Your Robot Dog Will Die

by Arin Greenwood

  Solar-powered robot cats would make more sense in Florida, of course. But they wouldn’t work so well in Michigan, or Russia, or Rhode Island. And the robot cats are being developed as a sort of insurance, in case what happened to the dogs happens to other animals as well. It won’t take so long to replace the Organics, if Dog forbid, it’s necessary to do so. In that case they will have to be dispersed around the world, same as the robot dogs.

  “Robot, right?” I say.

  “Yeah,” says Jack. He pushes back his brown hair with one hand and grimaces. “Nothing real here. No need to call in the authorities.”

  I squint at Jack. He sounds bitter. He sounds bitter a lot lately.

  “Hey,” says Wolf. “What gives?”

  “Nothing,” Jack says. He stands up and slides his feet into his paw protectors—that’s what we call flip-flops—without even brushing the sand off first. Still, not looking at us, he says, “I’m going home.”

  “Be safe,” Wolf calls out, as Jack shuffles across the beach, holding Mr. Chi-Chi Pants with one hand and raising the other. He makes a very aggressively hostile gesture with one of his fingers. Wolf laughs.

  “That guy,” he says. Then he picks up my hand again. “This girl,” he mumbles. My heart starts pounding. If there were a button for “positive interaction” with Wolf I’d have broken it by now.

  Wolf leans in to kiss me. His lips are soft. We start to lean back, start to lie down. My fingers in his soft hair. His hand on my hip, my waist, even my boobs, which have gotten mortifyingly prominent recently. The world disappears. Nothing exists, except for this, except for us.

  Except for: “Nano. Nano Miller. Please come home for dinner, Nano Miller.”

  This order comes in Mom’s voice through the speakers in Billy’s mouth. He’s dropped the ball and his mouth just hangs open the whole time that he/Mom are speaking. I really, really hate this new “human speech” feature. The old model just sounded like a dog when it “spoke.” This is really creepy. Plus embarrassing!

  “Okay!” I shout at Billy while pressing the “negative interaction” button on my phone several times. At least this model can’t hear what you’re saying or broadcast it. This is more like a radio, not a phone. At least for now. I’m sure we’ll be getting that function soon enough. Well, unless enough people like me complain. Why can’t they just keep the dogs dog-like?

  “You can invite Wolf and Jack if you’d like,” says Mom, through Billy’s mouth.

  I look at Wolf. “You want to come over?” I ask.

  “I wish I could,” he says. “Judy and Peter need me at home.” Wolf calls his parents by their first names. That isn’t more or less common than any other way of addressing the people who created you, on Dog Island, since Jack, Wolf, and I are currently the only kids here. Jack only has a mom, and he calls her Mom.

  Billy gives me a stare that seems very meaningful. I wonder if Mom is somehow directing him to make that look. He might just want me to throw the ball again. Alternatively, he might just be having an electrical glitch in his “brain.”

  “I’m leaving!” I say, getting up. I brush off my feet before putting my sandals back on but feel too embarrassed to brush off my butt and back and hair.

  Billy wags his robot tail. It’s a bit jerky. I’ll add a note about the jerky tail to my notes for Mechanical Tail. Maybe I will add a note about jerky Mom, too.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Wolf says.

  He takes my hand. Billy picks up the ball and walks alongside us. Wolf grabs the ball from Billy’s mouth, tosses it. Billy does nothing. I run up the street and get the ball, then throw it half a block. Billy runs after the ball, gets it, brings it back, sticks his mouth to my free hand until I take the ball and lob it on down the street again.

  I guess I like that Billy only likes me. I don’t get why robot dogs like chasing balls. It feels manipulative. They aren’t Organic Labrador retrievers.

  It’s about a mile walk, over those pretty brick streets and not-as-pretty cracked sidewalks. We stroll, not talking. Just calling out “Heya!” and “Shalom!” and “Dog be with you!” to the occasional other Dog Island residents we see out along the way. We have this wonderful multitude of ways of saying hello. Heya to those we know well. Shalom to the newcomers or people we are a little formal with. Dog be with you to anyone who’s achieved some amount of, I don’t really know how to say it, holiness here. You just know who you have to say it to.

  I, like, can’t think of anything to say to Wolf right now. It’s making me a little anxious, honestly. Wolf and I didn’t have any trouble finding topics of conversation before. Being quiet wasn’t any trouble then, either.

  “So, are your parents all kinds of worked up about tomorrow?” I finally ask. Marky Barky is coming for a visit, which sets the grown-ups into a tizzy.

  Marky Barky is our nickname for movie star Mark Mooney, Dog Island’s biggest celebrity supporter. Even though he’s super old, in his fifties now, he is a very, very handsome man, with salt-and-pepper hair and an irresistible smile. He is also the one who donated the land for this sanctuary.

  Usually, Mr. Barky—another of his nicknames, along with MB, and Hot Bod—comes to Dog Island once or twice a year, when he is free from his other movie star obligations. It’s a really big deal. Generally that’s when the newest robot dog model is unveiled.

  Hot Bod gets photographed out and about with his new robot dog, the pictures are posted everywhere, and sales go through the roof. Or, as our founder Dorothy Blodgett likes to joke, “Through the woof.” Mechanical Tail is part-owned by Marky Barky, so it’s really a winning situation for everyone.

  Everything gets a fresh coat of paint before he gets here. Dog Island is always beautiful, but when we’re spruced up I feel especially proud.

  “I guess so?” Wolf says.

  “Me, too,” I say. “Our house got painted. Bright pink.” I shrug, as if I am trying to sort out some complicated feelings about having a newly pink house. My actual feelings about the house being very pink are: yay!

  “Ours, too,” says Wolf. “Green, though. I know yours is pink because I helped paint it.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say.

  This is torture. Why can’t we just go back to the beach and make out some more? Every time we stop talking I start thinking about how he is so adorable, and I have dirt-brown eyes. Dirt on my skin, too. And a funny smell, I think. I try to discreetly sniff my armpit, and no, it is not good. Oy.

  Billy yips and lifts his paw again to point. Another cat. A black one. There are still some old-timers out there—though not here per se—who get superstitious about black cats being unlucky. We know that really they are just hated because of myth and superstition. Which unfortunately turns into its own reality, driving people to do terrible things to these cats. Oh, the stories I’ve been told about these poor creatures being caught and tortured by horrible people; they’ve given me nightmares. It just all means black cats especially need our protection.

  “Go get it, Billy,” I say.

  Billy dashes off and comes back with the cat. He drops it gently at my feet. I pick up the cat. It’s black with a white chest and green eyes. Not electric looking. Organic eyes. Organic cat.

  “You could get hurt out here,” I say to the cat. I put it back down and pet its soft fur. The cat purrs and rubs against my ankles.

  I unlock my phone so I can see the screen. I open the “Cat Report” app and hit a button, to let the Animal Safety Division know about this poor vulnerable being. They will come soon, to look for and capture the cat. They will make sure the cat never suffers.

  “It smells nice out,” Wolf says. “I love this time of year.”

  “Me, too,” I say. I take a big whiff. Sweetness. Spring is in the air. It’s a soapy smell. The “scent of renewal in nature,” is how lofty old Dad puts it. (“It’s the plants having sex and my allergies are terrib
le,” is Mom’s more usual take.)

  And suddenly I remember that it smelled just like this last year, when Billy disappeared.

  I stop tossing the ball to robot dog Billy. It can’t really enjoy playing, anyway. It’s a robot.

  Wolf walks me all the way home. When I’m walking with him these days, I can’t help but notice all sorts of things that used to just be background.

  To think, before Billy was gone, we were just old friends. Same as me and Jack. Same as him and Jack. The three of us were always together, from the time we were born. Our parents are all best friends, even. (Or were. They don’t seem to hang out much anymore.)

  But Jack stepped back after Billy went missing, just when Wolf came forward. Became essential. And now here we are. Here we are. I dance a couple of steps on the sidewalk and smile at Wolf. He seems so certain, of himself, of everything.

  Our founder Dorothy Blodgett drives by in her custom GoPod. She honks and waves as she drives by. She must be going home to her Spanish-style house that overlooks the water.

  Her GoPod is always so filthy—full of food wrappers and dirty paw protectors, and there’s always something damp on the seat. She’s funny for the leader of the world’s most powerful animal movement. Messy and lovable. She’s been married like six or seven times but says she’s done with all that now. Now it’s just about protecting animals.

  We yell “Dog be with you” as loud as we can, and then laugh, and then kiss, and then walk.

  “Dog be with you,” Wolf says to me.

  “No, with you, I must insist,” I say back.

  The Spanish moss dripping down over the oaks. The yards that are quickly becoming wild and unruly again after having been reduced to mostly dust and spiky cacti for so long. Mowing isn’t allowed here at the sanctuary; mowing kills habitats for the birds and rodents and lizards. Those are still Organics, not robots, so they need to be protected to the utmost so they will not suffer.

  There’s that one palm tree that’s grown so much taller than the others, a strong survivor of a tree. Then in my head I can hear Mom lecturing me: Palm trees aren’t actually trees. They are grasses. If you cut them open, they don’t have rings, like a tree. You couldn’t tell how old they are by killing them. Mom says this every chance she gets, like it’s extremely profound. Sometimes it seems profound. Sometimes it seems like the one fact she remembers from junior high school and won’t quit mentioning.

  So I say to Wolf: “Did you know that palm trees are grasses, not actually trees?”

  “No, Nano,” says Wolf. “You’ve never told me that before.”

  “It’s true. If you cut them down—”

  Wolf starts talking: “—they don’t have any rings and you won’t know how old they are. Killing them serves no purpose.”

  “So, ah, you’ve heard that one before.”

  “Only about forty million times,” he says. “You can cut me down and see how many rings I have. That’ll tell you exactly how many times you’ve told me this.”

  “Well maybe I will!” I shout.

  “Please don’t. Don’t cut me down, little Nano,” Wolf says.

  “Okay, not yet,” I say.

  “Can we make out before we get you home?” Wolf asks.

  “I think that would be okay,” I say. I bite my lip. I smile. My mouth is a little dry, but I don’t care. The water we drink here is about 90 percent recycled pee that’s been treated with chemicals. I had pure water once; my brother gave it to me—he said he “found” a bottle but I’m sure he probably stole it from somewhere. Ever since then I’ve always felt kind of dry mouthed and thirsty, no matter what. When it drizzles, those rare instances, I stand outside with my mouth open just to get another taste of the real thing.

  Wolf and I step off the sidewalk and underneath one of the big old mostly dead trees about half a block from my house. My back is against the trunk. Once upon a time, you might get hurt when dead branches fell unexpectedly atop your head. But most of the branches with the potential to do serious harm fell a long time ago.

  Wolf stands in front of me. He touches my face.

  “Little Nano,” he says, then leans in and kisses me. And kisses me. And kisses me.

  Maybe an hour goes by. Maybe it’s just thirty seconds.

  “Nano, would you please get your behind home now, please,” my mom orders, via Billy. Billy’s tail is still wagging. It’s humiliating. I am definitely letting Mechanical Tail know that I hate Billy’s “human chat” function.

  “You have nothing to wag about,” I tell him.

  “I do,” says Wolf. He swishes his behind back and forth a couple of times. Then he asks me to turn around. I do, and he brushes sand out of my hair, off my shoulders.

  “Now you’re presentable,” he says.

  I give him one last peck on his cheek and run the last little bit to old 2644 28th Avenue, with its newly pink facade. My parents really need to lose the pair of old pink plastic flamingos in the front “garden.” It’s nothing more than a rock-and-cactus collection, anyway.

  Approaching, I catch a glimpse of a human-sized blur out of the corner of my eye. I’m probably just imagining things, I tell myself, trying to tamp down the sense of foreboding and doom that I’ve walked around with a lot, since Billy’s disappearance.

  Just imagining scary, terrible, frightening probably hopefully, hopefully, hopefully (I pray to Dog) not-true things. My robot dog would probably point if something were really there.

  Chapter 2

  Billy—human Billy—is my older brother. Was my older brother? I hope he is, still. He’s ten years older than me. Or was, if he’s dead, which I hope to Dog he’s not.

  Mom and Dad had Billy when they were teenagers, still living in Rhode Island. They had me in their late twenties. By then they were already on Dog Island—they were among the first people to move here, one of the “founding families” that moved to the sanctuary when the dog population got dangerously close to disappearing altogether. When Dog Island became the last hope.

  Mom and Dad were busy saving dogs, saving the world, not to mention going to the beach, making friends, drinking fermented coconut juice, and so on. There was no school or daycare here, being as there were hardly any people at all, let alone kids. Just me and Billy, Jack and Wolf, and a couple of other kids whose families came for a year or two before deciding Dog Island wasn’t for them.

  So my brother played with me. He taught me things, like how to count and read. How to watch TV on his phone in our rooms without Mom and Dad noticing. That was back when we had more reliable Internet. He told me which leaves and fruits I could eat. Later I found out he mostly just made things up as we went along—it’s lucky we didn’t die eating pokeberries. Among other reasons: it would be humiliating to our mother if her own children were so ignorant about nature as to die from eating poisonous berries.

  He and I and whatever robot dog we had at the time used to go out on these great long walks together, exploring every accessible inch of our two-square-mile hometown—the beaches, brick-paved streets, dozens of neon-colored old bungalow homes (about half-occupied, half-empty), a one-story motel where temporary volunteers and visitors shack up, largely abandoned old stores, a couple of parks, and no way to leave. No bridge to the mainland, no PlaneCabs at our disposal, no money to use even if you should leave; we are cashless and creditless here, just sharing what we have and getting what we need from the common pot. We knew everyone, they all knew us. It all seemed normal to me. I didn’t—don’t—know anything else.

  On these walks, Billy would talk and talk and talk about everything. The part that fascinated me the most was when he’d tell me about being little in Rhode Island and the very different life he had there.

  Billy was born in a small waterfront town called Wickford, which had been a colonial trading post but was now mostly for hippies and tourists and a small number of year-r
ounders. Mom and Dad had both grown up there, in houses next door to each other. When Mom got pregnant with Billy at age seventeen—whoopsie—she and Dad moved into a little apartment on top of Dad’s parents’ garage. And that’s where they stayed for almost a decade.

  Dad was a chef at a fish restaurant. Mom worked part-time as a kayak guide and went to the community college, then finished her bachelor’s degree online. She got out with a joint degree in philosophy and wildlife biology and then kept working as a kayak guide. She liked the hours; she liked the scenery. She didn’t so much like that her parents were always pressuring her to “go do something with yourself,” is what I’ve been told.

  This was right around the horrible experiment that led to the dogs becoming so dangerous and then so endangered. The experiment that led to their near demise and to our founder, Dorothy Blodgett, creating Dog Island, Dog bless her. So Billy and Mom and Dad had a family dog back then.

  Billy told me about Dylan, who was a golden retriever, a real one, an Organic, a pet, who liked to play with a ratty tennis ball out in the yard. Dylan slept on Billy’s bed, mushed up so close to Billy, he told me that sometimes he—Billy—would end up getting shoved all the way over to the edge and fall onto the floor. I couldn’t even imagine what that would be like, being able to share a bed with a real dog. You might as well sleep with a tiger (if they hadn’t gone extinct).

  Billy told me about playing baseball with other kids. There not being a drought. What it was like to eat hamburgers (“wicked, wicked awesome” were his words for it). Not fauxburgers, but hamburgers, with slices of real melted cheese on top. I couldn’t square what I knew about it being evil to keep sentient creatures like cows and pigs trapped in dark, painful circumstances for their whole lives before they die painful deaths and then become food, with Billy telling me about how much he enjoyed eating the hamburgers.