Chapter 4: Turbo's DNA
Every furry canine mouth in the room nearly hit the floor in shock at Ralph's revelation. Some of the pooches did a double take in his direction; others just openly gawked. Zangief started wheezing, mumbling something unintelligently in Russian. Beside him, Zombie 'urged' and 'arged' over and over again, his eyes rolling back further into his head. Even Clyde's eyes bugged out even more than usual in utter and complete shock.
Within seconds, though, each dog was growling and barking loudly at the same time, arguing or disagreeing or panicking across the little room of sorts they were in- all in Ralph's direction.
Gulping as his stomach hit the floor hard, Ralph backed up slightly in nervousness. He fully expected the others to be weary of his statement- but all of this?
"You're not going to go Turbo, are you?" an extra furry mixture of a mutt named M.Bison dramatically asked the mastiff, narrowing his eyes sharply at him.
"What? No! Of course I'm not going Turbo!" Ralph hissed ridiculously in defense- before growling indignantly. "Is it 'Turbo' to want more out of life, or a new collar, or-or a decent treat every once in a while?!"
A schnauzer mix in the group named Eggman shook his head dismissively, his long mustache dancing around as much as his thick eyebrows did.
"Why do you think that Turbo pup disappeared in the first place, you moron?" he asked pointedly. "He didn't accept who he was- and it sounds like you don't, either."
Snarling slightly, Ralph brushed off the insult.
"Whatever, Egghead. You didn't even know him."
"I didn't have to," the schnauzer responded quickly, his thick eyebrows hunched in nervousness. "We all know what happened to him..."
At the dog's words, Ralph was about to give a quick quip before thinking for a moment.
"Well, Turbo had some of the same troubles I currently have... but he didn't want to just accept that he was a forever bad dog," he mused softly. "And that's why he disappeared to make changes to be a good dog."
Looking around the group, Ralph felt his eyes harden in seriousness.
"Maybe Turbo was on to something, guys..."
"Impossible!" a newfoundland called Cyclops growled, his one remaining eye revealing his irritation with Ralph. "You can't just change what's in your DNA, Ralph!"
"What?" Ralph barked defensively at him, rolling his eyes dismissively. "What does that have to do with anything, One-Eye?"
"It means, Ralph, that some dogs are just made to be bad dogs!" the large rottweiler named Bowser butted in. "In fact, it's just in some breeds' blood! It's was in Turbo's blood, and there is-"
"Oh, come on, Bowser!" Ralph interrupted with an exasperated huff, feeling his blood boil slightly. "You honestly believe all that junk? There is no science behind that! It's just a theory!"
"No, is proven true, Ralph!" Zangief answered, his blue eyes sharply peering into Ralph. "Is in DNA to be bad dog sometimes! It is completely unavoidable, unchangeable!"
The other dogs around him nodded in stubborn agreement, clearly taking a side on a heated debate that had plagued canines for centuries. Even in small towns like Arcadia, it was a hot topic to discuss- but especially after the events involving Turbo happened...
Ralph knew that millions of fellow canines all over the world believed such a theory was true: once a bad dog was always a bad dog. It was simply in a dog's DNA whether they were good or bad- and nothing nor no one (not even the dog himself) could ever change that.
But there was a slight minority of pooches out there who didn't believe it, didn't just accept such a 'garbage theory' as true- dogs who believe they had a choice. They believed that being a good dog or being a bad dog didn't fall into what was in their breed or ancestry or bloodline. It didn't even fall into the training of an owner.
It solely came from who the dog chose to be- whether to be good deep down or bad deep down...
That slight minority of dogs knew inside that it was each dog's personal choice as to who they themselves wanted to be- despite what their appearance may be, what their breed is, or even their owner may say. It was a deep, well-thought-out choice to be good or bad, not chosen by DNA or left to chance.
And Ralph personally believed that with everything he had.
Huffing angrily in annoyance, the mastiff roughly shook his head at the others, rejecting such rubbish they were blindly supporting.
Why am I even trying to convince these mutts otherwise? he caved, mentally growling disappointedly. They don't -and won't- understand, the blind freaks!
"Okay! Fine, I get it, I get it! Being bad is in some of our DNA!" Ralph finally growled defeatedly- refusing to give in completely, however. "But why does that mean we all have to be bad dogs, just because our breeds' DNA says so?" he argued then in another desperate attempt. "I mean, why can't we chose to be a good or bad dog... like Turbo seemed to have tried to?"
Beside him, Sorceress snorted, her long, wavey, blue-ish grey ears waving slightly as she shook her head.
"Right. And look where trying to choose lead him," the Afghan hound reminded the group, her voice low and eerie. "Never to be seen again."
At the fellow dog's words, Ralph rudely snorted back, unfazed by her words.
"Whatever. Half of you didn't even know Turbo before he disappeared," he hissed disgustedly at the group. "I did...and what I'm sayin' is maybe Turbo had a point. That just because our DNA may decide we're a good or bad dog doesn't actually mean we have to be."
He eyed around at the dogs, seeing they were already closedminded to his point of reason. Desperately nodding to the leader of the makeshift pack, Ralph focused on Clyde with pleading eyes.
"Clyde's a Boston terrier, for an example," the mastiff quickly pointed out. "They're not considered a 'bad dog' breed, but he-"
"Actually, Ralph," the said terrier responded, kindly refuting the mastiff. "I'm not full Boston terrier. My mother was a Boston, but my father was a chihuahua. And, because of their natural DNA, chihuahua considered complete terrors!"
At his candid words, Clyde turned eyed Satan sheepishly, blushing slightly. "No offense there."
The devil small dog spoken to just shrugged nonchalantly and laid back down in response, innately trembling. "None took, Clyde."
In pure annoyance and aggregation -his hope once again dwindling quickly- Ralph narrowed his eyes sharply. Gulping back a stubborn knot in his throat, he knew his reasoning was falling on deaf ears.
Why even bother?
