Your Robot Dog Will Die Page 5

  Mark made all this as tribute to his own dog, Snoopy, whose loss he grieved deeply. Not only because Snoopy, his companion, was gone, but because she’d be his last dog. She died right when that mutated gene was discovered to have spread almost completely. She was among the last unaffected generation.

  The whole chapel is covered in notes that visitors have written, then thumbtacked to the walls. In the old days, the notes were about pets who’d died. You’re not supposed to read them, but there isn’t always a lot to do, so Wolf, Jack, and I have gone through a bunch. They say things like, Barky, you are the best friend I ever had and I’ll never forget you. RIP good girl. We’ll play ball again in Heaven, Dog willing.

  Over the years, we get fewer notes like those because fewer people have even experienced a pet dog. Now they are a little more abstract, but just as heartfelt. More like, Dogs, I am sorry for what we’ve done to you. Please, please, forgive us.

  There’s a furnace out back, away from this part of the chapel. Mom and I step out of our dog suits, which are flammable, and she places each puppy’s soft, black-and-white body in a wooden box. Each is then placed inside the furnace. Mom chants a different mantra while doing it: “You are one with the universe. You have peace. You are loved.”

  I can’t stop thinking about the fourth puppy. That puppy’s body going into the furnace. I try to think about this correctly: no suffering. I just can’t. I can’t. My mind won’t go that way this time. That puppy’s tail, it wagged.

  Mom and I go back home. She says she’s going right to bed, then reminds me I should also get a good night’s sleep since we have “a very busy day tomorrow because of Marky Barky, and do you think he’ll like my haircut?”

  “Of course he will,” I say. But on the other hand maybe not. Women on Dog Island used to have one of three hairdos: uncut hair to the butt, a buzz cut, or a choppy bob with bangs. (I’ve had all three. Right now, I’ve got the choppy bob.)

  Maybe two years ago, a former hairdresser named Bonnie moved over after getting a divorce back on the mainland. So now, in addition to those styles, we have several “glamour girl” options. Mom got one of these last time she went to see Bonnie. It looks sort of stiff and silly to me and requires hair spray to stay in place. Perhaps that’s Marky Barky’s thing, for all I know.

  Mom kisses the top of my head before she goes into her and Dad’s room. I can hear him snoring from the Parents’ Room down the hall. He sometimes “rests his poor old eyes” in that room on the cup holder couch, if he and his robot bartender have spent a lot of time together.

  “I love you, you know,” she says to me.

  I hug her. “I love you, too,” I say back.

  She pauses. “Do you know why I call you my kitten?”

  “Because you love me?” I respond.

  “That, too,” Mom says. She sounds exhausted. “It’s what my mom called me. I have no idea where she came up with the nickname, though. She was afraid of cats. I wish you’d really known my mother. Maybe it’s the nickname you’ll use for your own daughter one day.”

  “I guess I might not have kids ever,” I say. It’s actually never even occurred to me that I might.

  “Then I guess you’ll be the last kitten,” Mom says. “There are fates worse than being the last kitten.” She comes to me and kisses my forehead, then retreats to her bedroom.

  I wander into the living room. Plop down on the non-cup holder couch. My robot dog Billy comes meandering out of my room and hops up beside me. He’s giving me some serious eyes, then kind of leans into me and lifts a leg, to show me his belly. I rub it. His hind leg shakes. I think of the puppy, alone, in the jungle. If the puppy survives the night, which is a big if, then he or she will surely be discovered early tomorrow, when the morning shift comes to feed the dogs. That’ll be the end, then.

  Pulling my phone out, I send a PrivateText to Wolf and Jack: You guys awake?

  Chapter 4

  I sneak out of the house ever so quietly, carrying the dog suit in a tote bag, telling Billy my robot dog to stay put, even though he gives me a sad, hurt look. I grab my bike from the garage and head over to meet Wolf and Jack in our usual spot near the beach.

  They’re both there with their dog suits, as I instructed, carrying their masks. Jack, also as I instructed, is without Mr. Chi-Chi Pants just this once. He is smoking some weed. (I did not tell him to do that, but it’s not shocking.) Wolf is tapping his foot and looking dreamy.

  “What’s up?” Wolf asks me.

  “I need your help,” I say. “But it’s dangerous.”

  “Danger is my middle name,” says Wolf.

  “No it’s not. John is your middle name,” says Jack. The two of them start to scuffle, as they often do, shoving and punching. It looks pretty funny when they are in their dog suits. But not now.

  “C’mon guys,” I say. I explain what we will need to do.

  Wolf looks a little wide-eyed, when I give him the details. Keeps saying, “Yeah, cool, okay, cool. I can help.”

  Jack just says, “Are you sure?”

  I say, “Yes, I am.” Sure isn’t even the right word. I feel as if this is necessary. Not a choice. Compelled, impelled, I cannot do anything else.

  We ride our bikes to the Ruffuge’s security gate. I go inside the booth. George is still sitting there, still watching the monitors.

  “Hiya again!” I say, kissing his cheek.

  “Nano,” George says, in his slow voice. “Shalom. What a treat, seeing you twice in one day.”

  “You, too,” I reply. “Hey, so, my mom forgot something when we were in there tonight. She asked me to come back and get it for her. Wolf and Jack are here, too, so we can look out for each other.”

  “What did she forget?” George asks.

  “Uh—her ID,” I say.

  “You think you’ll be able to find that little thing at night like this?” George says.

  “She really wants it tonight,” I say.

  “Let me give Ruby a call, Nano. I just can’t see your mother sending her only daughter in there at night for an ID badge, even with two strapping young lads accompanying you. This can definitely wait until daylight. I’ll just have the morning shift pick it up when they go in. Let’s see if Uncle George here can’t clear this up,” he says, in a voice I know he means to be reassuring, while pulling out his phone.

  “Call Ruby Miller,” George is commanding his phone, when I interrupt.

  “No, no; you’re right, George,” I say. “I’ll go home and tell Mom that it’s crazy to do this tonight. She can wait. It’s not like anyone doesn’t know who she is here. What does she even need ID for?”

  “There you go,” George says.

  I walk back outside shaking my head. “No-go,” I say, furrowing my brow.

  “You want to just go hang out at the beach?” Wolf asks, which gives me an idea.

  “You’re brilliant,” I tell him.

  “He is?” Jack says.

  Wolf takes my hand and smooches me hard on the mouth. “I am,” he says.

  We get our bikes and ride the 15 minutes or so over to the beach. Jack goes to sit down on the sand, but I tell him and Wolf we’re not stopping yet. I have another idea: kayaks. There’s a pile of them by the dock, for Dog Islanders’ use. It’s not impossible . . .

  “Kayaks?” Jack asks skeptically.

  “Yes,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.

  We trod to the kayaks, grab some paddles. Jack and Wolf will be in a double boat, I’ve got the single and lead the way. The moon is huge above us. The birds are making their soft nighttime sounds. As we paddle, a manatee swims up beside, pokes its soft nose out of the water, with spiky little hairs around the muzzle. This could be another relaxing evening out in this perfect place.

  “Hi, manatee,” I say, before it swims away. I have always had this feeling of communion with a
ll animals, like the manatee knows I’m its friend—the cats, the birds, the fishes, too. Hopefully, also the dogs. We can hear their howls.

  We paddle and paddle and finally reach the outer edge of the Ruffuge, thick with mangroves. I pull myself as close to shore as I can. Balancing carefully so I don’t end up falling into the water—it’s shallow here, but the bottom is sharp with oyster shells, and the water is cold—I tie my kayak up to a branch.

  Jack, who is at the front of the double kayak, moves to do the same. He falls into the water and causes a loud splash. “Crap!” he yells.

  “Be quiet,” I say sharply, knowing that if anything goes wrong everything goes wrong.

  “Sorry,” Jack says, sounding genuinely chagrined.

  On the thin strip of beach, I look at the fence enclosing the Ruffuge, try to convince myself I can climb it. It’s only six feet. Maybe seven. Just a little barbed wire up top. Sure, why not, why not? I think. It’s not like anything is electrified. Probably?

  I grab the fence to start climbing, and—

  Wrong. A jolt, sudden pain everywhere, brain scrambling, it hurls me into the air. I’m not sure if I black out. There are stars and then there are actual stars in the sky. I am lying on my back. I blink once, twice. I hear Wolf’s voice beside me.

  “Nano, are you okay?”

  I move my fingers, toes, arms. I sit up. Everything tingles. The pain fades, not as fast as I’d like. I’m shaking. Okay. So, the fence is electrified.

  “The trick is to jump onto the fence,” says Jack. “You can’t close the circuit by touching the ground while you touch the fence.”

  I stare at the fence, warily. What the hell? The first shock didn’t kill me, anyway. I throw myself at it, leaping up a foot and holding on as high as I can. No shock. No shock! Big shock, that no shock.

  I scramble up and carefully navigate over the barbed wire up top, only just grazing the crotch of my dog suit a little bit, but no rip, no tear.

  Once I’m over, Wolf does the same. Jack just watches us. He’s more bookish than Wolf is. He puts on his mask and then flings himself at the fence, just right. But he has a hard time pulling himself up, to climb to the top. He falls. Tries again. Shocks himself. Falls hard.

  “You guys go,” Jack finally says, still sitting on the ground, breathing heavily. “I’ll make sure no one steals the kayaks.”

  With the low-glow lights in our masks turned on, Wolf and I can see just a few feet ahead. We walk carefully but not too slowly. We don’t want to spend more time here than we need to.

  We walk and walk, looking for the place where I saw the puppy. Up the hill, under a bush. That seems like it could be anywhere. The night is quiet. Even if we do find the puppy, how will we find Jack again? We didn’t think to leave any trail or markers, and even if we’d thought of it—what would we have left?

  The puppy was up the hill, under a bush. Just remember that, Nano, and be smart. But through the plants, the palms, the thorny bushes, the night, it’s hard to see where a hill would be. So we just walk, and I hope.

  I can now hear dogs snuffling, yipping. My skin feels tingly, my heart races. We’re close, I think. A little more, and there’s the hill. I point it out to Wolf, who nods. As we walk up it, I feel triumphant. Just need to find the right bush. Just need to get out of here, with the puppy.

  Something runs past us, lightning fast, just grazing the side of my leg. Then here it comes again, this time knocking Wolf down onto the ground. The dog—who must be seventy pounds, covered in thick, luscious brown fur—stands on Wolf’s chest and stares into his face.

  “Don’t hurt him,” I whisper. “Please don’t hurt him.”

  The dog sniffs Wolf’s whole face so slowly. His mouth, his nose—I hope his dog suit is doing what it is supposed to do. I hold my breath. I can hear Wolf whimper. I will him to be quiet, to not give more clues that we don’t belong.

  The dog opens his mouth, wide, and leans down. He picks up the ear on the dog mask, closes his mouth and tears it off in one fast motion, then runs off with the ear in his mouth. There is a hole now, in his mask, where the ear should be. Wolf’s human scent will come through. Now I’m not sure whether to hope George can or can’t see us on the monitor, if we need rescuing. I do know we’d better do this fast.

  “Look under all the bushes,” I instruct Wolf. We move from one large plant to the next, looking for a puppy. None, none, none. For all I know, the puppy’s gone anyway. Walked off, been killed and eaten. I pretend those aren’t howls we’re hearing.

  Finally, I hear a rustle. I kneel down. There’s the puppy. Oh, thank Dog, thank Dog.

  I reach under the bush to pick up the puppy. The puppy makes a kind of squeak when I lift it—I check, it’s a him. He looks so scared. I kiss the top of his head through my mask.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I promise him, in no position to make that promise. He immediately pees on me. Luckily, the dog suit is water-repellent.

  “C’mon,” I say to Wolf. “We’d better get back fast.”

  I carry the puppy, who is so light that he barely registers in my arms. Wolf and I walk as fast as we can in what I am hopeful is the right direction, if I am reading the stars right, if I am remembering right, which I hope I am. I am mindful not to drop the puppy, who has begun to chew on my mask, which moves the eyeholes, which makes it hard to see, which makes it hard not to fall, which makes it hard not to drop him.

  “Quit it, tiny,” I whisper in his ear. “I’m trying to save you.”

  I’m sure I hear dogs chasing us as we make our way back to the beach. There are howls, there are rustles, but we encounter no dogs. I hope to Dog that George isn’t looking at the right monitor, that the Internet is on the fritz, whatever breakdown we need for this to work.

  When we get to the fence, I have no idea where we are but it seems safest to climb over and worry about the kayaks after.

  “You go first,” I instruct Wolf. He leaps onto the fence. I reach up to hand him the puppy. When Wolf touches the puppy, we both get a terrible jolt.

  Wolf falls off the fence. He drops the puppy. I cry out and rush to make sure that he—the puppy—is okay. He is on the ground, still. I grab him, I hold him; I check his breathing. I listen for his heartbeat. I can’t tell if he is even alive. Oh, to think that we might have taken this risk, deprived him of a painless death, only to make him suffer—I can’t bear to think it.

  Now he’s wriggling just a bit, just enough to let me know he’s still here. Thank Dog, thank Dog, thank Dog.

  Wolf hops back onto the fence. This time I know not to hand him the puppy because that completes the circuit and leads to us all being shocked. I toss the puppy as softly as I can, instead. But it’s too softly, and Wolf can’t catch him. I catch him on the way down, then toss him a little higher, a little harder, and for a second it looks like the puppy might just fly, then fall, but Wolf reaches out. He catches the puppy with one hand, while holding onto the fence with his other. The puppy barks, growls. It’s very cute, in this scary moment.

  I leap up, too. Scramble up fast.

  “Hand him to me,” I say, when I reach the top. He does. I clutch the puppy to myself as I carefully navigate my way over the barbed wire, back down the other side. Wolf jumps down to join me. We start whisper-yelling for Jack, who responds in a normal tone of voice.

  “Right here,” he says, here being surprisingly close by.

  We walk to Jack. He is standing, looking serious. The puppy growls at him, but Jack doesn’t seem to mind. He looks like he’s just witnessed a miracle. Which in a way, I guess he has.

  “This is him,” I say. It feels overwhelming. It feels like everything is changing, has changed. “Here he is.”

  “Dog be with you,” Jack says. “Dog be with you, little one.”

  We paddle back to the beach quietly. The puppy sits in my kayak. I worry the whole way that w
e will tip over, he will fall in, he will drown, I will lose him. If I have some nervousness, still, that he might be wild and vicious, this goes away when he falls asleep, his little body rising and falling with every deep breath. My heart hurts, looking at him.

  Back at shore, we put the kayaks back where they belong.

  “I’ll go get some food,” says Jack. He heads off to the cafeteria for supplies, for the puppy and for us.

  Wolf builds a small fire, near a private corner of the beach, by some tall rocks and tall palms. The warmth feels good. I take off my dog mask, sitting there. The puppy looks confused for a moment, then snaps at me, biting my cheek with sharp teeth. I wipe my cheek with the back of my dog-suited hand, and there is blood on the fabric. I put my dog mask back on. The puppy sniffs me again, then rolls over on his back. I rub his belly. His hind leg shakes, just like he’s a robot dog.

  Wolf rubs my belly, while I rub the puppy’s. I shake my leg. Wolf laughs. I love to hear him laugh, love to make him laugh.

  The puppy bites his hand.

  “Ow!” he says.

  “Wait till he gets big,” I say, first jokingly, then not. What will happen once he gets big? Even medium? There aren’t a lot of plans in place just yet. Well, that’ll come. I suppose that’ll come. The puppy has fallen asleep with his back paw in his mouth. I remove my mask. He makes some squeaking noises, some little snores.

  Wolf rubs his hand all over me. “Your dog suit feels nice,” he says. “You should wear it a lot.” I smile.

  “I, um. Here’s some food,” says Jack. He throws a couple of packets of dehydrated pea snacks at us and unwraps four CowFree patties. He puts them on rolls, applies slices of vegan cheese on top, and hands one to me, Wolf, and the puppy. The puppy wakes up, growls, and then gobbles down the burger. Jack gives the puppy a second helping, which he also dispatches quickly.

  “You mind?” Jack asks me, pointing at the burger I am holding in my hands. (Wolf has already finished his.)