Things had really come to a head when Miss Molly, Cristie's pet Tarantula, deciding that she was being wronged, started out on a life of her own. Cristie and her parents had been enjoying a weekend of camping in the Webley National Park, when Molly forged away and into the camp for the elderly next door. Molly wasn't your ordinary Tarantula, (is anything ordinary today?) she was the souped up version with more brains than she needed. She liked the color red and warm places, and spying Miss Gertrude's panties, settled in for the night. All was going well until Gertrude started dreaming of her younger life and slipped a hand inside her pants...

But perhaps I should digress a little. You may be familiar with the planet Vega III. Oh, you remember, that's the one that the bureau couldn't get enough people to sign up for, and wound up sending in bio-dogs to help the colonists. Kilgore was slated to be one of the helpers (official title Ancillary, Bio-canine, domesticus). With a molecular bio-brain sitting alongside his useless bit of protoplasm to do his serious thinking for him, and with paw-hands capable of using any tool a human could use, he would have, indeed, been an asset to the colonists - except for one thing. The canine company had faced government cutbacks in spending, and calling on human ingenuity, had started using toy store rejects - installed by a molecular engineer with a sense of humor. Kilgore came out, not quite your average bio-canine, with a case of the perpetual hornies.

After the incident with the lab assistant, Kilgore never made it to Vega III. Because of his "maladjustment", as his problem was referred to, his career as a bio-dog was scheduled to be a short one, and would have been, if he hadn't overheard them planning to kick him back into the vat.

The back door will never be the same again.

Sneaking aboard the shuttle for Erma IV was a piece of cake, but by the time he hit good old Erma, the closeness of his impending demise had receded from his foremost thoughts, and the hornies were back. The only "lass" in the right mood, that he could find, belonged to a well-to-do businessman's wife. About two seconds from the punch line, a disrupter beam forced Kilgore to bid the damsel an impromptu adieu. Oh well, without a bio-brain, there wouldn't have been much in the line of conversation afterward, anyway, he reasoned.

After raiding garbage cans for a week, (you would be surprised at the crap that people put into those things) he decided to find a job. He didn't exactly mind the garbage can cuisine, but his bio-brain did - violently. While passing a combination campground and recreational facility, he noticed a "help wanted" sign. The manager didn't like dogs, but a watch cat wouldn't do, and he got to thinking that a bio-dog would probably do about as well as a three-hundred year old watchman. The insurance company insisted that the facility be patrolled twenty-four hours a day, but they never precisely said that it had to be done by a human watchman. He hired Kilgore without taking time to think the proposition through.

Kilgore had it made. All he had to do was stroll through the park. He got three square meals a day and a hundred stellars a week. But what did a dog need? And who ever heard of a canine whorehouse? The money went under his mattress, and since he had to patrol anyway, he set out to look for more than burglars. Five thousand acres of parkland, with year-round camping for hundreds of families, provided him with the answer to his dreams. It also produced complaints. People were less than enthusiastic about Kilgore trying to make duplicates with their little darlings.

Well, the Rollings' could have been a little more lax about letting Sheeba out of their sight, but nooo, every time he tried to lure her off, they screamed, "Come back here mutt!" before she was fifty feet from the camp. The little lady was obviously in need, and that old battle-ax didn't have to faint and fall in the fire anyway. Hadn't she ever seen a couple of dogs getting it on before? Hell, surely even she was young once.

He still couldn't believe the way that new fabric burned.

Complaint number one.

The second incident, he insisted, was no more his fault than the first. He had gotten into the camper with no problem (he might as well make use of his bio-brain), and the damsel was certainly in "distress". Then, just like a female, she turned shy at the last moment and he had to chase her. It wasn't his fault that he hadn't been able to catch her until they got to the bathroom. She proved more than willing then, but the john in the camper was so small you could sit on the crapper and wash your face in the sink. Someone had cluttered the place up with all kinds of stuff, and when the radio fell in, the camper computer just had to call the fire department. It was probably the first time the silly number cruncher had a chance to feel important. Then here came the fire department roaring up with a stupid news reporter and his cute little camera.

Complaint number two.

Just as things start to calm down, a letter arrived from a lawyer representing some genius who decided to sue the park for the alleged illegal breeding of Mr. Huttleson's prize Doberman. Kilgore maintained that the "lady" had accosted him in his own quarters. Besides, he had no reason to believe that his had been the only exposure. Had it not been for the publicity about the camper, nobody would have thought of him at all.

Then Miss Molly gets pissed and stings Gertrude, the yelling starts, the lights come on, and you guessed it - there's Kilgore and Jezebel in an intimate moment.

"Kilgore, this is your absolute last chance," the park manager screamed. "I don't care about ERA. You try to breed one more pet Doberman and you're fired. Got that? Kaput."