Decoded Dog

by Dianne Janczewski

  “Even dolphins? Dolphins are mammals, right?”

  “Yup and yup.”

  “But if I’m a mammal and I have this cold virus, why don’t other mammals like a dog get it?”

  “Good question. Some viruses are just more specific. Some of it has to do with how quickly the virus or the host, or both, evolve. Some viruses evolve alongside, or rather inside of their host species, without doing a lot of harm so they essentially co-evolve.” Diana picked up the remote and the channels started to change. “Other viruses rapidly evolve, like the influenza virus or the rhinovirus or coronavirus that causes colds, and their host species, us, don’t ever get a chance to co-evolve an immunity. Add in modern medicine, which changes the way we adapt and all application of standard evolutionary theory goes out the—”

  “Mom.” She silenced me, feigning imminent death. I picked up her dirty dishes, leaned over to press my cheek against hers to feel her temperature, and stood up, blocking her view of the screen.

  “Bottom line is it is not cool to kill off your host, so sooner or later you should establish a more symbiotic relationship with them if you are an infecting agent and you want to survive.

  “Viruses don’t have brains, Mom. And mine might explode if you try to put any more into it today and that would be really gross.”

  “Oh my poor dear, I wouldn’t want you to spew your brain all over the place and make the rest of us sick! Let me just add that there is a lot of DNA in a species that actually came from viruses that originally inserted themselves into the genome to use the host to create more copies, but over time mutated to the point of being inactive and incorporated into—”

  “Mom? You done?”

  “Finished. I’m not a cake. Remember?” Diana buried her face in her pillows, imitating a seizure. I left the room content in having scored a few educational points. I peeked back in, just to make sure she was faking. I’m actually not that bad a mom. She was back in her cartoon world and I felt a sudden sense of urgency to get back to mine and let myself get pulled back into my laptop.

  Ania was curled up against her feet, keeping close, standing by, solidifying her pack.

  They have trendy clothes, use phrases and words that are foreign to me, and are experts in navigating the latest social media app within moments of release. I sometimes look at my daughters and wonder, “How did we end up here?” With both Chris and me being environmentalists, I had visions of Birkenstock-wearing, tree-hugging clones of us that would eagerly await the weekend we were going to go help plant sea grass that we grew at home as part of the Chesapeake Bay Foundation’s restoration effort. And we did that, though they were barely old enough to remember now. We had a dead animal collection, starting with the sun-dried Pipistrelle bat—one of the smallest, cutest of bats—we found stuck on our window screen. Our collection grew as we found a snake skin (though technically not a dead animal), exoskeletons of a horseshoe crab and some seventeen-year cicadas, and countless beetles and other cool critters. The girls were licked in the face by dogs and consumed dirt along the way: things we firmly believed were necessary to build a child’s immune system and character.

  We are fortunate to both have good jobs; we’re not wealthy, but solidly middle class. Though sometimes, I know that all our efforts to provide my daughters a comfortable life have also done them a disservice. Their busy lives revolve around their needs, and their volunteerism meets their schools service hour requirements, though falls short of instilling in them social responsibility. We imprinted in them the importance of family, loyalty, tolerance, and conservation. We tried but failed to teach them to turn the lights off when they left a room.

  Surrounded by dogs from the moment they were born, Tess and Diana developed respect and love of animals and compassion for fellow humans. Those were non-negotiable. They are happy, kind, funny, and self-centered. But our ability to influence them slowly slips away as they navigate their way through public school, peer pressure, pop culture, and a world of outside influences. I had no idea at the time that those first five years would be so critical in establishing a foundation of morals, beliefs, and communication. I see glimpses of our influence in their evolving opinions, but I have had to accept the disintegration of my vision of how my children would be, just as I accepted the disintegration into dust of our dead animal collection by the tiny live organisms feeding on it. I watch, react, support, hold my tongue, and recalibrate when I can. My daughters have a totally different vantage point, giving them a perspective unlike mine. I hold on tight as their personalities develop, jagged edges worn down as the waves of life wash over them, and wait for beautiful smooth beach glass to emerge.

  Diana was asleep, Tess was prepping for the regional science fair in two weeks, and I was sitting in the dark staring at my computer.

  Chris, on the other side of the room in the big chair, was staring at our dim reflection in the sunroom glass doors. He looked tired and disengaged, or rather, distracted. In a rare exchange of our roles of late, he came home after dark, and we ate dinner in relative silence, except for my cute story about Diana and the science lecture. As a stay-at-home mom today, I had called to check on the progress of Jamie’s analysis of the GR sequences to see if there were any anomalies, but nothing had revealed itself. It was frustrating, as it looked like we had uncovered CRFS’ mode of action, but not the cause. Maybe it could at least lead to a treatment, if not a cure. But that would mean involving other scientists. Which would be okay.

  Chris didn’t seem to have the energy to register the small events of the day. It registered with me that this was how I acted lately, and how he must have felt my absence.

  Without turning to look at me, he asked, “How far upstream of the GR gene have you sequenced?”

  “What?” I shook my head to register his words. “Um, I’m not sure, but I would guess slightly before the promoter region all the way through and slightly past the stop codon to confirm that we definitely had a full gene sequence.”

  “Can you find out? And if you don’t have another two to three thousand bases past the promoter and stop, can you ask them to get it?” His movements were measured, his speech deliberate; he was containing something huge.

  I picked up my laptop and moved closer to him. “Okay, I’ll send them an email now so they can get started first thing in the morning.” I tilted my head: concerned or confused or both. “Want to give me a hint what’s going on in that powerful brain of yours?”

  He moved to the edge of his chair, and faced me, his expression one of a mad scientist plotting a maniacal plan. “Diana may not be that far off in her confusion about cross-species infection.” He raised one eyebrow.

  “So you were listening to my story.”

  “Every word, and more.” He stood up, towering over me. “I might be way off base, but if Megan and Jamie get more of the sequence, can they send it to me right away so I can explore my idea?”

  “Sure, Sherlock. You going to clue me in?”

  “Can I keep it a surprise for another twelve hours? I don’t want to get overly excited, or get you overly excited on something that might be a dead end.”

  “Too late. And it’s not like we haven’t had a pile of dead ends. But, beware, if I ask them to do this, they’ll also be analyzing the data as it comes off the sequencer. You’ll have competition from those two and they’ll be at an obvious advantage having the data in hand before you.

  “Bring it on.”

  I stood and wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight, hearing his heart pound. I pulled away just far enough to look him in the eyes. “Kind of fun working together again, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and pulled me back in.

  I waited until almost midnight to email Jamie and Megan because I knew they would have likely left the lab. If I sent it before they left, regardless of how late, they would have spent the entire night working on my request. I wanted them well rested.

  Megan started processing samples before she took off her coat
, but it still took us the entire day to process enough samples to feel confident that we sequenced the whole GR gene and controlling ends. Jamie, meanwhile, alternated between attempting to do some benchwork and sitting at his computer bouncing his knee like one of those balls on a string on a paddle. By four o’clock, he was finally uploading the sequence data to the National Center for Biotechnology Information database to compare against the dog genome sequence, and sending a copy to Chris. The race was on.

  Diana was much better, and Chris stayed home. I had gone to the lab to offer help, but there really wasn’t anything I could do. I busied myself with updating our rapidly diminishing budget, and searching for any news on CRFS research discoveries. Google returned pages of reports on more dog deaths—in the thousands—and the impact on dog parks and pet stores, and the rise of fears that there was a new virus created by China, socialists, ISIS, or some other group that supposedly wanted to destroy our world. I headed home early to see what was happening on the receiving end of Jamie’s data.

  When I walked into the house, I was greeted by a subdued poodle party, a common variant on their greeting when the garbage has been their entertainment, or when something else is amiss in the house. The place was dark except for Chris’ computer in the sunroom, and the lights at the end of the hall in Diana and Tess’s rooms. I headed down the hall.

  “You feeling better, babe?” I asked Diana.

  “Yeah, much. Dad made us pizza and has been pacing the sunroom. Now both of my parents have abandoned me.” She put the back of her hand to her brow and collapsed on her pillows, ever the actress.

  “You’re fed, warm, and now apparently healthy enough to go back to school tomorrow. What more could you want?” I said as I sat down on the end of the bed. “How’d your day go?”

  “Okay. Wish I could stay home one more day though.” She fake coughed.

  “Sorry, you have stuff to do before your spring break. Where’s your sister? Her light is on, but she’s not in her room.”

  “Out, I guess. She has a life.” I gave her back one of her oh, pleeeease looks. “I think she went across the street to work on her project with Lisa, or something like that.”

  “Okay. You need anything?”

  “No. Glad you’re home though Mom. Oh, maybe some ice cream?”

  “You got it.” I headed to the kitchen, turning off the light in Tess’s room.

  The first poodle my mother bred was Abby. Unlike me, Abby was a good mom, the best of moms we ever had. When her first puppy was born, it took twenty seconds for her instincts to kick in, cleaning and nursing it with such care, even while simultaneously delivering another. She mothered her puppies longer than other moms, tolerating their needle-like teeth and sharpening claws, wincing as they fought to suck out one more snack. She played with her puppies with such joy, high-stepping and gently springing aside to avoid hurting them. She taught them boundaries with a soft mouth on their muzzle or a quick sharp growl. I learned from her how to paint the blank canvas of a puppy. While some bitches will rebuff and even kill the puppies of another, she embraced her ancestral role as the matriarch and treated pups from my other females as a loving aunt should. Most telling was her desire to provide for them even as her artificial environment gave her few opportunities. I had a display full of my Steiff stuffed animals just within her reach, and each day she gently put her feet on the shelf to capture her quarry, carrying them one by one to create a stack of fresh kills outside the puppies’ pen. Abby was the best of moms.

  At least I delivered the ice cream.

  Chris paced, phone to his ear. He put the phone on speaker and sat down, mouse clicking back and forth. Then he was back on his phone. I watched him for a few moments until he saw me and motioned me in. The dogs cautiously trotted behind me.

  “It’s awfully dark in here. Can I turn on a light?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Jamie’s on the phone. Say hi.” He put the phone back on speaker and put it on his computer, standing to face me.

  “Hi Jamie,” I said, facing the computer-phone combination on the table between us. The silence was eerie. “What’s up, guys?”

  Jamie said “Claire, Chris and I—I’m sorry. Chris, do you want to tell her?”

  “No, you go ahead, Jamie. This is your discovery. I’m only here to troubleshoot and help validate.”

  “Jamie?” I half-pleaded.

  “It’s unequivocal. Just under 2,500 bases ahead of the regular promoter, there is a second, foreign promoter that we think is turning the GR gene on overdrive.”

  I sat down, staring at the phone then at Chris as he too sat.

  “Did you hear me?” Jamie asked tentatively.

  “Yes, yes I did, I’m just not sure what to . . .”

  “Say? Do? Think?” Chris asked.

  “Pretty much. Jamie, you said unequivocal. Explain.”

  “It is in every sample that Megan’s processed so far—seventeen of the CRFS-infected dogs. It does not occur in any samples from dogs prior to infection. Megan should have the rest of the samples ready by tomorrow evening.”

  “Okay. You said it was a foreign promoter. How do you know that?”

  “Because when we compare it to the entire dog genome sequence it does not match anything. It has to come from the outside.”

  “And do you have any idea where it came from?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  I retrieved Tess from Lisa’s, and she was ecstatic. “Mom, if a promoter has something to do with CRFS, I so want to be involved!”

  “Me too!” Diana added. “Dad said I gave him the idea to look outside the dog, whatever that means.”

  “I’ll keep you guys posted.” I gave them each a meaningful hug, and cracked a smile at the two of them sitting on Diana’s bed. “You two are the best.”

  “You go Mom, we’ll be fine.” Diana brightened. “We can call Lisa’s mom if we need anything.” They looked so mature as they grasped the enormity of my excitement.

  I called Anna trying to contain myself. “Anna, we have to meet with you! We’ve picked up an extra sequence in 100% of the affected individuals we’ve looked at so far. We need to get together.”

  “I closed at six. I’ll come—”

  “We’ll come to you. Can we meet you at your clinic? We want to see if there is anything in your records that might be related.”

  “You have all my data.” She pointed out the obvious.

  “Maybe,” I responded.

  Chris and I pulled into her clinic parking lot just as she was unlocking the door. She ushered us in and locked the door behind us. “I’m closing early these days,” she said. “With half my practice gone, I’ve become a cat clinic.”

  There was no need to comment. She’d just needed to say it. We made our way to the back room. The exam tables were cold and bare. We spread out our findings on one of the bench tops.

  “Use one of the tables. They have better lighting and are easier to work around,” Anna called out as she detoured into the lab area. Though the room was cleared of dead dogs the image was still vivid. I had to shake it off.

  She returned with a laptop and set it on the exam table. “So whatcha got?”

  “Well, Megan extracted pieces of DNA sequence that were longer on both ends than the original sequence we looked at, and Jamie then ran what looks to be an extra promoter on the GR gene through GenBank to see if he could match it to any known gene sequence. Chris has been working with him to validate his analysis.”

  “Quite a team you’ve got,” she congratulated me. Turning to Chris, she asked, “And you and Jamie found . . ?”

  Dangling his printed stats, he said, “There is an extra promoter but it looks nothing like the typical GR gene promoter. It doesn’t even look like a promoter for any gene found in the dog, so it doesn’t look to be just a random duplication of another dog gene’s promoter.”

  “I feel a but coming on.”

  “Yes, but a good but,” he said.

  “Kind of like
mine.” I smiled at both of them.

  Ignoring me, Chris continued, “I found a similar promoter on an unrelated gene.”

  “You just said it didn’t look like any other promoter in the dog.”

  “I did, correct. It’s not from any species in the dog family.” He paused for effect. “The promoter matches the promoter for an endogenous retrovirus in one of the Felidae species.”

  He looked to me to deliver the final punch line. “The domestic cat lineage.”

  We watched as Anna’s face transformed from curious to knowing—but not surprised, which seemed odd.

  “So what we are wondering is—”

  “Shh!” She held up one finger to silence me. She opened her laptop, clicked closed spreadsheets, and opened up access to her client records. “I already know where to look. I had ever-so-slightly suspected a connection early on but dismissed it as other things stuck out more. Damn it.” She impatiently banged on keys.

  “Suspected what? We didn’t even ask a question,” I said, confused.

  “There were a handful of cases in which I saw the owner one week when they brought in their cat, and the next week they brought in their dying dog. I remember them because when they brought the dog in I asked about the cat that I had just seen, but none of them reported that the cat was sick.”

  “So,” I said, “the question we were going to ask is whether you saw any sick cats in the same households.”

  “They weren’t sick,” she repeated abruptly.

  “So you thought it was a coincidence that they came in two weeks in a row?” I half asked.

  “No, I don’t believe in coincidences when it comes to science. I thought there had to be some sort of connection, but my fear was that by them coming here with their cat, they picked up something and took it home to their dog. Damn it, why didn’t I pay more attention to this?!” I saw tears welling up in her eyes as she was clicking through patient records. “I was so afraid that our clinic was contaminated and the cat owners were picking something up on their shoes or hands and taking it home to their dogs. I drove my technicians crazy with implementing an overly stringent disinfection regimen.”