; he was finally going to be reunited with the one and only thing that occupied his mind.The commander gave the young man a uniform greener than the lucky two dollar bill he would keep in its front right pocket, accompanied by a gun that, in the right light, shined brighter than the sun. The young man was shipped off, he had no idea where to. When he arrived, he was greeted by a sign that read Butt—-, Egypt. He had heard of this place before, his grandfather had been sent here years before when he himself was in the army. The young man feared nothing; he had a chip on his shoulder and wanted to kill some dirty Arabs. His grandfather shouldn’t have died for nothing. As quickly as he had arrived, the young man found himself in heavy combat. His recent acquaintances that he had known as his backup were now dead. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a dark blur, several of them. It was getting closer. In a moment of panic, the young man leapt out in front of a number of bloodied enemies, whom he decided to help become even bloodier. And with a tap of the shoulder he continued to do so, except this time he wasn’t killing Arabs, he was killing a young girl around the age of twenty seven: the same girl he had loved for most of his years.It was then that he realized he never loved her, he was living a dream; a dream that he could never wake from, only acknowledge. How could he love something that never loved him and never can love him? Especially now, she could never love him back, she was dead. Stupid, he thought. He was better than that. He deserved better. There was no doubt about it, yet still she haunted the hollows of his vacant mind. He no longer loved her, he no longer cared. She was just there, always. Always in the back of his head, gnawing at the core of his flesh. His heart, his body, his mind, his soul; they all belonged to her. But she was dead, so he was free. It was all the stupid Arabs’ fault. He didn’t know what to do anymore. The circles kept spinning, the world kept turning. He didn’t know whether or not to force it, shove it down their throats; make them beg for his mercy. Make them pay. Circumstances made it hard to deal with, hard to forget. They made everything uneasy, difficult, upset. But is that not what makes some people strong? Does that not, in the end, push in favor of prosperity? Sometimes it is what’s not there that keeps us going. Sometimes there is no real motivation. Sometimes the only thing we have is all in our head. The young man was about to grow up. He pushed on.After wandering around aimlessly for what seemed to be for days, the young man stumbled upon an old training camp that looked to be promising. The faded lettering on the sign overhead declared this was a place of hope and dreams. The words “Arbeit Macht Frei” tagged along just below, whatever the hell that meant; probably just some stupid Arab language, he thought; nothing important. He started rummaging around for supplies. The promise proved to be false; all he found was a plethora of useless objects. An angelically white pillow, an old novel of some sort, and a handful of peanuts: nothing that could kill Arabs. They could, perhaps, kill time. The young man grabbed his newfound possessions, took a seat, and began to read.The book turned out to be filled with some really useful ideas, he thought. If someone had something you wanted, take it. If someone didn’t agree with you, kill them. Shoot first, ask questions later. Why didn’t he ever think of these things? The best, he thought, had to be that in the absence of properly trained attack dogs, one could replace them by genetically enhancing housecats. They were smaller than dogs, so they were harder to shoot at; they were already accustomed to having an owner and living in a house, so they were more obedient than dogs; and they always landed on all fours, dogs couldn’t do that. The idea was perfect. He closed the book and began to ponder. On the back of the cover, someone had written in black ink. He read aloud, “Beautiful thoughts run through my mind, I simply don’t know how to express them. Write it. Write it all down. I didn’t trust the computers. I kept imagining they would find it. And then, they did. Stop thinking, that’s what I should do. Sorry it’s so long, but what do you think it satires? Also, does it do a good job doing so?

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