This is a little off topic but I've always wished that Blondi would have just gone beserk one day and mauled Hitler to death. It would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.
Interesting 'what if' thread . . .
The pounding of Russian artillery, now a dull throb in the deadened senses of the bunker's inhabitants, was suddenly drowned out by a savage, bestial roaring.
The officers merely winced; their look said it all: 'What's gotten into the Chief this time?'
But they were jarred out of their apathy by a familiar, yet unheard of voice screeching: 'No, Blondi!! Blonda! Back!! I command y -!"
The panicky bellowing of their Fuhrer was interrupted by a high-pitched shriek, like several trucks simultaneously locking all their brakes.
It was Linge the valet who was the first in the room. At the door he doubled over as though somebody had punched him in the belly. Then a hideous, retching sound came from the valet, who pushed past the officers into the outer chamber.
The new Chief of the Luftwaffe, von Greim, dashed to the doorway, the others right behind him.
Writhing on the floor was the former ruler of half of Europe. His face was the color of the spaghetti they had this evening, and his mouth, the mouth that had reverberated threats and intimidation throughout the civilized world, was stretched open wider than any of them had ever seen.
But nobody was looking at Hitler's face. They were looking at his hands . . .more accurately, where his hands were clutching.
Hitler was trying vainly to stop the gouts of blood leaping from his injured groin. His black trousers were slick with gore and scraps of flesh. Then with a croak that could be heard all the way to Moscow, London and Washington, the Fuhrer of the Thousand-Year Reich ceased all movement.
Somebody nudged von Greim and pointed.
At the far end of the room was Blondi, Hitler's pet Alsatian. The dog was munching on something she held between her paws.
"Blondi . . ." von Greim heard his voice crack out.
Blondi looked up and wagged her tail. Von Greim couldn't decide which shocked him more: The flecks of fresh blood around Blondi's chops, or the fact that this was the first time he had ever seen the dog happy.
As the dog padded over to the men at he doorway, von Greim detected the smell of cigarettes being lighted up behind him, an unthinkable act while Hitler was alive.
Von Greim knelt on the carpet next to Blondi, reached out and began scratching behind her ears.
"Who's a good dog? Who's a good dog?" cooed Robert Ritter von Greim.
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