The People's Republic of Everything

by Nick Mamatas

  A juicy target, indeed.

  The post that started all the real problems in Cranki.ly’s Alameda County Zone 4 was this one, posted one afternoon just a week ago:

  Hey Neighbors,

  I’ve been hearing a dog howl/cry at all hours from my apartment close to the corner of Russell and Schiffer. I was wondering if anyone knew who the dog belonged too. . . It breaks my heart and I’m wondering if the owner knows about it. One of the dogs I fostered a few years back had severe separation anxiety and would howl from for most of the time when I left for work and I didn’t know about it until a neighbor alerted me, at which point, I was able to work on the separation anxiety with her.

  Any leads appreciated. Thanks!

  On the surface, a perfectly ordinary post. An especially pleasant one for Cranki.ly, actually, despite the specter of an ever-howling dog. The post garnered no comments though, for the reason you have surely already guessed—nobody else had heard the dog. Certainly not at all hours. The best thing to do in such a case is just not respond at all. There are plenty of other threads to read.

  Why explain, why ask, why encourage further discussion?

  Three days later, the poster issued a follow-up.

  Russell and Schiffer Residents,

  Hello again! I am still hearing a dog howl and whine, day and night, every day, and every night. It is definitely coming from 2774 Schiffer. Please, take care of your dog! If you live in 2774 Schiffer, you have a responsibility to call your landlord or management company, or talk to your neighbor about how he or she (but let’s be honest, probably a he!) cares for a companion animal. I am beginning to wonder if the issue is actual abuse rather than just neglect and separation anxiety.

  I do not want to have to call the city, as too often neglected animals are brought to shelter where they are quickly euthanized.

  And then the howling will never stop!

  A much more off-putting message. Why would anyone respond to that? There was no dog at all. The poster was obviously dealing with some sort of mental issue, or was trolling. Either way, nobody living in 2774 Schiffer—a squat six-unit apartment building of one-bedroom apartments—would have any call to extend the thread. And yet, someone did.

  Actually, by definition the howling would stop then, no?

  The strict discipline shown by the Cranki.ly regulars fractured then. Tasteless was upvoted two dozen times. While Really funny, buddy. A total howler was buried under a mountain of downvotes. One individual even tried to talk sense to the OP.

  I live on the corner of Russell and Schiffer, catty-corner from 2774. Full-time freelancer, work from home. I don’t wear earbuds or even watch TV, and I like to keep my windows open when I can because I love the fragrance of lilacs. (I have several large bushes in my yard.) Never heard a dog howl even once, much less "at all hours."

  Several other people acknowledged the truth—nobody had ever heard a dog anywhere in the vicinity, much less howling emanating from 2774 Schiffer, which was a residence with a draconian policy when it came to regulation pet deposits for even mere cats—dogs were absolutely forbidden. The howling isn’t just non-existent, one poster commented, it’s impossible.

  Which, was, of course, false. It’s not impossible for there to have been a dog in a building in which dogs are banned. And just because only one person could hear its howling doesn’t mean that the howling was a delusion. There could have been a conspiracy of silence around the dog, around its constant cries for attention and relief. Indeed, even all the comments responding to the original post could have been from one busy person, creating a narrative of tasteless rejoinders and cynicism from whole cloth just to further demoralize and upset the original poster.

  For that matter, the initial post regarding the curious incident of a bark without a dog could have been an attempt at Internet virality. Creepypasta, as the kids say. Cranki.ly’s moderation policies leave something to be desired—anyone with an email address can post what they please so long as they eschew certain slurs. The only reason there’s little spam or true hatemongering on the site is that its user base of middle-class busybodies and PTA lifetime-members is of little interest to the broader online world. But what’s next? A report of a dog corpse surfacing in the soft dirt in the yard in front of the building after a week of heavy rains, or worse, bones found in the walls after 2774 Schiffer condo conversion? (Condo conversions being one of the perennial flamebait topics on Cranki.ly.) Or is it no dog at all, but instead some woman or child, gone feral and chained to a pipe near a rusty bucket of excrement, that had been howling all these days?

  That “full-time freelance writer” was especially suspicious. Someone with an inclination toward fiction, and likely the impulse to procrastinate by goofing around on the Internet all day. Was all of Cranki.ly going to be written up in some obnoxious essay about group psychology, or urban legends? There was only one thing to do. Specifically, it was time to type

  I hear it too.

  And then press publish.

  Another ten hours of silence on the thread, as if the neighborhood was holding its collective breath. And then a new party, or a new claim anyway, entered the thread.

  I’m new to this website, but I heard from a friend about it and came to check what people in the Windham neighborhood are discussing. I thought this conversation was pretty interesting. I used to live in the building, years ago, and there was often a dog tied up outside at all times, in all weather. It’s mostly warm and sunny here in Northern California, but you know what I mean.

  She wouldn’t actually howl or bark all the much, but I felt very sad whenever I saw the dog. One time I stood in the yard and I started howling, like that dog should have. I guess I was just trying to get some attention for the poor animal. Not one person even opened their blinds to look out the window and see what the ruckus was. It was a Sunday morning too, so people were home. I could see movement through the blinds in the windows. I really howled my head off!

  Anyway, this was all more than twenty years ago, so that dog is probably long dead, but I just wanted to share the story as a way of reminding you all to be good to one another. Have a blessed day!

  And then it was a war of all against all. Accusations flew—sockpuppets, tricks, spam, Russian hackers, hoaxing and punking, and repeated uploads of that now-ancient New Yorker cartoon panel featuring the adage “On the Internet, nobody knows youre a dog.”

  But I really do hear it too. Someone kept trying. Doesn’t anyone else hear it? I’m not the OP.

  The poster went on:

  This is insane. You’re all online all day long, and live within a mile of the place. Just walk outside. I live across the street; I can hear it now.

  Meet me on the corner of Russell and Schiffer. I’ll be wearing a blue hat. I have a long beard and glasses. I’ll be the one with the iPhone in hand, listening to and recording the howling of the dog. I’m not the OP, this is not a joke! It’s noon now. I’ll step outside in ten minutes and stand on the corner until 12:30. You can walk a mile in less than twenty minutes if you’re reasonably healthy. Just come out and listen!

  Perhaps some of the lurkers on the thread contemplated joining the man, but no active posters did. One response read

  Let me guess—I walk all the way to Schiffer Street and you’re there with a gun to steal my iPhone.

  A rejoinder:

  Oh don’t be paranoid. It’s probably some dumb prank. They’ll have a dog ready to howl or even just a recording of one, and they’ll video the reactions of whoever is there for some sort of tedious "found footage" movie.

  Then

  I am the dog come visit meeeeeoooooooooh!

  was the third response.

  "Meeeeeoooooooooh!" reads to me much more like a cat than a dog, so clearly you are dumb enough to be a dog. Do us all a favor and stop howling all day, or start, so we know what’s what!

  finished up the subthread.

  Despite the claims explicit and implicit in the home page copy and related images
, Cranki.ly was not successfully “bringing communities together.” Nor was there very much “openness” and “honesty” created by the anonymity of the service. Not even when one Jack Reinhard, a long-time neighborhood resident, was hit by a car while standing right on Schiffer Street—a vehicle had jumped the curb, and sped off—nobody emerged from their homes to render aid. Nobody called 911. Reinhard had to do it himself, with his own broken arm. His blue hat fluttered away and landed on a Y-shaped tree branch half a block away. Someone took a photo of that and posted it on Cranki.ly. Reinhard had no local visitors during his overnight hospital stay, and only contacted his sister, who lived hours away in Sacramento. It took a day and a night for the hat to fall from the branch, and that was thanks to a squirrel not part of our program.

  Setting a grease fire in one of the first-floor apartments of 2774 Schiffer was no help either. Sure, Cranki.ly posters made comments—ooh, sirens!! was upvoted a dozen times—and in the morning the URL to the local newspaper’s story on the topic was also posted, but while the fire burned and emergency vehicles congregated, not one window opened, not one local Cranki. ly poster toddled outside to see what was going on. Certainly, nobody even recalled the thread about the ever-howling dog supposedly in residence so many had engaged with just five days prior.

  A prod: Did the firefighters find the dog?

  The responses were not encouraging: that would have been a “grilled hot dog, eh?” said one poster, and another, perhaps attempting to lighten the mood, posted a photo of a dachshund puppy in a hot dog bun. Couldn’t hear the howling over the sirens, sorry (and also because I’m not off my medication and can’t hear imaginary dogs) read a third post.

  Incorrigible, the lot of them, it seemed. Cranki.ly may have well benefitted from rules against anonymity, or at least from a mechanism that would compel posters to hold to a consistent identity, like most bulletin boards and Internet comments sections. The online world is full of trolls and griefers, but surely, people would be nice to their neighbors whom they already knew, or could potentially face in heated meatspace confrontations after mouthing off online, no?

  Well, perhaps, after all, the answer is still, at least potentially, yes. Finally, someone put up a post worth reading, a simple message of compassion and kindness:

  I think we may all be having a hard time lately. I know things have been rough for me. I’m not calling anyone out; I’m just saying how I’ve personally been feeling these past few days. I’m sorry if anything I’ve posted has annoyed or agitated anyone. I wish you all health and peace—I really mean it. I usually have a drink at Raleigh’s every night, same stool (right in front of the cash register) same time (7:30 pm). If anyone wants to come out and sidle up next to me, I’ll buy you a cocktail. All are welcome.

  Eureka! Anonymity under pressure can lead to improvements in sociability and fellow-feeling among neighborhood residents. This calls for a refinement of our protocol. The next step is clear: to procure and torture a real dog, day and night. Or perhaps a child.

  ____________________

  I had a dog for sixteen years. Until Kazzie entered my life, I was actually a little afraid of dogs, but she was only four weeks old when my friend Kap Su Seol brought her over to my home in Jersey City, and I was her last hope since, among all of our friends, I was the only person we knew with a backyard. Kazzie basically saved my life, as she gave me a reason to peel myself out of my chair and go for a walk a few times a day. Once, she may have actually saved my life, as when I turned a corner in our dicey neighborhood during an after-midnight walk I was greeted by the phrase, “Hey, motherfucker!” by an angry young man with something glinting in his hand. But he missed Kazzie, a little black dog on a little black leash, and when she sprung up and barked and howled, he threw up his hands, said “Shit, sorry!”, and ran off.

  I dedicated my how-to writing guide, Starve Better, to Kazzie, and moved with her to Long Island, to California, to Vermont, to the Boston area, and back to California. She slept with me until the end, even though for the last three months of her life, I had to line the futon with pee pads and towels to keep myself dry. When she finally succumbed to the cancer, I prepared to throw out the futon mattress and move the frame to the corner. In Berkeley, the street finds its own uses for things. A nosy neighbor insisted I download the app Nextdoor and get rid of the frame that way, and I did just that as a new student at the nearby university walked past the house, asked if the frame was available and free, and excitedly took it away. My neighbor frowned deeply, and literally snorted like an angry cartoon boss who has just been shown up by an employee. That was the only good moment I had for weeks afterwards.

  I stuck with Nextdoor, though, and found that all the rumors are true—it’s basically a venue for people to express their racist fears of black and Latino pedestrians, and to make complaints about nonexistent noises. I should have deleted the app right away, but it reminded me of Kazzie and of the fun coincidence of my neighbor. When it came time to write a story for an anthology, “A Howling Dog” was born almost instantly. The anthology ended up rejecting the story, but “A Howling Dog” was produced as a full-cast audio adaptation by the wonderful people at Pseudopod.org. The story appears in actual print for the first time in this volume. When you read it aloud to yourself, be sure to do the annoying neighbors in different voices.

  LAB RAT

  OCCUPATION: FREELANCE.

  —Freelance what?

  —Right now, I’m pretty much doing this. Four or five studies a week here at psych, some at the i-lab at the business school. A few at MIT, and one time I did one at Northeastern.

  . . .

  —Okay, freelance writer. But honestly, I’ve done so little of it lately I feel like I should just say “freelance” and leave it at that.

  —What do you write?

  —A little of everything. I have a novel with a small press. I wrote some stuff for the Phoenix before they went under. But I’ll do anything: OKCupid profiles for foreign students, brochures and manuals, resumes and cover letters.

  —Must be plenty of call for that these days.

  —Not as much as you might think. After all, if I were so great at writing cover letters, why I am coming to the Harvard psych lab twice a day to play games and answer questions for ten or twenty bucks a pop?

  —Hmm, fair enough. Let me go through the rest of this. . . .

  Do thoughts of harming others, or yourself, enter your mind during the course of the day (1-5 scale, 1 being never, 5 being constantly): 4.

  —Four is . . . high. I have an obligation, uhm, here it is. This is a sheet of resources. You know, phone numbers. Places you can contact if you think you’re having some trouble.

  —Thanks. I’m fine. You should read my novel.

  —I wonder if we have it in the library. I guess you won’t get any royalties if I get it from there, right? Haha.

  —Eh, it’s fine. You buying a copy means that I get one dollar and twelve cents, maybe, eighteen months from now. Basically, whatever money the book is going to make, it’s already made.

  —All right.

  —My novel has a few murders in it. Sort of horror/suspense.

  —Okay.

  —That’s why I put down a 4 for that question. I think about death and murder a lot. For creative reasons.

  —Understood. Got it.

  —Because I’m a woman, people often think I write chicklit or something like that.

  —Okay, so what we’re going to do now is have you place your hand on this block. Then I am going to bring this iron rod over and swing it over like this. See the hinge? Anyway, I’ll place it atop the back of your hand. I’m not going to drop it or slam it, just place it, so the point on the bottom will make contact with the exact middle of the back of your hand. It’ll start feeling heavier, as the point will sink into the skin of your hand. But it’s okay, it won’t break the skin or anything like that. You won’t get any more, or any less, money if you give up right away or last for a long time. Let
me know when the pain becomes unbearable.

  —Unbearable? You mean when I can’t possibly stand another second of it?

  —Well, when you get uncomfortable. Significant discomfort; not just mild. This is all part of what we’re trying to measure.

  —Am I allowed to talk now, or will that just be a distraction?

  —Oh no, we’re supposed to talk. I even have talking points, see?

  The weather.

  Psychology.

  Subject’s occupation, if any.

  Subject’s prior experiences with pain and pain management.

  —Ha. Should we do it in order? It’s cold today. A wet cold; not like winter in the Midwest, where I’m originally from.

  —Oh yeah? I’m from Illinois myself. Boston snow is almost cozy—it has to be because of the harbor, and the Charles River.

  —So . . . why psychology? At Harvard no less. Do Harvard psychologists make more money, are they more likely to get tenure?

  —Well . . . my mother was schizophrenic. It started manifesting when I was in junior high. I threw myself into schoolwork, spent all afternoon, every afternoon, in the library, to stay away from her.

  —Thus, Harvard.

  —Well, she ended up being institutionalized, and committed suicide. There was a suit, and a settlement, and thus Tufts for my undergrad. I fell in love with Boston, so I decided to stay. There’s even a joke: “Anyone can get into Harvard for graduate school!”

  —Heh.

  —How’s the hand?

  —It’s . . . hurting.

  —What’s your book about?