Your Robot Dog Will Die

by Arin Greenwood

  That was BAD science. BAD science made Organic Dogs dangerous, too dangerous for this earth.

  Robot dogs are GOOD science. You missed the dogs so much when they were gone. WE MISSED THEM, TOO. That’s why we created MECHANICAL TAIL, DAMMIT! So that we could be with dogs again.

  And we help FUND Dog Island, so that the world’s last dogs will be safe! Does that really not MATTER to you anymore? What can we do to get you to buy our robot dogs again? Please, nothing sick or illegal. That is NOT what we are creating these robot dogs for and we do not want to hear from those disgusting people PLEASE. Our lawyers are on call.

  Chapter 10

  “Mom tried to reach me. Through my robot dog Billy,” I say quietly to Wanda in the kitchen. It smells good. Wanda and/or Fiona are always making good things to eat. Wolf goes into his room to be alone. I feel a lump in my throat. “It’s gone now.”

  Wanda nods calmly. “What did she say?” she asks.

  I’m trying really, really hard not to get emotional. “She asked me to call. She said she was in trouble.”

  “That’s good news,” Wanda says.

  “It is?”

  “Oh, for sure,” she says. “Look, because of your brave brother here, Dorothy knows that there are . . . dissenters. She doesn’t know how many or what they are capable of. But now she knows that you’ve left, that you’re with Billy. She must have some idea that Ellie has joined our side. She’s probably freaking out.” Wanda waves her arms around and shakes her head, saying these words; it seems perhaps a little more exuberant than the situation calls for if you ask me.

  I shake my head. “How is that good?”

  “Because it means she’s either going to negotiate, or she’s going to behave rashly. Either way, we can finally expose her for who she truly is. Someone who hates animals. And people. Someone who wants to kill everything. The leader of a death cult. Then we can liberate the dogs and stop her from harming other animals as well.”

  “Death cult,” I repeat. I roll the words around in my head. They don’t make sense. “We save the dogs on Dog Island,” I hear myself say. “How is that a death cult?”

  “You save a half dozen at a time, while killing anything else you can get your hands on.” This from Fiona, who appears at Wanda’s side. Her face is colder and icier, like the air outside; she uses the word “you” like a whip. She doesn’t know anything about my home, yet she feels free to say these hideous things.

  “I didn’t,” I reply after a moment, testily.

  “I didn’t mean you personally,” she mutters, turning away.

  “How do you know Dorothy’s going to do something extreme?” I ask Wanda.

  “She’s said she would. If Dog Island were ever endangered, she would kill everything and everyone there preemptively. So the Organics wouldn’t ‘suffer.’” Wanda makes air quotes with her fingers, again giving the impression of being happier about all this than I feel is correct.

  “What do you think she means by that?” I ask.

  Wanda stares at me. “It’s in her will.”

  I shake my head, at a loss.

  Wanda’s pretty, wise eyes narrow to slits. “You never saw her will?” she asks, incredulously.

  I didn’t even know that Dorothy had a will or that anyone would have seen it. Why would I? What on earth does that have to do with me? I’ve never heard of any of this before. My own parents have never talked about a will. None of the rest of this sounds right.

  Wanda gets up from the table and follows Fiona out of the kitchen. I’m by myself for an excruciating minute or two until Wanda returns alone with some sheets of paper. I am shocked but also curious as she hands them to me. Printed paper and sexists and meat eaters . . . all of these things still exist. She must see my wide eyes; she shrugs.

  “Screens hurt my eyes,” she says.

  I stare down at the words.

  directions for the disposition of dorothy blodgett’s body

  I skim the dense and baffling legal language. But I get the gist: in the event of her death, Dorothy wants her body to be used by Dog Islanders in all sorts of ways—ways that are equally incomprehensible.

  The “delicious flesh” of her body is to be cooked into a stew, divided up equally among all the human residents of Dog Island, and consumed at her wake. Her skin is to be treated as leather and turned into shoes for Dog Islanders to wear, so she will always be with us as we “walk the path of righteousness.” She wants her head to be mounted onto a piece of wood and hung in a special memorial, “alongside the other animals who have also suffered and died for our amusement and pleasure.”

  The worst comes at the end.

  Any and all dogs still living at the time of my death should be released from suffering, as I do not trust any human in this cruel world to ensure their safety. Any Dog Islander who wishes to join our dogs and me in the Afterlife shall be granted this same option. If Dog Island is jeopardized, this option will be encouraged. We are one with the Universe. We go in peace and love.

  “How did you know about this?” I whisper, looking up. The papers rustle; my hands are trembling. I put the papers down and go to lift Dave into my arms. We sit at the bench by the window, the cool glass on my back. Dave coos and purrs softly, which I appreciate. Donut appears from wherever he has been sleeping or hiding or getting up to mischief and yips at Dave. Dave remains, literally, unruffled.

  “I thought everyone knew,” Wanda says with a sigh. She is wearing her pig slippers again. They are so whimsical; the opposite of this conversation. “Dorothy had some kind of a press conference about it a couple of years ago. Everyone wrote her off as an eccentric, except the true believers. If anything, it enhanced Dorothy’s standing and power.” She takes the papers from my hands and offers a sad smile. “Go figure.”

  Moments later Wolf walks into the kitchen. I can tell he was lying down; he has creases on his cheek, and his curly hair is askew. The sun is shining through a window, and I can see the rings of gold around his hazel irises. I pat the seat next to me, signaling him to sit.

  Instead he deliberately walks to the other side of the room and crosses his arms.

  He’s glowering. I don’t understand this. I feel sick inside. My whole life has likely been . . . not what I thought. In a really bad, bad way. Dorothy wants us to eat her. My family has been complicit in killing, rather than saving. Or both. We’ve done both. And I loved it. I loved Dog Island. I loved my life there. I would give anything to go back and not know what I have learned. I would give anything to go back to the way Wolf and I were before any of this—when we were a “thing,” as Billy said. Are we not anymore? Did I do something? Did Billy tell him something?

  I’m about to blurt out and ask Wolf what’s wrong when Ellie walks in through the front door. She shakes off the cold and glances at Wanda.

  “Where are we?” she demands. “Is the plan in place? Dad just left after his long naked visit with Dorothy, which I don’t really understand.” She cringes. “Really, for sixteen thousand reasons. But he’s out of harm’s way now and we can get going.”

  I cringe, too. And bristle. How dare she sound so casual, so ready to make decisions for us, about us. Unable to stand Wolf’s glare, I stare down into Dave’s feathers. Donut is so excited about his friend returning that he races around the room, squawking and wagging his tail, wagging his tail, wagging his tail, wagging his tail. This tiny miracle would be dead back home. Back home is home. Back home is where we protect the dogs. Back home is where Dorothy is going to destroy everyone and everything I care about.

  “So what is the plan?” I ask.

  Chapter 11

  Fiona lays it out. It’s pretty easy and maybe anticlimactic, even. She wants to stream a video with me and Wolf, and Donut and Ellie. Ellie will then introduce us as “refugees from Dorothy’s death cult.” We’re supposed to say that we barely escaped with our lives. (“The trut
h, from a certain point of view,” according to Fiona.) Ellie will then call for Dorothy to peaceably hand over Dog Island and its inhabitants—canine and human and everyone else—to an outside party, which will dedicate itself to life instead of death.

  Dorothy must also abdicate responsibility over any other animals. She must stop trying to convince people that it would be better for Organic cats to be rounded up and killed and replaced with robots, for example. Etcetera.

  “Do you really think she’ll do it?” I ask when they’ve finished. “Dorothy, I mean. Do you think she’ll go along with what you’re asking for? You’ve read the will, too, right? And you’re grown-ups. What do you think?”

  I want Wolf to jump up, rush to my side, defend me. He doesn’t. I look at the faces around the room—the other faces, the faces of these women, these strangers, my brother—and I can’t quite read their expressions.

  Finally, finally, finally Wolf speaks to me. “No, Nano. She won’t go along with it. That’s not what these people are actually after.”

  Not what I was hoping for.

  “Is he right?” I ask Billy.

  “Kiddo, we’re at the endgame of a long battle,” he answers.

  “I don’t know what that means,” I respond, feeling panicky. I have a creeping sense that Wolf knows way more than I know, and maybe he has all along. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means that there may be casualties,” Wanda says.

  “Can anyone here speak English?” My voice rises. “What does this mean?”

  Wanda sighs. “We wanted to shield you from the ugly part of this,” she says. “You’ve already gone through so much.”

  “Why are we being so coy?” Billy says, sounding anguished and frustrated. “Just let’s tell them. Let them make actual decisions for once in their lives. They live as if they are robot dogs. They’ve been preprogrammed in every way. We all were. Let them choose now.” It hurts, and rings true, to hear my brother say this.

  “Okay,” Fiona says. “Okay. The video will do one of two things. It will either draw Dorothy to Fuzzy Mansion for a negotiation, which may or may not be fruitful for both parties. This will allow Dorothy to save face and preserve some power, for example, while limiting her ability to do harm—”

  “You know what the second thing is, Nano?” Wolf shouts, interrupting her. “Fiona doesn’t want to say it, but the second thing is that Dorothy will do what she promised and kill everyone and everything. And then you will have proof that she was as bad as you say. And you’ll win. Which is what you really care about.”

  My jaw drops. I shake my head. That can’t be right.

  Billy says, “We hope that won’t happen.”

  “So you’ve heard this, and we’re good?” Ellie says. “We’ll make the video? I can reach out to all my contacts and tell them to watch in an hour. It’s settled?”

  Wolf pushes away from the table with a loud screech of the chair. “Nothing is settled,” he snaps. “I want nothing to do with any of this.”

  He looks at me. I’ve never seen him look like this before—furious and beaten. But I also see that I was wrong. He was never upset with me. He was upset that I was dragged into this. He was upset on my behalf, upset that he might have played a role.

  “We need you,” Fiona says, softly, her voice pleading.

  “No,” Wolf says. He looks at my brother Billy. “Don’t you have any loyalty?”

  Before Billy can answer, Wolf storms out of the room and runs upstairs, I guess to my room. I flinch when I hear the door slam.

  Ellie shrugs. “Well, two is really redundant anyway. One of you Dog Islanders will be enough. Let me think about wardrobe . . . Maybe a long floral dress? No, that’s too ‘polygamous in the desert.’ Hm. What did you wear here? That weird silver thing? I guess that might work? You wouldn’t really wear that dress if you weren’t trapped in a death cult . . .”

  I am struck by a number of horrors, among them the prospect of appearing to the world as a crazy person in that dress. But I have an idea. Or the idea behind an idea.

  “Let me talk to Wolf.” I stand up and back away from the table. “Let me try to convince him. Give me until tomorrow. Okay?”

  More inscrutable glances, more heavy silence.

  “Please?” I beg.

  Fiona nods.

  I am not relieved at all. I am scared. I don’t know if it will be enough time.

  Once night falls, I accompany Billy as he makes his rounds and feeds the Fuzzy Mansion animals. Hammie and Donut and Carol are in tow. They play and run and sniff and explore so happily, so innocently. (Well, except Donut, who keeps trying to bite Carol’s wheelchair, and wags his tail vehemently while doing so.) I wish there were a way we could just stay here—Wolf, Billy, and me—and get rid of them. I wish we didn’t have to do anything.

  I’ve wished that before. It seems that it’s not to be.

  Late in the evening, everyone goes to bed. I go into my room and huddle under the covers to stay warm. Wolf has long since left the room; he disappeared before sunset. Last I saw him, he was sleeping on the couch in front of the fireplace. He won’t be back.

  Hammie isn’t sleeping with me tonight, either. She’s off with Ellie and Fiona, I think. Donut is here, lying on my chest, nibbling on my fingers. He has sharp little teeth and sweet breath, and a wrinkly face. I look at him, trying to take in every detail. If nothing else, we let him live, for a while. Happily, safely, with love. And we got to see proof that this is possible.

  I pick him up and kiss him on his head, his belly, his back, his paws, his long ears, his nose. Then I get out of bed, dressed in some summer pants and a shirt that I found in one of the closets, and carry my puppy down to Wolf.

  Wolf is still asleep, though the fire has burned down to glowing embers. Even asleep, his face looks worried. His lovely, lovely, lovely face.

  I wake him up by kissing his forehead. His long lashes flutter open.

  “Hey, oh hey,” he says, groggily. Then he remembers that he’s angry or wants to be. “Leave me alone,” he says.

  “I’m not one of them,” I say back.

  He sits up, looking at me with more sympathy and interest.

  “You know that. Being mad at me won’t help.”

  He blinks a few more times. His beautiful eyes are glistening. He nods.

  “We have to go,” I tell him.

  “Where?” His voice is thick.

  “Home,” I say.

  Without asking more, Wolf nods and stands. I watch as he methodically puts on his clothes. Together we head outside into the bitter cold. Straight to the PlaneCab. Such a decisive act. At the PlaneCab, the plan stalls. We’re suddenly stymied. It’s wholly unclear how to get this vehicle to take us where we need to go.

  I remember there being a console or something? I’m not sure how it’s involved, though, and now I can’t even figure out how to open the door. Brave, ignorant girl, I am. I thought saving the world, or at least my little corner of it, would be more action and less searching for a way to open the door to a confounding PlaneCab.

  While Wolf and I examine every mysteriously unyielding inch of the PlaneCab, my brother Billy appears.

  “Hey. Can I help you with something?” he asks. His voice is dry.

  “Billy,” I say. “I have to go back.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I know,” I say. “You could come.”

  “I can’t,” he says.

  Before I have time to worry about him turning us in, thwarting our scheme, he reaches in and pushes some magical spot on the PlaneCab door. It opens. With some other quick maneuvers, the thing whirs to life.

  “It’s all set. Get in,” he says.

  My throat is tight. I am on the verge of crying. I can’t say the words, so I hug him. This is goodbye. I’ve missed him so much and will mi
ss him again. I take that canister of Kinderend I’ve been toting around out of my bag and hand it to Billy. Just in case he needs it for anything. Even at Fuzzy Mansion, Organics will get sick, they will get old. Eventually, it will be time to help them pass. Just, only after they’ve really had the chance to live.

  Billy turns around and walks back into the house before the PlaneCab takes off. I sit on the plush seat, looking outside. Donut is in my lap. I take Wolf’s hand. He doesn’t. He holds my hand back.

  I squeeze my eyes closed as the PlaneCab takes to the air. When I open them again, I see my robot dog Billy sitting across from me. Billy is crouching down low by the wall, as if it is trying to hide. Billy blends so well, in the dark cabin, so as to barely be seen. Billy’s head hangs, but I can see the eyes peeping up, looking at me. Eyes that are so like the robot cats’—bright, electric.

  He found me.

  “Come here, Billy,” I say, patting my knee. He lifts his head. Rises to his feet. That’s when I notice that one of his front legs has been torn in half. His tail is snapped at its base. The “fur” has been partly torn from his face. Someone has cut off his nose and one of his ears—the one that used to hang down. He has big holes in his “skin” and “fur.” The shiny, blinky electronics beneath are clearly visible. He shoves his head into my lap, under Donut, and I pet him.

  Wolf clutches my hand harder then goes to pet Billy but Billy isn’t interested. He just wants me. He’s been programmed for it, but it’s okay. I understand.

  It seems to take much longer to get back to Dog Island than it did in the other direction. Wolf and I don’t talk much during the trip. We don’t mess around, make out, tell stories. We don’t even really talk about going home. Eventually he naps, leaning on my shoulder. He and Donut both snore a little. My heart is full, for them.

  Billy and I stay up. He’s awake because he’s a robot, and I’m awake because I don’t really know what I’m getting into. I just know I have to go home.