by Meg Howrey
“Intimacy, I think,” Yoshi says.
“The UN treaty still holds?” Sergei asks, because he is still stuck on death. “We can’t let each other go out the airlock?”
“No, it’s still considered littering,” Helen says. “Yoshi, was that story German? I think it sounds like something I read in college. Of course that was a thousand years ago.”
“This is what you do for me,” Sergei says. “You put my dead body in the bag and send it out the airlock. You make fake can of powder for my family, and tell UN that promession protocols were followed and nobody littered in space.”
“Done,” Helen says. “You’ll do the same for me?”
“Yes. Yoshi, do you want the same or do you want us to eat you?”
“If you will permit a suggestion,” Yoshi says. “It is better for the space environment if you do not go out the airlock as a body. You could follow the CPB protocols and then egress as powder.”
Sergei and Helen agree this is an improvement of their plan.
“Maybe German,” Yoshi says to Helen. “This story I read. Or maybe I have invented it?”
Helen cannot imagine inventing something like wanting to eat your dead husband’s body, she can barely stand the thought of reading Eric’s books. She’d read every one, but only once they were published because he never wanted to show them to her. He’d never needed to show them to her, her approval and praise had not been important. They were very good, beautifully written, but so separate from their life together. If they’d had a life together.
Tonight they are watching a historical drama about the beginning of the space program in the United States. The women in these movies are all wives. They wear little candy-colored suits and stand in rooms and worry. Helen settles into her lounger. Yoshi brings her a cup of tea along with their little green mascot. She laughs and props the toy in her lap like a child.
It is a beautiful idea, the thought of her body, powder or otherwise, floating into the darkness of space. But if this happens she will be dead and, as far as she knows, at that point beyond beautiful ideas. Perhaps it would mean something to Meeps to have her remains returned to Earth. Would it?
Helen has a flash, a memory, of holding her infant daughter against her bare chest, of Meeps’s skin, which she once knew so well.
It is appalling, to think of the distance between her body and her daughter’s body. And how they will never know each other’s bodies again. Helen is filled with an animal urge to feel her daughter’s skin again, and for her daughter to touch her as if she is a thing that is known, as if she is a body that is loved.
MADOKA
It wasn’t the first time Madoka had seen an abandoned dog in the Higashiyama Tunnel, but it was the first time she had stopped her car because of one.
Madoka hadn’t grown up with a pet. Her father was famously anti-cat, and waged a semi-comic war with the neighborhood strays. Yoshi had grown up with animals. A large collection of beetles when he was a boy, and then fish, and a spitz named Ken, now dead. The dog looked ridiculous in photos, but Yoshi claimed it had a very sober, loyal, and comforting nature.
Madoka had not stopped for the dog. She had stopped because it was a swift diversion from the path she had set for herself today. She had been a woman who was going to work. Now she was a woman who had stopped for a dog.
Madoka moves cautiously into this role.
Also, she does not want to be a woman who was bitten by a dog.
The animal is trotting from side to side, looking now at Madoka, now at the highway, as if considering its options. It is just smaller than medium size, and brown and gray. Some of the colors may be dirt.
Madoka stands by her car. She would like to interact with the dog on a psychic level, without embarrassing and lengthy preliminaries, or awkward baby language. How much Japanese does the dog understand? She feels instinctively that it is male. It has a male countenance. He’s not wearing a tag, although possibly he has a microchip.
The dog approaches. He is very thin. He is also a she. Madoka is vaguely disappointed.
The dog does something. She sits and arranges her paws tidily in front of her, then lifts one tufty eyebrow and the opposite paw, and looks at Madoka. Madoka does not think she has ever seen any sentient creature do something so wonderful.
She should get back in her car and continue on her way. An artist should know when to walk away from a work, to let a moment happen without comment, without greed, without display or audience or any kind of need. Also the dog had done something that was very cute, and very cute things were never art.
In a perfect world, the dog would run off now. Or vanish. Or Madoka would vanish.
This will not happen on its own. This world is not a magic world.
The dog stands and backs away. Madoka’s remorse is so swift and consuming that she forgets about art, and also about death.
“Oh, it’s okay,” she says to the dog. “Good girl. Good girl.” She holds out a hand.
They will get back to art later, for now there are logistics: getting the dog into the car, and then all the things that should happen next. The dog cranes her nose toward Madoka’s hand, does not seem displeased, trots sideways.
• • •
MADOKA DOES NOT want to lure the dog into the car by trickery; this seems unethical. She thinks of making a leash, and moves to the trunk of her car. Yoshi had put an emergency kit in there for her, which she has never opened.
The duffel bag, when opened, gives her pause. Along with the items are instructions in Yoshi’s handwriting on the proper use of each item, survivalist tips, emergency protocols. Shelter. Navigation. Protection. Tools. First aid. Nutrition. Hygiene. And a bag of her favorite kind of peppermints.
The dog waits.
Madoka finds she does not want to disturb the contents of the duffel bag. In the end, she opens up the passenger door of her Nissan Pinecone and the dog jumps in of her own volition.
Madoka drives the dog and herself to work. She senses an anxiety in the dog, and, most touchingly, an effort on the dog’s part to control the anxiety. Madoka talks, telling the dog about the place where they are going. “We will go to my office,” Madoka tells the dog. “Because I think we will be able to find someone there to consult with about our next steps.” Her voice is a little singsongy. She has often been told—in several languages—that she has an appealing speaking voice. This does not matter to her PEPPER. PEPPERs use three different forms of voice stress analysis. A pet probably does not “like” a certain kind of voice, though it would register a difference between command, and scolding, and affection with a person it knew well, maybe any person.
“At my company,” Madoka explains to the dog, “our most popular robotic pet is the baby panda. Light, touch, movement, and voices are picked up by sensors within the animal, so the pandas can open and move their eyes, make happy noises like purring, and they have a very cute walk. They can give or receive a hug. Old people and children love them; they accept them either instantly or with very little prompting.”
The dog now makes tentative overtures toward a leap into the back of the car, rethinks this, attempts it, races back and forth a few times, takes up a sitting posture on the passenger seat.
“I was thinking of asking to be transferred within my company so that I wouldn’t have to travel. I’m tired of traveling, and I want to have more personal time. I would like to take some classes, art classes, maybe. I saw a course in transhumanist art that looked very interesting. I think I need to make something.”
The dog makes a half step toward Madoka, shies away, puts both paws on the dashboard, slips, and crashes down into the legroom area.
“You need a bath. PEPPERs can give sponge baths to humans. This eliminates what can be a very uncomfortable situation between a patient who wishes to maintain dignity and a family member who would be embarrassed by such intimate contac
t. I have had a sponge bath by a PEPPER. It was not threatening or strange. PEPPERs can wash a pet too.
“I think I will give you your first bath, though.
“I suppose I should have thought this through. You will need many items. Well, these can be managed. We will consult.”
The dog licks the window.
“Dogs are very resilient. The Soviets sent dogs into space before they sent people.
“It’s sad. Those dogs died in space.”
The dog’s stomach growls and she works her mouth, chewing air.
“You’re very hungry. We will get you some food at the office. Excuse me, I will have a conversation with my colleague Daisuke about this now.”
She is talking to the dog in an absurd way; it is very interesting. Madoka feels reckless, impulsive, capable of anything.
Daisuke tells Madoka that she could use her screen’s magnetometer to read the dog’s microchip, if it has one. “Or you could take it to a shelter now. Hmmm. Is the dog calm? Is she dirty?”
Madoka says that the dog is quite dirty and seems calm.
“Oh, that’s good, actually,” Daisuke says. “Can you bring her here?”
The dog does not have a microchip. This means she is not lost, but abandoned, and Madoka is happy that she doesn’t have to relinquish her to an owner just yet, but sad for the burden of the dog’s past, the events that led her to a tunnel. She hopes the dog can forget.
Madoka’s jacket has a cloth belt, and she uses this as a leash, buckling it gingerly around the dog, who stares at her with wide eyes but does not panic, or run away. Madoka does not have to drag her, but they are not in movement accord, and her belt is not long enough for her to stand fully upright. People look and laugh when they see them, and this makes the dog nervous, but already she chooses to press herself against Madoka’s legs. She does pee on one of the Kochia bushes in front of her building. Anxious about what else the dog might produce, Madoka tries to move quickly. Once in the building, the dog sets her nose to the floor, and tugs at the belt, following an invisible trail like a near-sighted detective.
The doors of Daisuke’s lab are shut; a note pasted outside requests visitors to ring for admittance. The dog sniffs at the crack where the two doors meet and then takes a few steps back, nodding nervously at the portal.
“Oh sorry,” Daisuke says, opening one of the doors. “We keep that sign on when we are working with a non-ro.”
They exchange greetings. Madoka inexpertly works the belt leash in an effort to urge the dog forward.
Daisuke holds up a small pink dog biscuit.
“Here, girl,” he says, holding it low to the ground.
The dog lunges at the treat and swallows it whole.
“Very hungry.” Daisuke nods to an assistant, who comes forward with more biscuits. “Only a few more,” he cautions. “We don’t want her to be sick. Does she respond to commands?”
“I don’t know. I found her in the Higashiyama Tunnel.”
“Very nice of you to stop,” Daisuke says. “Most people don’t. Anyway, the reason I asked is we’re in proof-of-concept stage for a new pet bath. We have dogs coming in tomorrow, but they probably won’t be as dirty as this one. With your permission, we’d like to see how she responds.”
“Oh, I won’t be the owner.” Madoka waves her hand. “I don’t think I can keep her.” The moment Madoka says this out loud she knows she will absolutely keep the dog. “I travel constantly,” Madoka explains. “And my husband, you know, is away. Please, if the dog will be helpful to you for your test, I don’t mind waiting.”
Daisuke’s assistant replaces Madoka’s belt leash with a blue rubber collar attached to a length of some kind of tubing. The dog shivers. She is now surrounded by technicians with screens.
“For data purposes,” one of them says. “Let’s call her 27.”
27 is coaxed over to a stainless steel grooming station, complete with ramp and shower nozzles. To Madoka’s surprise, her dog scampers up the ramp without any prompting. The technicians angle a camera over the station and back away.
“Normally,” Daisuke says, “the pet owner’s face would appear on the screen, to be able to supervise the experience, and provide comfort and reassurance to the animal. But since we don’t have a name for this dog, and you have not had time for pet–human bonding, we’ll use this opportunity strictly as a test of cleaning functions. Can we get this dog clean?” Daisuke smiles at his team. He leads Madoka over to a corner screen. “We can watch from here.”
Madoka can see on the screen that her dog is at work on a yellow lump of something set into a wall of the tub. The stainless steel floor is speckled with colorful no-slip decals in the shape of animals. The blue tubing leash is now connected to the tub. Her dog’s tail is wagging.
“The leash is magnetic,” Daisuke explains. “The bones come in bacon or peanut butter flavor.” The sides of the station, set with spigots like a sauna, begin to send out gentle sprays of water. The dog flinches but does not look up, continues trying to tug the bone free from the wall.
“In the past, robotic pet-sitting was mostly about comfort surveillance,” Daisuke explains. “The owner might wish to check in on his pet while he was working, to make sure the pet was happy and content, or not engaging in destructive behavior. Also, people miss their pets and enjoy being able to communicate with them. Now our pet-sitters can engage in helpful tasks: food and water administration, mainly, but also some light play activities. If the owner has a home with secure property, the robots can open and shut doors to allow the pet access to that.”
The water is increasing in pressure now. Her dog stops mauling the bone and backs up, turns in circles, presses one side against the wall, tries putting her paws against the side of the tub, attempts an over-the-wall exit. The magnetic leash holds firm.
“It’s okay,” Daisuke says. “She’ll settle down in a moment. A lot of the anxiety dogs feel during hygiene is actually an absorption of the anxiety coming from inexpert human handlers.”
The water running into the drain is almost black.
“This is intended for the Japan market,” Daisuke says. “In other countries, there is a labor force for professional pet grooming. But we have had interest internationally.”
Now the spigots in the wall are spraying her dog with a green liquid detergent of some kind. The dog becomes more agitated. Licking her lips, and twisting on her leash, knocking her nose against the bone.
“The soap is getting in her eyes, I think.” Madoka clenches her hands together behind her back.
“It’s not toxic. Washing humans is easier. With humans, you can instruct them to close their eyes,” Daisuke says. “And suggest they scrub themselves with the soap. This is obviously hard to do with dogs.”
Madoka’s dog is splattered with pale green foam, as if afflicted with some kind of extraterrestrial mange. She now stands frozen, muscles tensed, enduring, head flinching whenever the jets hit her face. Madoka can see her dog’s ribs now. The tufts of hair around her eyes and inside her bat ears droop and drip. Madoka begins to cry.
• • •
TWO HOURS LATER, Madoka and the dog are in the car again. Madoka’s appointments have been canceled. In the trunk, next to the emergency duffel, is a bag of dog food, two chew toys, several bones, and absorbent pads. Her dog has turned out to be a caramel brown color. Madoka is thinking of naming her Toffee, or maybe Toff-Toff. Both Madoka and dog are exhausted, slightly red around the eyes, heavy-lidded.
Madoka rolls a peppermint around in her mouth.
“It is quite funny of Yoshi to put those peppermints in the survival bag,” Madoka says to Toffee. “That brand of peppermint is my favorite candy. It’s a kind of joke. As if I would need them to survive. What I’m thinking right now is that if something happened, and I needed that bag because I really did have to survive, and I knew I’d never see Yos
hi again, then those peppermints would break my heart. Or if Yoshi dies in space, on the way to Mars, or there or the way back. Or in Utah, or any number of places.”
Toffee sighs deeply and edges her nose toward Madoka’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” Madoka says. “He isn’t going to die. He’s absolutely not. He’s going to come home. You shouldn’t be scared. I’m not scared. It’s only been a training session, this time, and so there’s nothing to be worried about at all. We are going to go home right now, you and I, and I will make a message for Yoshi, and let him know that I found the peppermints. Don’t you think that would be a good idea? Don’t you think he’ll want to know that?”
Toffee licks her hand.
“I’m tired of waiting,” Madoka says. “I’m tired of waiting for Yoshi to find me. I’m tired of waiting to find myself. Nobody ever finds anything if they just wait.”
HELEN
Meeps,
I’m so glad that you are loving the video game work and doing so well! It sounds really interesting, and fun too.
I had a very unusual experience here that was almost like dying. Because it was almost like dying, but wasn’t, the first thing it made me think of was my father. Maybe you will like hearing that I’ve thought about my father during these past fifteen months more than I have my whole life, it seems. Maybe you will hate learning that it’s still not very much.
It’s not the same, you know. My father’s absence didn’t mean to me what my absence has meant to you. You want me to feel more. I want you to feel less. Which one of us is feeling the correct amount? Why do you want me to feel more? To punish me? Or are you afraid that because I don’t feel my father’s absence, I also don’t feel yours? Why do I want you to feel less? Because that makes me feel less guilty for all the times I left you?
Quite frankly, the men in my life don’t bear all that much thinking about. From everything I’ve heard, my dad was a great guy, but people tend to inflate great qualities in these cases. I have thought about my husband more than my dad. I got pretty angry at one point. I say “my husband” because that person was different from the person who was your father. You won’t want to hear that either. Eric didn’t love me in a really great way. Maybe there aren’t great ways to love other people, except for from very far away, and in one direction.