by Unknown
Instantly, Miss Moosevulture came to him and began stroking his hand. Dr. Leopardsheep hemmed and hawed sympathetically. Dr. Birdmouse fluttered and swished, and said, “Dear, dear boy. It's all for the best. We've discussed and discussed you, and we're doing just the right thing.”
He went on to explain that they had taken a liking to Vandercook the moment they saw him, but that for a long time they hadn't been sure whether they ought to keep him on Eetwee. They could tell that he was an artist at heart, and that he hadn't been happy moving around from world to world all the time – but still there was his career, and he seemed always so anxious to start off again. It was a real puzzle. The best minds on Eetwee had wrestled with it day and night.
“And you'll just never guess,” Dr. Birdmouse said with a giggle, “what a silly thing I suggested at first. I thought that you liked diplomacy and skipping from planet to planet – just imagine! I should have guessed right away that you hated it all, and that you really wanted to settle down somewhere and make all sorts of ducky arrangements--”
The thought of ducky arrangements evoked a sharp mental picture. Vandercook shivered. “What do you know about it?” he said rudely. “Next you'll be telling me that you can read my mind!”
“Dear me, no,” Dr. Birdmouse replied. “I can't—but Miss Cowturtle can. Bless her soul! Such a nice person. She was really quite good at it too, considering how strange it was to her. She caught several glimpses of some plans you were making. They were awfully romantic, but somehow you didn't seem to be really too happy about them. I mean, you didn't seem awfully ardent. But she understood why with the first little peek: whoever it was you were thinking of seemed so dowdy and plain. And then—well, then she found out how badly you wanted to take some of us with you, and she got the feeling that you valued us very highly. We were so touched, dear boy. After that, President Bearpossum and Dr. Leopardsheep and young Mr. Snakepig and I all agreed that you were torn between love and duty, and that what you really wanted deep down inside was to stay here on dear little Eetwee--”
There was a small, timid knock on the door, and Dr. Birdmouse called out, “Come i-in,” and Miss Cowturtle entered.
Vandercook regarded her with frank loathing. “You mean that thing read my mind?” he demanded. “That—that goddam cowturtle freak?”
“Oh, she isn't Miss Cowturtle any more,” Dr. Birdmouse put in. “She's Mrs. Vandercook now.”
“SHE'S WHAT?” Vandercook screamed.
“Mrs. Vandercook,” Dr. Birdmouse repeated. “You can make your arrangements together. Won't that be nice?”
Vandercook looked around for an exit. There was only one, and Dr. Leopardsheep was showing his teeth right beside it. He thought of the old days, and the rows and rows of sweet, lean young women, and sweet, panting middle-aged women, and darling, wistful old women all eating him up with their lovely moist eyes. He burst into tears.
At once, Dr. Birdmouse and young Mr. Snakepig helped him into a chair. “You don't have to take on so, dear boy,” said the Doctor. “I know it's wonderful, wonderful news, but you mustn't let it affect you so much. After all, we did bring you to the honeymoon-groves every day, over the proper red carpets, and with all the best men and bridesmaids making their loveliest gestures, and we did build your house right in the middle to prepare you psychologically. We even saved your piano out for you. And now, dear boy” – he held out a small cordial – “just drink this and you'll feel so much better.”
Blindly, Vandercook reached for the glass.
“Down the hatch,” remarked young Mr. Snakepig.
Vandercook swallowed it all, felt instantly better and realized a little too late that it was flavored with licorice.
Miss Moosevulture clapped her wing-hands. “There!” she cried out delightedly. “I told you he wouldn't dissolve! I was sure all that was nonsense about Man being different from everyone else.”
“I'm so glad,” mooed Miss Cowturtle ardently.
“This is splendid,” declared Dr. Leopardsheep. “For the first time in hundreds of years we have an entirely new species to work with. Mr. Vandercook, you will go down in history.”
Vandercook saw the future in its full four dimensions – and found all of them utterly hideous. He showed the whites of his eyes, and pointed a palsied forefinger at Miss Cowturtle. “No, no, n-n-no!” he gibbered. “I c-c-can't be stuck here with that!”
Dr. Birdmouse laughed gently. “You won't be, dear boy. We understand you better than that. After all, this sweet person--” he bowed “--saw that your being an ambassador was just sublimation, and that you really wanted to spend the rest of your life flitting from one little mate to another like a dear little bee. Miss Cowturtle is just the first Mrs. Vandercook. Look out of the window.”
Vandercook turned his head like a robot. Outside, at the door, they were patiently waiting—Miss Camelbat and Miss Hippogiraffe, Miss Goosemonkey and funny little Miss Frogterrier, Miss Yakpigeon and Miss Sealweasel and the fat, elderly Widow Horserabbit, and all their nice friends. The line ran from the door, through the place where the gestures were made, and the out-grove, all the way to the patch where the spaceboat had been.
Slowly, through his despair, Vandercook realized that they looked awfully familiar. Slowly, he began to feel strangely comforted.
He sobbed only once more. Then he went to the piano, and turned on his famous, soft smile, and – never taking his eyes from the ladies – began the Moonlight Sonata.
Dog's Life
by Martha Soukup
Dogs are pack animals, while cats are solitary hunters. This is the reason that dogs have the reputation of being “man’s best friend”, while cats are seen as selfish, unable to return the feelings of their loving owners. (This perception would be challenged by anyone who has encountered a pack of feral dogs, or by many cat owners whose pets persist in bringing them “gifts” of dead or live mice, small birds, or gophers.)
How would these instincts manifest themselves if the dogs and cats were as sentient as we are? Soukup’s Herb the dog and Wayfarer the cat show one theory.
“YOU'RE what?” asked Angela.
Herb, a large, dusty-beige dog, sat beside a cardboard box that contained a few items – a bone, a catnip mouse, a couple of worn blankets – that the animals agreed they could rightfully claim as theirs. The Siamese, Wayfarer, lay curled atop it.
“We're moving out,” Herb said. Wayfarer gave a triumphant flick of her tail.
“But why?”
“Animals,” said Martin. “Don't have an ounce of gratitude.”
“Gratitude,” Wayfarer sneered. “Gratitude for being locked up in this dingy house when there are cats out there I have a right to see? Gratitude for being fed brown sludge from a can? Gratitude, I imagine, for being thrown bodily out of any chair I happen to be napping in if some human being wants it instead?”
“So who bought that chair? Who bought that food?”
“Martin,” said Angela warningly. She turned to the animals. “Wayfarer, Herb, I'm sure we can work this out. Let's talk about this.”
“The time for talking is through. What reason is there for four-footed animals to be subservient to two-footed? It's slavery,” she said cooly, her tail describing a figure eight in the air.
“Do you feel that way, too?” Angela asked the dog.
Herb looked away. “I think she's right,” he said, “that there's something wrong about living like this. I'm sorry.”
“Oh, Herb—”
“No hard feelings,” the dog said gruffly. He nosed the box forward. Angela looked at him helplessly. “Um, could I trouble you to open the door?”
“Be my guest,” Martin said, yanking it open with an obsequious gesture out. Angela reached out a hand to stroke the dog's ear, but pulled it back, watching as Wayfarer rode the carton of worldly possessions Herb pushed down the street.
“We should have thought this out more,” Wayfarer complained.
We? thought Herb, since it all had been the
cat's idea, but he kept it to himself. Instead, he pulled the blankets out of the box and arranged them as best he could behind a dumpster. Shivering in the autumn chill, he tried to sleep, Wayfarer providing the only spot of warmth where she pressed against his flank.
At dawn Herb woke from a fitful doze to find a ragged, spotted mongrel sniffing at him. “Morning,” said the strange dog. “What's a couple of pets like you doing out on the street?”
“How'd you know?” Herb mumbled.
“Hmm, what?”
“How can you tell we're pets?”
The mongrel looked amused. “Collars,” he said.
“Oh,” said Herb.
“So?” said the spotted dog. Wayfarer gave a sleeping snort and rolled over. “What happened – kicked out?”
“No – our decision.”
The mongrel shook his head. “Pretty dumb. You gave up a roof and a meal ticket to eat out of garbage cans?”
Herb had been considering that, but he drew himself up – trying not to waken the cat – and said, stiffly, “We declared independence. It's a political statement. Humans and dogs – and cats – can't relate honestly until we meet on an equal level.” He strained his head around, chewed at his loose collar, tore it off, and flung it to the asphalt.
“Wow,” said the mongrel. “No kidding? Then you got guts, kid.”
Herb doubted it, but it felt good to hear. “Thanks.”
“Maybe not brains, though.” Herb blinked. “Incidentally, this is my alley. Find yourself another crash space tomorrow night.” The spotted dog made a quick deposit against the brick wall and trotted off.
“Tuna?” murmured Wayfarer in her sleep. “No, I'll have the salmon mousse.”
Herb could – just barely – make himself root through a garbage can and pretend it was table scraps, but Wayfarer always demanded the best of whatever he found. “Siamese have delicate digestions,” she said primly in a voice that allowed no argument.
It wasn't the food that bothered Herb, or trying to sleep without freezing or being run off by former occupants. He felt like a deadbeat.
“I need time to recover from my deep-rooted trauma,” Wayfarer said when he brought it up. “Anyway, if we're really declaring independence from an inequitable system, there's no reason to play by its rules.”
Herb was stubborn. Leaving Angela and Martin to be his own dog meant assuming his own responsibilities. And winter was coming on.
“You got to be kidding,” said the security chief.
“Please, sir,” said Herb. “You're the first employer I've been able to get through to. Give me a chance.”
“Canines ain't independents,” said the chief. “Ain't done.”
“I'll work cheap. I'll earn any responsibility you give me.”
“How cheap?”
“Less than minimum wage,” Herb offered desperately. “I'm not a human – it's legal.”
“True,” said the chief.
“And you can get rid of me if you aren't satisfied. I don't have a union and I don't need a contract.”
“Good, 'cause I don't sign contracts with mutts.”
Wayfarer expressed disappointment at his joining the system but didn't reject the one-room, no-bath apartment Herb found. The landlady looked dubious, but took the cash. “Just till I get real people for it.” With what she charged for the dingy hole, that was as unlikely as the animals getting an actual lease. Still, there was money left over for Herb to buy generic dry dog food and the expensive single-serving food and occasional fresh fish Wayfarer demanded for her digestion.
Herb suggested the cat try to clean the place up while he was at work. Somehow it seemed he ended up doing most of the heavy work.
“You're much better suited for it,” she commented, grooming her whiskers.
“What does that mean?” he demanded, losing his patience.
“You're bigger – you're stronger – you have a better constitution. And you're more temperamentally suited to unimaginative work.”
He struggled to remind himself they were fellow oppressed creatures, and nothing could come without a little sacrifice.
And he did enjoy the pride he felt, supporting himself, beholden to no one. He liked working for a living.
“Sorry,” said the chief. “This came outta management. Not my idea.”
“But I've worked hard! I've never missed a day! I'm the best guard at the factory – canine or human!”
“I wouldn't say that was wrong. But it ain't the point.”
“Look,” said Herb. “I don't even know where that came from.” The human-interest section of the newspaper between them bore the headline, ANIMAL RIGHTS? And the subhead, TWO “DECLARE INDEPENDENCE” FROM HUMANITY. There was a picture of Wayfarer looking soberly into the distance, head raised nobly. There was also a small, fuzzy old shot of himself leaping for a frisbee, one of the few mementos Herb had brought from Angela's house. “I never talked to any reporters.”
“It's lousy publicity for the company. We don't need trouble.”
Herb got home before dawn to find a box on the sidewalk in front of their building. On the box was Wayfarer. Her tail blurred with motion.
“That rotten – human,” she said, and hissed. “She's evicted us! Said she runs a quiet building. Hah! That's a joke. Where is she at three A.M., when all the radios are blasting?”
Herb dropped the moist newspaper in front of Wayfarer. “What do you know about this?” he asked her.
Wayfarer glanced at it. “Oh, that. The picture’s not too bad, is it? I think my other side is better.”
“Did you talk to that reporter?”
“Why not? I've got nothing else to do all day,” Wayfarer said. “This neighborhood doesn't have a very good class of cats,” she added critically.
“It got me fired!” Herb said. “Don't you think you could have consulted with me first?'
The cat stared at him. “You don't own me,” she said coldly. “Did I escape the domination of human being to take orders from a dog?”
“I'm sorry,” Herb said awkwardly.
“All right, I'll accept that. What's for dinner?”
Wayfarer refused to sleep on the street again. Herb had exactly twenty-seven dollars. The hotel they found wanted ten dollars a night for a room that made their previous quarters look palatial; Herb had a piece of work talking Wayfarer into accepting the room. “We can't afford anything better. We can only pay for two nights as it is.”
“So get another job,” she said.
Most places still outright refused to talk to a dog. Others glared. “You're the troublemaker, aren't you?” Word seemed to have gotten to all the firms that used guard dogs, and he couldn't think of other work to try for.
The second day was worse. Street animals were no friendlier than humans. “Life's rough enough without muzzy-head idealists like you rocking the boat!” a little three-legged terrier called angrily at him. And there were no jobs available, not even interviews.
Dejected, he walked back to the hotel, five dollars in his pouch.
Wayfarer was not alone. “Mr. Herb Canis, I presume?” the man with the briefcase said, extending a hand.
“Canis?” said Herb. He shook hands, which made him feel vaguely foolish, as though he were rolling over. A card appeared in the man's hand, and Herb took it in his mouth.
“Canis,” said Wayfarer. “We can hardly go by Norlander, can we? Names are identities, the selves we show the world. And 'Wayfarer Norlander' sounds ridiculous. I considered changing ‘Wayfarer,' but I've dignified that name by making it my own and taken 'Felis' for a surname, as an example to felines everywhere.”
“She has quite a message, doesn't she?” said the man. “And the style and conviction to get it across.”
“This isn't another reporter, is it?” asked Herb. “Wayfarer, we've had enough trouble.”
“Hardly,” said the man, with a polite little laugh. “If you'd look at my card--”
Herb dropped it on the floor and read �
�Foster Roderick, Flair Public Relations.”
“I have engaged Ms. Felis on Oprah and Donahue, and I'm working on Letterman.” Wayfarer stretched contentedly on the satin cushion Herb had bought her with his first paycheck.
“What? So fast?”
Roderick said, “I had the bookings yesterday evening. The only catch was finding Ms. Felis and yourself – you see what a good p.r. firm can accomplish. Getting you to the top will be trivial by comparison.”
“Us?”
“I speak of you as compatriots, of course. You do realize, though, that it's Ms. Felis—”
“You may call me Wayfarer, Foster,” she purred.
“Wayfarer has a quality. She'll be beautifully telegenic. She'll just leap from the screen.” He looked Herb over. “You – well, you have a certain blue-collar charm, I'd say. We might be able to do something with you later. But let's start with Wayfarer, don't you think?'
“Sure,” said Herb, dazed.
A limo picked Wayfarer up for her first interview. A limo drove them, days later, to their new Michigan Avenue condo. Wayfarer jetted around the country, and Herb stayed home and watched her on television.
The networks ran stories covering pet-store picketings, Wayfarer providing commentary. Animal rights bills were introduced. Shelters for street animals and disaffected pets sprang up. Wayfarer T-shirts flooded department stores, one of the many rights to her image Roderick had sold.
Herb had nothing to do.
He slipped out of the building one day and took himself for a walk. He was a little concerned he'd be recognized as Wayfarer's partner, but he wasn't. He walked for an hour before he realized he was headed for the office where Angela worked. No big deal, he told himself; the odds of running into anyone downtown are tiny.
So it took three hours before Angela walked down the street.
She drew up short and looked at him. Finally she said, “Herb.”
“Hi.”
“So, um, what are you doing downtown?”
“Nothing much. Window-shopping.”
