The female robot is an extraordinary mimic, and no one suspects that I, the dog in her satchel, am controlling her movements remotely. Men and women alike are always giving the robot their phone numbers, complimenting its haircut, inviting it to tapas. Not only did I program the robot to locomote on stilettos as if they were ice skates, I also designed its fabulous outfit; it sips skinny-chinos with an inhuman grace and never spills a drop on its white jacket. Meanwhile I steer myself through the busy streets in my soft leather berth, acquiring information for my future takeover. “Sooo cuuute!” the passersby squeal, patting my head, smearing their DNA all over me, and I beam their data directly to my home computer. Although it may have been a tactical error to stage the takeover from this particular bag, which is so luxurious that occasionally passersby ignore me completely and choose to pet the Tory Burch instead. Next time, perhaps, a JanSport.
(If you haven't read any Karen Russell, you should. St. Lucy's Home For Girls Raised By Wolves is my favourite short story collection of the last few years, her prose is beautiful and stories imaginative without falling into tropes. She also adapted one of the stories into a full length novel that is winning all the accolades. In short, she rocks.)