by Unknown
How can they make love face to face?
Love,
Denise
Brainy Hunk Seeks Same or Better
As you can see from the attached photo, I'm a great-looking, well-exercised, full-blooded German shepherd who believes in maintaining himself both in body and mind. As such, I spend large parts of the day contemplating life's impenetrable mysteries, such as the meaning of existence, or the corporate destruction of animal life. Not to mention I once caught thirty-seven Frisbees in a row at the beach.
Do you ever wonder what's really going on inside the heads of our bizarre and often useless masters? Do you ever wonder how healthy, intelligent dogs such as ourselves kept in touch before this marvelous invention called the Internet? Do you feel it's time for a revolutionary change in the cause of animal rights? And I'm not just talking about the poor cows and pigs being chopped up for sandwiches. I'm talking about us dogs, who have been unfairly restricted from attending our nation's churches, schools, and government buildings for centuries.
When was the last time you saw a dog run for Congress or Parliament? And considering the woeful state of our Western democracies, who could it hurt?
If you ever stay awake at nights worrying about these and other questions, please drop me a line. And don't forget to attach a photo of your hairy posterior, just so I know our chemistry is clicking.
Love,
Rex
So Long You've Been Gone
Denise? Honey?
Every day we go to the park and you're not there. I know it's hopeless in terms of a long-term relationship. I know our masters are too hideous to develop an attachment to one another. But I can only think about tomorrow, Denise. I need to see you.
Even if it's for only an hour or a minute.
Will I? Soon?
Love,
Randall
Someone to Share the Magic
Dear Randall,
Can't talk now. I've been doing a little research and you won't believe what I learned.
I feel so ashamed for all those silly, cynical things I said about Internet dating services!
Hold on, baby. We're almost home.
Love,
Denise
Oriental Beauty Seeks American Male for Much Loving
Do you often wish for lovely oriental bitch with much loving for to give? Do you live in warm climate with many electrical appliances for personal entertainment and comfort? Do you much desire small bundle of Chinese love to cuddle in your soft doggy bed? Me would wish enjoy such cozy doggy bed much time soon.
Perhaps you consider marriage or cross-breeding or even cohabitation with little Chinese beauty of much loving to give.
Please send photo of esteemed doggy self along with photo of sunny backyard, photo of local trees and vegetation, photo of master(s) and/or mistress(es), and especially photo of cozy doggy bed.
Me looking forward often to hearing from you much time early.
Love,
Yinyang
First Contact
Dear Reginald of Regent's Park,
Please believe that I never evinced myself in this brash manner previously, but I was browsing the singles web sites and consequently made visual contact with your photo and profile under the mutually intriguing title “Lonely but Loving.” What a fortuitous circumstance of formidable complexity!
Perhaps you will not recall an incident of such inherent triviality, but we actually encountered one another in Regent's Park last week, or more accurately, our canine associates encountered one another in what might have developed into an unwholesome public display had you not intervened with your handy magazine, of which I am likewise fond on many occasions.
I have considered your scent often in the many weeks since our encounter and cannot get your attractive buttocks out of my mind. You will have to pardon my American bravado and vocabulary. I believe you refer to it as your “bum,” and might consider it gauche for a strange bitch such as myself to speak of it openly in free correspondence.
Please excuse my American candor, however, and perhaps my resultant awkwardness in formal composition regarding these matters. But I felt I must write you since it has caused me much joy to contemplate our reencounter in a parklike setting of our mutual convenience.
Perhaps I might put this more bluntly. Could we perhaps meet sometime soon? Since you are the male aggressor in such matters, I will leave the time and place to your decision utterly.
Might it not be pleasing to our canine associates to come along for the encounter? I am sure they have learned their lesson, and will not grow excessively amorous in any way disturbing to public decency, especially that of English.
In case you are lachrymose in recalling my attractivity, I have enclosed an e-photo of my most compelling feature. Please use as you see fit, say as a screen saver on your computer, which would remind you of my charms periodically and will arouse your semen delivery mechanisms.
Being a female of shy and reticent demeanor I have surprised myself fully with this open display of honesty, and ask that you kindly not remind me of such displays in the future, as they might scare me away, or make me less receptive to the type of licking and sniffing I enjoy upon first greeting in an amorous style of behavior.
Please understand that I am not a “loose woman” whatsoever but have spent my entire life saving up my passions for someone who smells exactly like you.
Anticipating your reply,
Candy
Ready for the Adventure?
Dear Denise,
What a brilliant bitch. I can't tell you how proud I am.
Bonehead has been running around all day with his head in the clouds. He can't sit still for a minute. He even bought me a new collar with these green, gemlike studs in it. They're just colored glass, but I can't wait for you to see how it looks on me.
My master did himself one better. He's had a haircut, a facial, a manicure, and even started using a moisturizer.
He smells as bad as Lysol air freshener, but he has a good heart and I hope your mistress appreciates all the time he's been putting into his appearance. (Not that she's any gift to nature herself, if you ask my opinion.)
I'm so excited I could piss all over the crummy linoleum. But I'm saving everything I have for you!
See you in the park, muchacha!
Love, Randall
Satisfied Customer
Dear Doggylove.com
My name is [name withheld] and I'm writing to thank you so much for your lovely dating service.
I guess I've always been cynical about these deals in the past, but that was before I met [name withheld] and found out how wonderful true love can be.
It seems like only weeks ago we were living in our separate domiciles, chewing our crunchy biscuits and moping, with nothing more exciting to look forward to than a scratch behind the ear from one of our sad, homely masters. Then we joined doggylove.com and out lives were transformed into a miracle of romance.
Even our masters got in on the act, mated, engendered an offspring, and bought a house in the country, to which we will be transporting our doggy beds in a few short days. Not to mention have a litter of our own and raise them in open harmony with nature, much like in the concluding scenes of our favorite movie, 101 Dalmatians.
Sometimes I turn to [name withheld] in the night and say to him, Honey, bite me on the rump. I must be dreaming!”
And [name withheld] always does exactly what I ask. Because, of course, he truly cares.
Yours sincerely,
Lost in Heaven
Editorial Reply
Dear Lost in Heaven,
Thanks so much for sharing your positive, life-affirming experiences with the rapidly expanding membership of doggylove.com, which has recently opened branches in Germany, the Netherlands, Saudi Arabia, and the Philippines. All over our exciting planet, canines are coming together to share their unique passions for giving and living.
So go out there and get the love you need! Don't
settle for second best! Or you'll find yourself lying alone someday in a smelly basement with nothing but a red rubber chewtoy to keep you warm.
As our cofounder and senior member Rosco the Big Mean Doggy likes to say: Have faith in someone besides yourself, no matter what they tell you, no matter how they smell . . .
So until next week, happy sniffing to all you hunky dudes and bitches!
Miaow!
(Ooops, stupid keyboard. Let's run by that again.)
Woof woof.
And love don't come truer than that.
The Fate of Mice
Susan Palwick
Why do so many stories about laboratory experiments to increase the sapience of animals involve solitary and arguably “mad” scientists with children? Susan Palwick’s tale pits a clearly emotionally unbalanced researcher against his more stable test mouse, who is aided by the researcher’s young daughter who has more respect for Rodney’s intelligence than her father does.
Palwick intriguingly posits a sort of collective memory of famous literary mice that her Rodney dimly intuits. How would a brain-boosted mouse come to know of these? But how else could he know of them? The reader wonders why Rodney is not also bombarded with memories of famous popular-cultural mice such as Mickey, Ignatz, Jerry of MGM’s “Tom and Jerry” cartoons, Miss Bianca, and so many others?
I REMEMBER galloping, the wind in my mane and the road hard against my hooves. Dr. Krantor says this is a false memory, that there is no possible genetic linkage between mice and horses, and I tell him that if scientists are going to equip IQ-enhanced mice with electronic vocal cords and teach them to talk, they should at least pay attention to what the mice tell them. “Mice,” Dr. Krantor tells me acidly, “did not evolve from horses,” and I ask him if he believes in reincarnation, and he glares at me and tells me that he's a behavioral psychologist, not a theologian, and I point out to him that it's pretty much the same thing. “You've got too much free time,” he snaps at me. “Keep this up and I'll make you run the maze again today.” I tell him that I don't mind the maze. The maze is fine. At least I know what I'm doing there: finding cheese as quickly as possible, which is what I'd do anyhow, anytime anyone gave me the chance. But what am I doing galloping?
“You aren't doing anything galloping,” he tells me. “You've never galloped in your life. You're a mouse.” I ask him how a mouse can remember being a horse, and he says, “It's not a memory. Maybe it's a dream. Maybe you got the idea from something you heard or saw somewhere. On TV.” There's a small TV in the lab, so Dr. Krantor can watch the news, but it's not even positioned so that I can see it easily. And I ask him how watching something on TV would make me know what it felt like to be a horse, and he says I don't know what it feels like to be a horse, I have no idea what a horse feels like, I'm just making it up.
But I remember that road, winding ahead in moonlight, the harness pulling against my chest, the sound of wheels behind me. I remember the three other horses in harness with me, our warm breath steaming in the frosty air. And then I remember standing in a courtyard somewhere, and someone bringing water and hay. We stood there for a long time, the four of us, in our harness. I remember that, but that's all I remember. What happened next?
Dr. Krantor came grumbling into the lab this morning, Pippa in tow. “You have to behave yourself,” he says sternly, and deposits her in a corner.
“Mommy was going to take me to the zoo,” she says. When I stand on my hind legs to peer through the side of the cage, I can see her pigtails flouncing. “It's Saturday.”
“Yes, I know that, but your mother decided she had other plans, and I have to work today.”
“She did not have other plans. She and Michael were going to take me to the zoo. You just hate Michael, Daddy!”
“Here,” he says, handing her a piece of graph paper and some colored pens. “You can draw a picture. You can draw a picture of the zoo.”
“You could have gotten a babysitter,” Pippa yells at him, her chubby little fists clenched against her polka-dot dress. “You're cheap. A babysitter'd take me to the zoo!”
“I'll take you myself, Pippa.” Dr. Krantor is whining now. “In a few hours. I just have a few hours of work to do, ok?”
“Huh,” she says. “And I bet you won't let me watch TV, either! Well I'm gonna talk to Rodney!”
Pippa calls me Rodney because she says it's prettier than rodent, which is what Dr. Krantor calls me: The Rodent, as if in my one small body I contain the entire order of small, gnawing mammals having a single pair of upper incisors with a chisel-shaped edge. Perhaps he intends this as an honor, although to me it feels more like a burden. I am only a small white mouse, unworthy to represent all the other rodents in the world, all the rats and rabbits and squirrels, and now I have this added weight, the mystery Dr. Krantor will not acknowledge, the burden of hooves and mane.
“Rodney,” Pippa says, “Daddy's scared I'll like Michael better than him. If you had a baby girl mouse and you got a divorce and your daughter's Mommy had a boyfriend, would you be jealous?”
“Mice neither marry nor are given in marriage,” I tell her. In point of fact, mice are non-monogamous, and in stressful situations have been known to eat their young, but this may be more than Pippa needs to know.
Pippa scowls. “If your daughter's Mommy had a boyfriend, would you keep her from seeing your daughter at all?”
“Sweetheart,” Dr. Krantor says, striding over to our corner of the lab and bending down, “Michael's not a nice person.”
“Yes he is.”
“No, he's not.”
“Yes he is! You're just saying that because he has a picture of a naked lady on his arm! But I see naked ladies in the shower after I go swimming with Mommy! Michael doesn't always ride his motorcycle, Daddy! He promised to take me to the zoo in his truck!”
“Oh, Pippa,” he says, and bends down and hugs her. “I'm just trying to protect you. I know you don't understand now. You will some day, I promise.”
“I don't want to be protected,” Pippa says, stabbing the paper with Dr. Krantor's red pen. “I want to go to the zoo with Mommy and Michael!”
“I know you do, sweetheart. I know. Draw a picture and talk to the rodent, okay? I'll take you to the zoo just as soon as I finish here.”
Pippa, pouting, mumbles her assent and begins to draw. Dr. Krantor, who frequently vents his frustrations when he is alone in the lab, has told me about Pippa's mother, who used to be addicted to cocaine. Supposedly she is drug-free now. Supposedly she is now fit to have joint custody of her daughter. But Michael, with his motorcycle and his naked lady, looks too much like a drug dealer to Dr. Krantor. “If anything happened to Pippa while she was with them,” he has told me, “I'd never forgive myself.”
Pippa shows me her picture: a stick-figure, wearing pigtails and a polka-dog dress, sitting in a cage. “Here's my picture of the zoo,” she says. “Rodney, do you ever wish you could go wherever you wanted?”
“Yes,” I say. Dr. Krantor has warned me that the world is full of owls and snakes and cats and mousetraps, innumerable kinds of death. Dr. Krantor says that I should be happy to live in a cage, with food and water always available. Dr. Krantor says I should be proud of my contribution to science. I've told him that I'd be delighted to trade places with him – far be it from me to deny Dr. Krantor his share of luxury and prestige – but he always declines. He has responsibilities in his own world, he tells me. He has to take care of his daughter. Pippa seems to think he takes care of her much the same way he takes care of me.
“I'm bored,” she says now, pouting. “Rodney, tell me a story.”
“Sweetheart,” says Dr. Krantor, “the rodent doesn't know any stories. He's just a mouse. Only people tell stories.”
“But Rodney can talk. Rodney, do you know any stories? Tell me a story, Rodney.”
“Once upon a time,” I tell her—now where did that odd phrase come from?—“there was a mouse who remembered being a horse.”
�
��Oh, goody!” Pippa claps her hands. “Cinderella! I love that one!”
My whiskers quiver in triumph. “You do? There's a story about a mouse who was a horse? Really?”
“Of course! Everybody knows Cinderella.”
I don’t. “How does it end, Pippa?”
“Oh, it’s a happy ending. The poor girl marries the prince!”
I remember nothing about poor girls, or about princes, either, and I can't say I care. “But what about the horse who was a mouse, Pippa?”
She frowns, wrinkling her nose. She looks a lot like her father when she frowns. “I don't know. It turns back into a mouse, I think. It's not important.”
“It's important to me, Pippa.”
“Okay,” she says, and dutifully trudges across the lab to Dr. Krantor. “Daddy, in Cinderella, what happens to the mouse that turned into a horse when it turns back into a mouse?”
I hear breaking glassware, followed by Dr. Krantor's footsteps, and then he is standing above my cage and looking down at me. His face is oddly pale. “I don't know, Pippa. I don't think anyone knows. It probably got eaten by an owl or a cat or a snake. Or caught in a trap.”
“Or equipped with IQ boosters and a vocal synthesizer and stuck in a lab,” I tell him.
“It's just a story,” Dr. Krantor says, but he's frowning. “It's an impossible story. It's a story about magic, not about science. Pippa sweetheart, are you ready to go to the zoo now?”
“Now look,” he tells me the next day, “it didn't happen. It never happened. Stories are about things that haven't happened. Somebody must have told you the story of Cinderella -”
“Who?” I demanded. “Who would have told me? The only people I've ever talked to are you and Pippa-”
“You saw it on TV or something, I don't know. It's a common story. You could have heard it anywhere. Now look, rodent, you're a very suggestible little animals and you're suffering from false memory syndrome. That's very common too, believe me.”
