Dog Tales

by Jack Dann

  The man took it—a slender tube of silvery metal, dotted with line-up slots and the sockets of other components, and laced about with wire and the red wax of his own seal.

  How long ago had he done that? A hundred, two hundred years—he had known even then that this day must come.

  He glanced at the waiting dog—and remembered to his astonishment that in the days of his youth, this dog’s ancestor and image had been his dear friend. They had been closer than brothers. He had mourned for years after that dog’s death.

  How was it possible that things had so changed? He looked at Roland again, saw the broad, crinkled brow, the worshipful eyes. There had been no change here. It was incredible, to think how faithful that race had been. Millennium upon millennium, from the dawn of history until this day—all the thrown sticks retrieved, the households guarded, the blows accepted without anger. The weight of that loyalty seemed to him abruptly a crushing thing. What had his kind done to deserve it? And how could they ever repay?

  It was Man, it was he himself who had changed. Man was the hopeless debtor, the flawed, the half-made. The dogs were worthier . . .

  And would survive.

  In an instant that vision of the dog-world that had forgotten Man came back to him, and his guilt receded, twisted upon itself, became a slow, bitter wrath.

  He clutched the control cylinder in his fingers, as if their feeble strength could break it.

  “Master—” said Roland falteringly. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Wrong?” he said. “Not for you. Your whelps will inherit the Earth. A bunch of—dirty, flea-bitten mangy dogs.”

  The words were not enough; they came out in the quavering, impotent whine of an old man. He raised the cylinder, perhaps to strike; he did not know what he meant to do.

  “Master? You will unseal the cylinder?”

  Tears of rage leaked from the man’s eye-corners. He said thickly, “Here’s your damned cylinder. Catch it, and you can have it!” And then the thing was done: he had flung out his arm with all its waning strength, and the cylinder was turning in the air, beyond the parapet.

  Roland acted without thought. His hands and feet scrabbled on the flagstones, his muscles bunched in a pattern as old as the race; then he felt the smooth ivory of the balustrade for an instant under his feet.

  He snapped once, vainly, at the cylinder as its arc passed him. Then there was nothing but the rushing wind.

  The king of the world sat on his throne, and listened to the bitches howl.

  Roog

  by Philip K. Dick

  In Lady Augusta Gregory’s Vision and Beliefs in the West of Ireland (G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1920), she writes, “Beasts will sometimes see more than men will.” And, indeed, from our own rural Maryland and Georgia to India and Denmark and Russia, the folk wisdom and mythology has it that dogs can see dangerous spirits that people cannot perceive. The Voguls of Finland believe that when dogs in the street bark for no apparent reason, they are driving off evil spirits, the messengers of death. In the Philippines, the mountain people believe that only dogs can see the vampiric spirits called tayabans, which eat souls, especially those of tender newborn babies; in Maryland, legend has it that dogs with dewclaws can sense ghosts and witches; and Jewish folk-belief has it that when dogs stand frozen in one spot, it’s because they can see the Angel of Death.

  Here Philip K. Dick updates this belief, in a classic bit of American Paranoia about a dog who can perceive the hidden menace implicit in the appearance of the most ubiquitous—and certainly the noisiest—of restless spirits to haunt the modern-day world . . .

  A dedicated investigator of the elusive nature of reality, an intrepid explorer of alternate states of consciousness, a wickedly effective and acidulous satirist, the late Philip K. Dick wrote some of the most brilliant novels and short stories in the history of the SF genre, and is now being widely recognized as one of the major authors of the late 20th century, in any genre. He won a Hugo Award for his novel The Man in the High Castle, and his many other novels include Ubik, Martian Time-Slip, The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldrich, Time Out of Joint, and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, which was somewhat disappointingly filmed as Blade Runner. His most recent books, published posthumously, include The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, Radio Free Albemuth, Puttering About In A Small Land, The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike, and the massive three-volume set The Work of Philip K. Dick.

  * * *

  “Roog!” the dog said. He rested his paws on the top of the fence and looked around him.

  The Roog came running into the yard.

  It was early morning, and the sun had not really come up yet. The air was cold and gray, and the walls of the house were damp with moisture. The dog opened his jaws a little as he watched, his big black paws clutching the wood of the fence.

  The Roog stood by the open gate, looking into the yard. He was a small Roog, thin and white, on wobbly legs. The Roog blinked at the dog, and the dog showed his teeth.

  “Roog!” he said again. The sound echoed into the silent half-darkness. Nothing moved nor stirred. The dog dropped down and walked back across the yard to the porch steps. He sat down on the bottom step and watched the Roog. The Roog glanced at him. Then he stretched his neck up to the window of the house, just above him. He sniffed at the window.

  The dog came flashing across the yard. He hit the fence, and the gate shuddered and groaned. The Roog was walking quickly up the path, hurrying with funny little steps, mincing along. The dog lay down against the slats of the gate, breathing heavily, his red tongue hanging. He watched the Roog disappear.

  The dog lay silently, his eyes bright and black. The day was beginning to come. The sky turned a little whiter, and from all around the sounds of people getting up echoed through the morning air. Lights popped on behind shades. In the chilly dawn a window was opened.

  The dog did not move. He watched the path.

  In the kitchen Mrs. Cardossi poured water into the coffeepot. Steam rose from the water, blinding her. She set the pot down on the edge of the stove and went into the pantry. When she came back Alf was standing at the door of the kitchen. He put his glasses on.

  “You bring in the paper?” he said.

  “It’s outside.”

  Alf Cardossi walked across the kitchen. He threw the bolt on the back door and stepped out onto the porch. He looked into the gray, damp morning. At the fence Boris lay, black and furry, his tongue out.

  “Put the tongue in,” Alf said. The dog looked quickly up. His tail beat against the ground. “The tongue,” Alf said. “Put the tongue in.”

  The dog and the man looked at one another. The dog whined. His eyes were bright and feverish.

  “Roog!” he said softly.

  “What?” Alf looked around. “Someone coming? The paperboy come?”

  The dog stared at him, his mouth open.

  “You certainly upset these days,” Alf said. “You better take it easy. We both getting too old for excitement.”

  He went inside the house.

  ###

  The sun came up. The street became bright and alive with color. The postman went along the sidewalk with his letters and magazines. Some children hurried by, laughing and talking.

  About 11:00, Mrs. Cardossi swept the front porch. She sniffed the air, pausing for a moment.

  “It smells good today,” she said. “That means it’s going to be warm.”

  In the heat of the noonday sun the black dog lay stretched out full length, under the porch. His chest rose and fell. In the cherry tree the birds were playing, squawking and chattering to each other. Once in a while Boris raised his head and looked at them. Presently he got to his feet and trotted down under the tree.

  He was standing under the tree when he saw the two Roogs sitting on the fence, watching him.

  “He’s big,” the first Roog said. “Most Guardians aren’t as big as this.”

  The other Roog nodded, his head wobbling on his neck. Boris w
atched them without moving, his body stiff and hard. The Roogs were silent, now, looking at the big dog with his shaggy ruff of white around his neck.

  “How is the offering urn?” the first Roog said. “Is it almost full?”

  “Yes.” The other nodded. “Almost ready.”

  “You, there!” the first Roog said, raising his voice. “Do you hear me? We’ve decided to accept the offering, this time. So you remember to let us in. No nonsense, now.”

  “Don’t forget,” the other added. “It won’t be long.”

  Boris said nothing.

  The two Roogs leaped off the fence and went over together just beyond the walk. One of them brought out a map and they studied it.

  “This area really is none too good for a first trial,” the first Roog said. “Too many Guardians . . . Now, the northside area—”

  “They decided,” the other Roog said. “There are so many factors—”

  “Of course.” They glanced at Boris and moved back farther from the fence. He could not hear the rest of what they were saying.

  Presently the Roogs put their map away and went off down the path.

  Boris walked over to the fence and sniffed at the boards. He smelled the sickly, rotten odor of Roogs and the hair stood up on his back.

  That night when Alf Cardossi came home the dog was standing at the gate, looking up the walk. Alf opened the gate and went into the yard.

  “How are you?” he said, thumping the dog’s side. “You stopped worrying? Seems like you been nervous of late. You didn’t used to be that way.”

  Boris whined, looking intently up into the man’s face.

  “You a good dog, Boris,” Alf said. “You pretty big, too, for a dog. You don’t remember long ago how you used to be only a little bit of a puppy.”

  Boris leaned against the man’s leg.

  “You a good dog,” Alf murmured. “I sure wish I knew what is on your mind.”

  He went inside the house. Mrs. Cardossi was setting the table for dinner. Alf went into the living room and took his coat and hat off. He set his lunch pail down on the sideboard and came back into the kitchen.

  “What’s the matter?” Mrs. Cardossi said.

  “That dog got to stop making all that noise, barking. The neighbors going to complain to the police again.”

  “I hope we don’t have to give him to your brother,” Mrs. Cardossi said, folding her arms. “But he sure goes crazy, especially on Friday morning, when the garbage men come.”

  “Maybe he’ll calm down,” Alf said. He lit his pipe and smoked solemnly. “He didn’t used to be that way. Maybe he’ll get better, like he was.”

  “We’ll see,” Mrs. Cardossi said.

  ###

  The sun came up, cold and ominous. Mist hung over all the trees and in the low places.

  It was Friday Morning.

  The black dog lay under the porch, listening, his eyes wide and staring. His coat was stiff with hoarfrost and the breath from his nostrils made clouds of steam in the thin air. Suddenly he turned his head and leaped up. From far off, a long way away, a faint sound came, a kind of crashing sound.

  “Roog!” Boris cried, looking around. He hurried to the gate and stood up, his paws on the top of the fence.

  In the distance the sound came again, louder now, not as far away as before. It was a crashing, clanging sound, as if something were being rolled back, as if a great door were being opened.

  “Roog!” Boris cried. He stared up anxiously at the darkened windows above him. Nothing stirred, nothing. And along the street the Roogs came. The Roogs and their truck moved along, bouncing against the rough stones, crashing and whirring.

  “Roog!” Boris cried, and he leaped, his eyes blazing. Then he became more calm. He settled himself down on the ground and waited, listening.

  Out in front the Roogs stopped their truck. He could hear them opening the doors, stepping down onto the sidewalk. Boris ran around in a little circle. He whined, and his muzzle turned once again toward the house.

  Inside the warm, dark bedroom, Mr. Cardossi sat up a little in bed and squinted at the clock.

  “That damn dog,” he muttered. “That damn dog.” He turned his face toward the pillow and closed his eyes.

  The Roogs were coming down the path, now. The first Roog pushed against the gate and the gate opened. The Roogs came into the yard. The dog backed away from them.

  “Roog! Roog!” he cried. The horrid, bitter smell of Roogs came to his nose, and he turned away.

  “The offering urn,” the first Roog said. “It is full, I think.” He smiled at the rigid, angry dog. “How very good of you,” he said.

  The Roogs came toward the metal can, and one of them took the lid from it.

  “Roog! Roog!” Boris cried, huddled against the bottom of the porch steps, his body shook with horror. The Roogs were lifting up the big metal can, turning it on its side. The contents poured out onto the ground, and the Roogs scooped the sacks of bulging, splitting paper together, catching at the orange peels and fragments, the bits of toast and eggshells.

  One of the Roogs popped an eggshell into his mouth. His teeth crunched the eggshell.

  “Roog!” Boris cried hopelessly, almost to himself. The Roogs were almost finished with their work of gathering up the offering. They stopped for a moment, looking at Boris.

  Then, slowly, silently, the Roogs looked up, up the side of the house, along the stucco, to the window, with its brown shade pulled tightly down.

  “ROOG!” Boris screamed, and he came toward them, dancing with fury and dismay. Reluctantly, the Roogs turned away from the window. They went out through the gate, closing it behind them.

  “Look at him,” the last Roog said with contempt, pulling his corner of the blanket up on his shoulder. Boris strained against the fence, his mouth open, snapping wildly. The biggest Roog began to wave his arms furiously and Boris retreated. He settled down at the bottom of the porch steps, his mouth still open, and from the depths of him an unhappy, terrible moan issued forth, a wail of misery and despair.

  “Come on,” the other Roog said to the lingering Roog at the fence. They walked up the path.

  “Well, except for these little places around the Guardians, this area is well cleared,” the biggest Roog said. “I’ll be glad when this particular Guardian is done. He certainly causes us a lot of trouble.”

  “Don’t be impatient,” one of the Roogs said. He grinned. “Our truck is full enough as it is. Let’s leave something for next week.”

  All the Roogs laughed. They went on up the path, carrying the offering in the dirty, sagging blanket.

  Do It for Mama!

  Concerning Dogs, Men & Manhattan: 24 Hours of Violence & Tragedy

  By Jerrold J. Mundis

  In the harrowing and ironic story that follows, Jerrold J. Mundis gives us a frightening, all-too-plausible look into the future of New York City . . . a not-too-distant, not-too-different future, where the simple act of taking your dog out for a walk might turn out to be the most dangerous thing you’ll ever do . . .

  Jerrold J. Mundis is a veteran author whose work has appeared in such publications as The New York Times Magazine, American Heritage, Harper’s Weekly, New Worlds, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and New York Magazine. His books include Gerhardt’s Children, and The Dogs. His most recent book is Back to the Black.

  * * *

  At 12:40 P.M. on Tuesday, September 13, Patrolmen Gerald O’Malley and Walter Ensley knocked on the door of an apartment on Mulberry Street. They were admitted by Joseph D’Agostino, an unemployed longshoreman. His wife was sitting on a sofa in the living room at the end of a hall. She held a beagle in her lap, and she was crying. D’Agostino smiled at the policemen and asked, “This is a joke, right? You guys ain’t really lookin’ to take my dog.” Patrolman Ensley answered that is was their duty to confiscate the animal in accordance with Section 161.05 of the Health Code—unless the D’Agostinos could produce a certificate of authorization f
rom the Environmental Protection Administration. D’Agostino said he couldn’t, and then offered the policemen a $50 bribe, which they refused. The longshoreman stepped aside and motioned them toward the living room. He said to his wife, “I’m sorry, baby. There’s no other way.” As the officers passed through the arch at the end of the hall, they were assaulted from both sides by three men who had been hiding, and by D’Agostino from the rear. They were savagely beaten with pipes and heavy pieces of dowling and kicked with steel-toed work boots. Then, bleeding and insensible, they were dragged from the building and dumped in the gutter.

  It was the first major incident of what has come to be known throughout this nation, and in many foreign countries as, well, as “Bloody Tuesday.”

  Six weeks have passed, and now an uneasy peace prevails in the city. The New Yorker in the street has reassumed his traditional mask of detachment, his formal and sometimes cold politeness. But within him still roils the maelstrom of shame and hatred that is September 13’s legacy. Scattered incidents of violence have erupted since then, but police have damped them quickly, and in several cases even passersby have sprung forward to pull the combatants apart. Such willingness to become involved is new to the people of New York, where 30 persons once increased the volume of their radios and television sets so they would not have to listen to the screams of a young woman being stabbed to death in front of their building. The reason is simple: they are willing to chance minor personal injury in order to stave off the immensely more frightening consequences of a recurrence of the events of last month.

  As Decoration or Memorial Day has a greater reality than the date May 30th, so also has Bloody Tuesday brutally supplanted September 13th.

  Section 161.05 of the Health Code was passed by the City Council in March of this year. It reads: “No person shall cause or allow a dog or other member of the canine family to be owned, kept, maintained, possessed or controlled in his own residence or in the residencies of his agents, tenants or lessees except as provided for in the regulations of the Environmental Protection Administration. Persons violating this section will be guilty of a misdemeanor and subject to a fine of not less than $500 nor more than $1,000 and/or imprisonment of not less than six months, nor more than one year.” The regulations of the Environmental Protection Administration, approved and passed on the same day, dictate that authorization will be given only to dogs who are (1) guides for the blind, (2) necessary for the mental or emotional health of the owner (as attested to by an affidavit from a licensed psychiatrist), or (3) essential to the owner’s personal safety or that of his business (as confirmed by written statement from the commanding officer of the applicant police precinct). It was estimated that these conditions would permit not more than 3,500 dogs to remain in the city.