@dogfetch
Today, on the seventh day, Dr. Barks presents the dog. But there were six days before this day and there’s a lot to appreciate here and we’re going to appreciate it. On the sixth day, they trained it. On the fifth day, they trained it. On the fourth day, they were also still training it. It’s a training heavy process. How do you teach a dog how to be a dog? How do you teach a dog how to be another dog? You don’t! You just do not! That’d take too long. It’s impractical, it’s tedious--this isn’t a doggy daycare. You don’t teach it how to be. You teach it how to not be. No weird tongue noises. No using your paws as hands unless they ask you to ‘sit and shake’. No drinking water with your lips. No walking in loop-the-loops as a means of primary travel. Most of all, no undogly noises. On the third day, they replicate the final draft of the dog. On the second day, they finish the rough draft. On the first day, they find a lost dog poster with a picture of the dog to copy. It’s a work of art. It’s nobel prize worthy. And if Dr. Barks is doing her job well enough, no one will ever recognize her for it.
Dr. Barks walks up the suburban family home’s sidewalk to the front door with not-Lucky-the-corgi tucked under her armpit like a furry purse (the real Lucky is out there, somewhere, eating wet slippers or punching cats or doing whatever it is family dogs do--Dr. Barks never had one). She’s wearing her Return Of The Lost Dog Outfit. It’s every fancy article of clothing she owns, which is not many and not at all cohesive. Black and white polkadot socks. Shiny, yellow dress shoes. 50′s style high-waisted yellow and green plaid pants. White belt (a gift from her mother when she was still alive). Orange turtleneck sweater. This is the suburbs. She has to look dignified and trustworthy and moderately rich. She has to blend in. She thinks this outfit does the job. Why wouldn’t it? This is how these people dress. It’s why she looks so confident. But none of this is something she’d willingly choose to wear: it’s why she keeps pulling at the neck of her sweater, why her pants slouch diagonally above her hips.
She holds the dog up to her face. Gives it a look over, checking off all the Lucky-the-corgi details in her mind. They’re both fake: her as a parody of your friendly-belonging-one-block-and-four-houses-over-neighbor, it as a parody of Lucky-the-corgi-the-nuclear-family-dog. In this respect, Dr. Barks feels a small pang of camaraderie, companionship with not-Lucky. Not enough to keep it. She stuffs it back under her armpit and rings the doorbell.
She wags her finger at it and whisper-shouts to it as though it understands:
“No. Undogly. Noises.”
A young-mother-looking-woman answers the door, they’re probably the young mother of the household.
“Are you the young mother of the household? I saw your lost dog poster and found your Lucky. How very, very lucky... of Lucky.”
Gasps. Fondling the not-dog’s face. Meaningless small talk. Some tears. Yelling for the children. Finally, here we are. The young mother invites Dr. Barks inside. They enter. The door shuts.