When the aliens landed in my backyard, I was midway through a nap on the sunny patch by the window. The sudden green glow pouring through my cat door was not exactly ideal.
Neither was the saucer the size of a kiddie pool hovering over my begonias. “Great,” I thought, flicking my tail. “Another Tuesday ruined.”
A beam of light swept across the yard like it was searching for a lost wallet. It finally landed on me, and a metallic voice boomed from the ship. “Are you the leader of this… uh, territory?”
I stretched, nonchalant. “Not me,” I said, lazily pointing a paw at the doghouse. “He’s in charge.”
The beam redirected to the mutt, who was snoring loudly. A moment later, the dog woke up, saw the light, and the genius assumed it was snack time. Tongue hanging out and tail wagging like a ceiling fan, he floated into the spaceship without a second thought.
“Good luck!” I called after him, curling back into my nap spot. I figured I’d never see the lophead again.
Three days later, the saucer was back. They lowered the dog onto the lawn. It had that smug look–the one after managing to eat something forbidden–like an alien equivalent of garbage.
The ship’s voice spoke, sounding exhausted. “You’re not worth conquering. And please… keep him away from the control panels.”
The saucer zipped off into the night sky, leaving me with a slightly gassy mutt and an unexpected delivery problem. Whatever the dog told them spooked the whole galaxy.
Now, the State Department sends us crates of milk bones every Friday—”For planetary security,” they say.
I let the dog think he’s a hero, and as long as he keeps his intergalactic connections to himself, I’m okay with it.
Plus, I get first dibs on the boxes. Who knew humans made bacon-flavored ones?
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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