This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, ever, so feel free to hit me hard with criticism. (That's how I like my criticism. HARD. ) I'm certain I really need it.
Title: Dog Show Blues
Author:...me?
Rating: PG
Genre: Dark comedy
Status: Part 1, debating whether or not to complete.
Summary: Edgeworth can't avoid legal trouble, not even on a nice outing with Pess.

As he walked towards his own dog's grooming station, Miles Edgeworth learned that he had to pass through a group of rooms labeled "Toy Dogs" in cheerful, sky-blue lettering. In theory, this should not have been a deterrent to a composed man and his well-trained dog. Set on winning the title of "Most Handsome Mixed-Breed Dog", the sharply-dressed man ventured forward with his confident tricolor mutt, whose erect ears and alert face bespoke a wolfish intelligence and an attentive curiosity as to what might lie ahead.
The doglike organisms beyond the "Toy Dogs" sign made a valiant attempt at being perfect creatures of fabric and stuffing, but could not overcome the fact that they were living beings. "MILES OWNER OF PESS", as a cheap button had labeled him, felt a deep-seated repulsion at the appearances of some of the conformation show's most prized dogs. Barely suppressing a visible grimace, he felt he might start growling himself as he stared down rows upon rows of ratlike faces. He walked by a small, shaking lump of clean white wool inlaid with two nervous black eyes and gave it a curious look. It was called a Bichon Frise. Many radical thinkers considered it a feeling creature with some measure of intelligence. The thing's fretful owner, an elderly man with matching snow-white hair and beard, was now informing a local news reporter that it was the prime example of a dog. Whatever the creature was, the passerby could not help but instinctively sneer as the thing's emotionless face followed his own gaze and let out a small, angry "Yirp!"
I wonder who decided that a topiary could suitably replace a dog's head, he silently mused, walking away while still holding a morbid interest with the cotton-ball being calmed by its cooing owner. Feeling a drag on the leash in his hand, he looked down at his own dog, whose head and tail clung to the body for dear life although that body was considerably larger than any other canine in the vicinity. It seemed that master and pet were both equally unsettled by the beady-eyed dolls surrounding them. Ducking behind an empty grooming table, Miles comfortingly gave his pet a scratch behind his now-drooping ears and murmured a few words of encouragement.
"You can make this trip through the uncanny valley, Pess. We won't be staying in America for much longer, so you can go back to Schutzhund training after this."

Miles thought that Pess had been inspired by his reassuring tone as the pair walked along with restored confidence. However, Pess had simply listened to his owner's words and thought that his bizarre situation was another part of his Schutzhund training, which often presented scenarios to challenge a dog's intelligence and fortitude.
Even this misunderstanding would have worked beautifully in most situations. Sadly, Pess believed that he had encountered a more familiar aspect to his training when an obese woman in a sweatsuit attempted to strike up a conversation with his owner by waving, or rather, flapping, an arm. A rope leash was the only thing that kept Miles's eager dog from performing an impromptu liposuction on the startled woman, and he was sorely disappointed when instead of being cheered or rewarded, he was restrained.
Pess knew that he was a bright dog. Maybe he was being given more challenges. He wondered if this was a new bit of training and tugged on his leash harder until he heard a familiar call of, "HALTEN! HALTEN!".
Realizing that he had started to panic and even lapsed into German, Miles closed his eyes for a second to compose himself. Before he could even try to apologize to the hysterical woman facing him, she launched into an incomprehensible tirade that he could not discern a clear meaning from, other than an implication that his dog was a fascist or something of the sort.
"MILES OWNER OF PESS" had enough of these people, he pocketed his button and led his confused dog back towards the Bichon Frise, out to the doorway. He even allowed himself a small chuckle as he heard the voice of the distressed woman behind him growing fainter, embellishing upon her encounter with the "rabid Nazi dog" to anybody who might listen.
Approaching the empty area of the sign out desk, Miles gave a faint smile to Pess. "You're a great judge of character" he remarked, "that woman was as thick as a bite-suit in every way." At this point Pess would normally listen with curiosity to his master speaking, but was instead preoccupied the sign-out desk and gave a near-silent warning growl. Neither of them needed to walk a step further to see that the teenager sprawled over a crumpled pile of sign-out forms was lying under the desk, a bit too still for a nap.
Thoroughly shaken by the sight, Miles clumsily reached into his pocket, knocking out his identification button, and started to pull out his cell phone when he felt a tap at his back. He nearly rocketed into the air as he turned, expecting an accusation of murder. Instead, he saw a grinning woman, dragging behind her a reluctant rottweiler who stared at the stiffening corpse a few yards over, trying to back away.
"Do you see...?" Miles started to ask, attempting to still the trembling in his hands by gesturing to the sign-out table before being interrupted mid-sentence.
"Yes, you probably want to leave right now before they realize you're here, don't deal with the paperwork. That lady tried to call my dog a baby-killer a few years and I was just about driven away with torches. I'm not sure why they all listen to her, to be honest." The sturdy woman gave Miles a pat on the shoulder before looking to her own dog straining at the leash. "But I'll be going back there for some good fun. My girl, Tessa, she loves the commotion. When you're not in the center of it, you'll see how funny it is, too."
With that, the woman and her rottweiler walked off to observe the evolution of the story of the "Nazi dog", leaving Miles with no other option than to call the police, still bewildered at the oblivious masses milling around him, all with skittish dogs who sniffed the air and growled in the direction of the body at the building's entrance.

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