How To Train Your Dog

This Is Berk

This is Berk.

It's twelve days north of hopeless and a few degrees south of freezing to death. It's located solidly on the Meridian of Misery. It's a village in the middle of the mountains here, where the goats and sheep roam almost free and the fog gathers over the ground every evening. The village is big, with a population of pretty much over a thousand people. It's nighttime, when the lights are out and the moon is round. It's peaceful. Kind of nice. I'm asleep, too, dreaming of nice things like warmth and peace and anywhere but this place.

My village. In a word? Sturdy. It's been here for seven generations but every single building is new. You can tell. The stables, the blacksmith's where I work, and every single one of the houses has got brand new tiles and walls and shingles on the roofs. I wake up. I don't really know what's woken me up at first, but then I hear it. The rustling of leaves. The alarmed bleating of the sheep and goats. And the distant, rhythmic pounding of countless paws.

We have fishing, hunting, and a charming view of the sunsets . . .

. . . the only problems are the pests.

I jump up and get dressed hurriedly, heart pounding, eyes wide. They're here.

Y'see, most places have mice, or mosquitos . . .

I race down the stairs.

. . . we have . . .

I open the door to see fleeing livestock and people in the night, shouting alarms and carrying torches and running away from something. Then I see it. A dark, hulking shape, bounding after them. I see a gleam of dripping white fangs, bared in the sinking moonlight. I slam the door shut before it can see me and demolish my house.

. . . wild dogs.

The scene outside is one of complete lunacy. People running, torches waving, weapons flashing, animals screaming in terror as giant beasts rip them apart. Chaos, right? Most people would leave. Not us. We're Vikings. We have stubbornness issues.

I dash out the door, making sure it's closed tight, and charge down the steps. It's freezing, but the blood and adrenaline surging through my veins fights it off. Snarls and barks fill the air, along with the clanging of weapons and yells of the warriors fighting them off. The fight all around me is as terrifying as it is exhilarating. Any second, a dog could target me, run me down, and tear my throat out. But there's something about a battle that makes you feel alive. It's a sickening, horrid form of feeling alive, too.

My name's Hiccup.

Great name, I know. But, it's not the worst. Parents believe a hideous name will frighten off gnomes and trolls.

A bulldog hounding a group of warriors barrels by, and Hoark, a friend of the chief's, almost lands on top of me. He roars in my face, yells a grim, "Mornin'!" and takes off again.

Like our charming Viking demeanor wouldn't do that.

I run as fast as I can – which isn't very fast, actually – up the wood walkway that winds up the mountain. As I pass, adults that know me well (too well) do a double take at the sight of me, too busy fending off the dogs and saving what livestock they can to stop. They yell at me. "What're you doin' here?" and "Get inside!" and "Hiccup, get back inside!" meet my ears. I ignore it. They do it all the time anyway.

I run into one of the streets, and see too late that a dog – I can't really see what breed – is lumbering towards me. Before I can move, though, a huge hand grabs the back of my shirt and drags me out of the way with an angry "Hiccup!"

Before I have time to be even a little grateful, I hear the voice I've been dreading ask someone passing by: "What is he doin' out agai- What're you doin' out?" I don't think he realizes he's completely holding me off the ground. He shoves me toward the wooden walkway, making me stumble, yelling, "Get inside!"

That's Stoick the Vast, chief of the tribe. He's true to his name; very vast, with a thick knotted beard of fiery red hair, arms as thick as tree trunks, and green eyes that seem to stare into your soul and mock you for not being him, the perfect Viking. They say when he was a baby he popped a dog's head clean off of its shoulders. He picks up a wooden lawn chair and, with an angry grunt, hurls it at a passing dog. It shatters against its hide, followed by a pained yelp.

Do I believe it?

Yes I do.

He turns to one of his men and says calmly, "What've we got?"

"Bulldogs, poodles, greyhounds, oh, and Hoark saw a golden retriever!" the man answers, much more frantic than the chief.

Stoick lowers his voice, as though to avoid calling phantoms forth by just their name. "Any of those kind?" he asks.

"None so far."

A piece of flaming shrapnel, probably alit by a torch or something, lands on his shoulder plate. He brushes it off with his bare hand, muttering, "Good."

I've been watching him the whole time. I can't help but look in awe at his casualness and . . . well, Viking-ness. But now I've gotta run. I see some dogs and warriors headed my way, and man, I do not want to be caught in the crossfire.

I run past barrels full of fire, wire fences, and rope tripwires, all used to trap or, hopefully, kill dogs. The dogs are unfazed by fire, and they smash right through anything we throw at them. They ignore the weapons and shield piercing and banging against their hides. They're tough. We have to be tougher.

I slow down as I approach a low-ceilinged building. The walls are open to customers and visitors, though understandably we have none right now. Weapons like swords, spears, axes, hammers, maces, and bows are strung about the benches and floor and hang on the walls in neat lines. A balding man hunches over his work at the anvil, sweating despite the nighttime cold. He's missing an arm and a leg and all sorts of things replace them at any given time. Right now, a heavy hammer is screwed into the end of the arm stump. He looks up, sees me, and calls jokingly, "Oh, nice of you to join the party! I thought you'd been carried off."

I fasten my blacksmithing apron on as I reply, "No, me? Nah, come on, I'm waaay-" I say this as I struggle to put a hammer head on its peg. Oh, irony. "-too muscular for their tastes. They wouldn't know what to do with all . . . this." I flex my nonexistent biceps.

He grins, unfastening his hammer and replacing it with a hook. "Well, they need toothpicks, don't they?"

The meathead with attitude and interchangeable hands is Gobber. I've been his apprentice every since I was little.

Well . . . littler.

I exchange some weapons for some Vikings at the window. Outside, I can hear Stoick yelling, "We'll move to the lower defenses! We'll counterattack with the catapults!" at his men. Then I hear pounding feet on wood, and a crash as a dog smashes through a building. They do that a lot. See? Old village, lots and lots of new buildings.

"Fire!" someone shouts. One of the houses must be alight.

I glance outside as I hear a girl's voice yell, "All right, let's go!" I see five figures run past with a water barrel and watch them hungrily. Oh, and that's Fishlegs (a chubby know-it-all), Snotlout (my ass of a cousin), the twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut (brother and sister that hate each other), and . . .

The last figure empties a bucket of water on the burning house and turns away just as it explodes – there must've been something explode-able in there or something. The fire erupts behind her, bathing her in orange-yellow glow.

. . . Astrid.

Wow, I mean . . . just wow. You can't really get any prettier than Astrid. She's . . . perfect. And she looks a lot better with the fire behind her and walking like she's completely in control. Plus, she's surrounded by four grimacing mud-streaked teens that could really use a bath.

They run past my window again, in the opposite direction this time. Oh, their job is so much cooler. They get to actually be out there, while I'm-

A set of tongs latches onto the back of my shirt and carries me away from the window, back to the interior of the shop. "Oh, come on, let me out, please. I need to make my mark!"

Gobber sets me down and gives me a prod with his tong-hand . . . thing. "Oh, you've made plenty of marks. All in the wrong places!"

"Please, two minutes. I'll kill a dog, my life will get infinitely better- I might even get a date!" I know it's pointless to argue because we've been having this argument a lot, but I can't help it. What was so wrong with one chance?

He gives me this look, like he thinks I'm crazy. "You can't lift a hammer, you can't swing an axe- you can't even throw one of these!" He holds up a rope with iron attached to the ends. Outside, someone snatches it out of his hand and hurls it at a passing bulldog. It tangles its legs up and it crashes to the ground, snarling.

"Okay, fine, but this-" I back up and pat my amazingly awesome invention in the back of the shop, "-will throw it for me-"

With a rusty squeal, the machine springs to life and tosses a bola at Gobber. He leans out of the way and it hits a customer in the head. The guy teeters over backwards, eyes crossed. Oops.

Gobber turns and advances on me. "See? Now this right here is what I'm talking about!"

I start mumbling. I stutter sometimes. "-mild calibration issues-"

"No, Hiccup," he says firmly, cutting me off. "If you ever want to get out there, fight dogs, you need to stop all . . . this." He gestures to me.

"You just gestured to all of me!" I say indignantly.

His eyes light up, like I've just said something brilliant. "Yes, that's it! Stop being all of you!"

I narrow my eyes at him and start nodding knowingly. "Oh-"

He imitates me. Like always. "Ooooh, yeah!"

I'm weird like this. Whenever someone insults me and I can't fight back, the snarky just comes out of nowhere. "You- you sir are playing a dangerous game- keeping this much raw Viking-ness contained- there will be consequences!" I proclaim, waving my finger in his face.

"I'll take my chances," he deadpans dryly. "Sword. Sharpened. Now." He turns and tosses me a rusty, chipped broadsword. I just barely manage to catch it with both arms. I handle it carefully, even though not even a drunk and stupid Viking could cut himself on these dull edges.

One day I'll get out there. It's not like they can stop me every day. Hey, maybe it'll be today. I just need one lousy chance, that's all. Because killing a dog is everything around here.

Even as I'm sharpening the sword and it makes all kinds of noise, I can still hear and see everything going on outside. I see a pack of poodles ransacking a sheep pen. Now, a poodle head is sure to get me at least noticed. Those tufts of hair on their heads and legs and back aren't just for show- they're actually tufts of razor-sharp quills that they can launch at will. They're incredibly balanced and almost graceful, like birds.

Further down I hear deep raspy snarling. Some bulldogs must be raiding the fish stores. Bulldogs are tough. Taking down one of those would definitely get me a girlfriend. Their skin is like armor. Tough and very hard to pierce with anything. They have thick, short muzzles that will not let go once they've got a hold of you and short stubby legs. I watch as one pulls a fish pole right out of the ground.

I see a cloud of grey fog around some houses, and know what's there. Greyhounds? Exotic. Two heads, twice the status. Yes, two heads. Both are independent. They have very long necks, like snakes, that are incredibly flexible, and they use it to their advantage. They emit fog from their skin. They are definitely the weirdest dogs out there.

Movement catches my eye on the catapults. They're in charge of firing rocks and nets at the dogs on the ground. Stoick the Vast is up there with his second-in-commands. "They've found the sheep!" one shouts.

"Concentrate fire over the lower bank!" Stoick shouts back, and they turn the catapult about. They fire at something in the distance, and I watch as a vicious poodle turns into a bloody mess in the dirt.

Then, there's the golden retriever. Only the best Vikings go after those. They have this . . . nasty habit of knowing who's in command. And attacking them.

Oh, and climbing things.

I watch as one bursts through the wooden walkway winding up the catapult Stoick is on. He looks down at it disdainfully, muttering something, and then he casually hits the most vicious dog ever on the snout with his hammer. It growls and snaps at him- then suddenly dives off the platform and starts running.

In fact, all of the dogs are running, or crouching, or taking cover. My eyes widen in anticipation and I stick my head outside, looking everywhere. The men freeze, and start panicking.

And then we hear it.

The low, smooth growl; quiet, yet it rises above all other sound and is heard by all. It builds and grows louder into a wailing howl as the beast comes closer. Underneath it all is the sound of thudding paws, going at a speed no other dog can match.

The ultimate prize is the dog no one's ever seen.

The howling is deafening now.

We call it the-

"PIT BULL!"

"GET DOWN!"

And then with a boom, something barrels through the base of the catapult, and wood goes flying like an explosion hit it. Quick as a shadow, it darts back into the darkness of the forest, and all anyone can see is a black blur.

"JUMP!" Stoick yells as the catapult begins to crumple into a mass of wood and metal.

This thing never steals food, never shows itself, and-

With another boom, the remains of the catapult explode as the dog smashes through it again. It disappears into the trees as the catapult disintegrates and falls apart.

-never misses.

I watch all this with wide eyes from my window. No one has ever killed a pit bull. That's why I'm gonna be the first. Ambitious, I know. Why would I succeed where others have failed? Because I've got that bola launcher, and it'll catch that dog for me.

What makes a pit bull so dangerous, you ask? Well, besides the fact that no one has seen it, it's rumored to be the biggest, ugliest, meanest dog to have ever lived. They say one look at its nightmare face will kill you instantly. They say its red eyes paralyze you as it mauls you to death. Aside from rumors, it can smash through literally anything, and it's responsible for most of our buildings being gone. For other dogs, it takes a while to completely demolish a house. For the pit bull, all it takes is one hit. It's the fastest dog alive.

I walk back into the shop. Gobber's detaching his tongs and replacing them with a battle axe. "Man the fort, Hiccup," he says. "They need me out there."

He almost walks outside, then turns back to me with his finger pointed at me. "Stay. Put . . . there."

I try to look as innocent as possible.

"Y'know what I mean. HYAAAAAAH!" he yells, running out into the fray.

Right. Like I'm staying here.

A minute later I'm running my bola launcher through the village, dodging warriors and dead sheep and goats and the occasional dead dog. People wanting their weapons exchanged yell at me, but I just yell, "Be right back!" over my shoulder and keep going. I run by some poodles surrounding a group of sheep, but suddenly Stoick the Vast appears and hurls a net over them with an angry grunt. They try to chew through the net, but Stoick throws himself onto one of their gnashing jaws, clamping it shut and yelling, "Mind yourself! The devils still have some juice in 'em!" I make sure to swerve away from them so he won't see me. No doubt he'd try to stop me if he saw me.

All of the dogs are fighting the other warriors, so I run by relatively unnoticed. I run to a cliff at the edge of the village near the demolished catapult. I set up the bola launcher quickly . . . and I wait for my target.

I scan the woods for a moving shadow. It's dark and the trees are rustling, and I don't know what's a dog or what's the wind. The din is behind me, and it's relatively quiet here.

Which is why I can hear it.

Low snarls and growls creep from the woods, along with faint twigs snapping, and you can tell it's just one animal making them. They have a unique quality to them, a raspy shrieking sound that's different from all the other dogs. I've memorized the sounds of the different species because they raid us so often, and now I can tell the difference between a poodle's cries and a retriever's.

I spot something. The sun is rising and light filters through the trees. A shape runs through the darkness. The growl rises in pitch to become a shrieking howl and I take aim with my launcher. The dog smashes through another catapult and dashes toward a cliff. It looks like it's leaving. All of the other dogs are starting to leave their opponents with their food and follow it.

I take aim at the bobbing shape at the front of the pack. For a second I catch a gleam of flashing eyes. Like they were looking my way.

I fire, and the recoil sends me flying. I land on my back, hard, but I scramble back up again to watch. A pained howl rips through the air, and the dog at the front of the pack lurches to the side. It teeters at the edge of the cliff-

-and tumbles right over the edge.

I race to the cliff – down a ways, so I don't run into any dogs - and look down just in time to see a shape rolling down to cliff and disappearing into the trees. It's so far away I can barely see it.

"Oh, I hit it."

Silence.

"YES I HIT IT!" I yell in triumph, jumping up and waving my arms around. "Did anybody see that?"

I hear scrambling claws and tearing grass. I turn around and see a golden retriever climbing over the cliff edge and staring straight at me. It curls its lip and growls.

". . . Except for you."

Then the dog lunges.

I can't help screaming my lungs out as I run for my life, the dog hot at my heels. I can hear its panting breath, can feel its eyes boring into my back, wanting so badly to rip me apart. The men have long since gone to the main square so I'm completely devoid of help. I run behind a wooden pole and cringe as the dog smashes right into it. Wood splinters go flying, but the pole holds. Then silence.

I inch around the edge, hoping to see it lumbering away, but then I hear it behind me, opening its jaws. Before I can even look, though, someone streaks by and grabs its head.

I watch as Stoick the Vast sends it off with furious blows, and the retriever gallops off with an angry snarl.

Oh, and there's one more thing you need to know.

The other men have gathered. Everyone watches as the pole snaps in two and topples over, nearly crushing a man who's not paying attention. I can't help watching as part of it breaks off and rolls down to the lower village, cutting the net holding the poodles in the process. With food in their mouths – our food – they dash off to the trees.

I wince, knowing that everyone is looking at me.

"Sorry . . . Dad."

This is going to be really hard.

First of all, dogs can't fly or breathe fire, obviously, so I need to think of things for New Tail, Test Drive, Romantic Flight, stuff like that. I definitely want to finish this, and I already have ideas, so that's okay, I guess.

I had this idea ever since I saw the movie. The first thing that struck me was how much Toothless is like a pit bull. Observe:

Intelligent and friendly

Thick shoulders and narrow hips

Shorter and wider snout than other dogs/dragons

Fast

Everyone thinks they're the most dangerous of all dogs/dragons

Misunderstood

This is my logic, behold.

Berk isn't an island village in the story. It's a mountain village, because the dogs obviously can't fly and can't navigate across the islands.

Poodles = Nadders

Bulldogs = Gronkles

Greyhounds = Zipplebacks

Golden retrievers = Monstrous Nightmares

Pit bulls = Night Furies

If it wasn't obvious, then I'll tell you about the dogs. They're not normal dogs. For one, they're as big as the dragons in the movie. The poodles have quills, the greyhounds have two heads on necks as long as a Zippleback's and can emit fog from their skin, and the golden retrievers can climb things like a cat. They all have bodies hard enough to smash through things like houses without damage.

R&R, if you wish, my dearies. I love feedback (who doesn't?) and I definitely need opinions on this.

. . . As I write this, my pit bull is on my lap. She keeps squirming around so I can barely type. OH, IRONY.

Pia, stop squirming. I'm trying to write, god damn it.