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Memoirs of an indestructible dog By Strega

It wasn't the first time the dog had been swallowed. It wasn't even the tenth time, though he couldn't have told you how many it actually was. He was, after all, just a dog.

The thing about the dog was that he could not be killed. He could be hurt, stunned, or injured to the point that he struggled to even stand and whimpered in pain, but nothing could kill him. After a short time whatever damage he'd suffered would vanish and he'd be back on his feet again. Any loose bits of him would disappear, returned to his once more intact body.

The irradiated food and water of the atomic wasteland held no terrors for him and he'd swum happily through the hellishly radioactive pools in the glowing lands around thermonuclear strike craters, where a human without protection would die in minutes. Radiation and poison could no more kill him than injury or accident. He was, to put it simply, indestructible.

But few knew that, and many of those that did kept on trying. He'd been blown up, shot, crushed under rubble, torn apart by hungry mutants, locked in a cage and suspended over a fire for days by laughing raiders, and even utterly vaporized by miniaturized nuclear weapons. But nothing could kill the dog. He didn't know why or how. He had been roaming the wasteland for so many years he had only dim memories of the clean white laboratories so long ago and the scientists with their 'snapback' experiment. Even if he could talk, he couldn't explain how it worked. He was, once again, just a dog.

He couldn't be killed but he could be inconvenienced, and it wasn't the first time he ran into a monster too stubborn to give up when it found it could not kill him. The scaly dragon-like Deathclaw tore at him with its huge claws, and when that had no lasting effect it clamped its fanged jaws around him and swallowed him whole.

The dog yelped and whimpered as the Deathclaw bolted him down, aware from the first lurch of its jaws what was about to happen. The powerful muscles of its gullet gripped his muzzle and pulled him deeper, and with three tosses of its horned head it swallowed him to the haunches. A great rolling contraction of its throat squeezed him the rest of the way in and with a last kick of his hindpaws the dog found himself sliding down the Deathclaw's gullet.

This had happened before. From the scar he'd seen on the Deathclaw's chest he was nearly certain it wasn't the first time this particular Deathclaw had swallowed him. Now he slid into the tight muscular pocket of its stomach, squirming and whining. He was almost as large as a human but he had fit easily down its throat and now he lay in the hot juices of its belly. Already it had started to digest him. Or at least, it was trying to.

It could hurt him. It could hold him still with the thick muscular walls and tough scaly hide between him and the outside. It could sting him potent stomach acids and squeeze him with powerful peristaltic ripples of the stomach wall that kneaded the acids into him for better digestion. But it couldn't kill him. The Deathclaw's stomach, which he knew from personal experience could dissolve a whole man in hours, couldn't digest him.

The dog, whose name had recently been Dogmeat but had been many other things over the decades, yelped and whimpered. He was trapped inside the beast and there were only three ways he might get out. He had experienced all of them before and he knew he wouldn't enjoy any of them.

Maybe the Deathclaw would tire of the endless wriggling in its gut and cough him back up. He might see a human or two, or pieces of mutated cattle or monsters, or even other dogs show up and dissolve before that happened, but eventually it might throw him up. It had happened with Deathclaws, the one huge mutant bear that had bolted him down whole and more than once when encountered the half snake, half coyote creatures in the deserts to the west. Being coughed up was, unfortunately, the best of the three possibilities.

One time a smallish Deathclaw swallowed him and he somehow got stuck halfway into its upper intestine. He was just too big to make his way all the way through and he'd been trapped for weeks as it gradually weakened, unable to absorb any of the food it ate. Eventually, greatly enfeebled, it was shot dead. He felt the many bullets slam into its armor-tough hide and a few dismembered human limbs bumped into his hindquarters as it tore and swallowed its prey, but eventually its great pulse stilled. Too weak to finish off its adversaries it collapsed lifeless. That was only the start of the dog's problems.

No one bothered to cut the monster open. If anyone heard him yelping they didn't do anything about it. He still couldn't move, though at least the Deathclaw wasn't trying to digest his rump any more, and long days passed as the corpse of the monster rotted away. Eventually, after who knew how long, scavengers tore away enough of the scaly hide and decaying meat that he burst forth bloodied and stinking.

The mutated dogs who had been feeding on the corpse backed off growling, and Dogmeat shook the slime and blood off himself and trotted away. He had run with the mutant mutts before, even fathered puppies on many a hairless mutant bitch, but these were too frightened of the bloody stinking thing that came out of the Deathclaw. He washed himself in a radioactive brook and went about his life.

A few months later, in the company of his latest human master, he'd run into the scarred Deathclaw for the first time. Dogmeat liked humans, when they weren't crazed by drugs or disease. He dimly remembered friendly humans from when the world was a greener place and would happily trot alongside any master or mistress who showed the least kindness. Sometimes he even mated with them when in the loneliness of the wasteland they decided a dog was better than nothing. All his masters and mistresses eventually aged and died, or were struck down by the wasteland's many dangers.

This particular master, a pretty young woman who smelled nice and who had been one of his human mates, had ended her days stuffed into a Deathclaw's stomach next to him. He had liked her very much and nuzzled her sadly before she began to dissolve, but soon enough her body was gone and he was alone. That was when he first experienced the third way he might get out of a Deathclaw. Now it was happening again.

The big, scarred Deathclaw was not satisfied with a single dog as a meal and soon after the dismantled segments of an entire human arrived to join him. It hadn't bothered to swallow this one whole as it had his female master, not that it mattered. Flesh and bone, armor and weapons, he was the only thing he'd encountered that a Deathclaw's stomach could not break down. It stuffed itself full of pieces of human, belched so loudly he could hear it through the surrounding flesh, and settled down to digest its meal.

And as the flesh and bone dissolved and made its way into the intestines of the beast, he was carried along with it.

Dogmeat knew what was happening and wiggled and kicked, trying his best to stay in the stomach so he might eventually be regurgitated. The digestive system of the Deathclaw had other ideas and the pulsating peristalsis of its upper intestine sucked him in like a devouring serpent. The Deathclaw's stomach squeezed tight around his rump and forced the last of him into the tube of flesh and Dogmeat settled down with a whimper. There was no help for it now. At least he knew from experience that he wouldn't get stuck in this particular Deathclaw.

Bit by bit me made his way through the thing's guts, accompanied at first by liquefied meat and fragments of digested bone. Those were absorbed by the walls of the intestines and only things that the Deathclaw's body considered uninteresting continued on, like powdered bone, scraps of metal and an eighty-pound dog. Other detritus joined him as he slithered along, dead blood cells and assorted waste products. A few hours after he slipped down its throat Dogmeat found himself stretched out in the rubbery folds of its expanded colon, soon to once again see daylight. It was not the way he'd wanted to spend his day, but he'd take it over some of the alternatives,

Time ticked by and the Deathclaw seemed in no hurry to empty its bowels. Eventually Dogmeat tired of it all and began to kick, thrusting his paws through the claylike muck encasing him to push against the surrounding meat. That seemed to do it. The colon tensed and squeezed, pockets of stinking gas popping as they were pushed out with the rest, and a struggling dog emerged from the rectum of the scarred Deathclaw along with a couple of hundred pounds of shit.

Dogmeat sucked in his first breath in who knew how many hours, not caring that it stank like a sewer. Lack of air could no more kill him than could injury or illness and he squirmed out of the mass of droppings that were still emerging from the Deathclaw.

Dogmeat paused only long enough to get his footing before taking off at a dead run, shedding excrement from his fur as he ran. In his brief glimpse of the scarred Deathclaw he saw the great curve of an unsheathed and lumpy penis and how it was grinding the member against the ground. Maybe it had enjoyed his passage through its guts the first time enough to want him to go through again. He couldn't imagine how that could be pleasant but he'd been through it twice and that was more than enough. Rather than be a Deathclaw's plaything he ran for miles before rolling on the ground to scrape off the muck.

A few hours later, still smelly but far cleaner than he'd been, he had a brief meal of mutant mole rat he'd found shot dead before curling up to sleep in the shelter of a two-hundred-year-old filling station. He woke to the sound of a lone human searching the place for anything salvageable.

It had been a long time since he saw a vault suit, but the woman it was wrapped around was clean and smelled good. He happily accepted the pat on the head and waited eagerly to see if she wanted him to follow.

"Let's go, boy," she said, and Dogmeat trotted after her, wagging his tail. He'd already put the day's unpleasantness behind him and he had high hopes for this master. Maybe she'd become another one of his mates, or merely a friend; as long as she didn't end up inside a monster with him he'd be happy. After all these years, Dogmeat would take what he could get.