thomas canfield

by Thomas Canfield

Bright fluorescent light beat down from above. A sharp, astringent scent of antiseptic filled the air, reflecting Lauderdale’s obsession with cleanliness and rigid observance of lab protocol. The only furnishings in the room were a table, a chair, a laptop and, on the floor, a bowl of water set in one corner.

Westervelte walked around the prototype, examining the animal from every angle and vantage point. He took his time. He ran his hands over the creature’s flanks and haunches, then along its ribs. He prodded its abdomen with one forefinger, tugged on the long, floppy ears. He opened the jaws and peered into its mouth, examining tongue, palate and teeth. He stepped back and scowled, his expression reflecting something very much along the lines of disapproval.

“Looks like an ordinary dog to me,” he said. “I can’t tell it apart from any of a dozen mutts I might pick up at the local kennel.”

Lauderdale bobbed his head. He offered a brief, self-deprecating chuckle. “An ordinary dog – that’s the key. That’s the image we were aiming for. We didn’t wish to reproduce some well-known or recognizably popular breed – a golden retriever, say. Our design team opted to go with the generic mutt.” Lauderdale paused. “Of course, properly speaking it isn’t a dog at all.”

“I know something about dogs.” Westervelte’s scowl deepened. “I’ve owned several of them. I’ve raised them from when they were puppies and cried when it came time to put them down. If this isn’t a dog, what is it?”

“Well . . .” Lauderdale hesitated. He seemed uncomfortable discussing the subject. “It’s a hybrid, of sorts. We jiggered the genetics, added a little and took a little away. Did some fine-tuning, if you will. But it’s mostly standard option. Your average consumer won’t be able to distinguish it from the genuine article. That was the whole idea.”

“And it tests out?” Westervelte himself now seemed somewhat hesitant. “You were able to meet the specs you were given? We outlined a very specific set of goals. We can’t afford to have anything go wrong. Liability suits would eat us alive.”

“Our lab has conducted an extensive battery of tests. While I can’t guarantee the results,” Lauderdale ducked his head in a gesture of false modesty, “I think you’ll be pleased with the finished product.”

Westervelte bent down and patted the ‘product’ on the head. He stroked its ears and ran his hands over the silken coat. The dog responded by nuzzling Westervelte’s hand and wagging its tail, soliciting further such attention. Its soft brown eyes shone with delight.

“Just like a regular dog.” Westervelte’s praise was grudging.

“Very much so. Coming from a man with your wealth of experience, that’s an observation which carries even greater weight.” Lauderdale, although he did not appear to realize it, somewhat resembled the dog in his ingratiating manner. “We, my staff and I, worked hard to achieve an accurate likeness. We wished to retain, even to emphasize, a dog’s endearing qualities of friendliness, loyalty and devotion. I think I can say without exaggeration that we’ve succeeded.”

“Yes.” Westervelte’s eyes glittered with a hard light. “That was only a part of the equation, of course. And by far the easiest.”

“I shouldn’t call it easy, no.” For the first time Lauderdale displayed a willingness to contradict Westervelte. “A layman might think so – but only because he lacks an appreciation of the complexities involved.”

“Tell me, Lauderdale.” Westervelte leaned forward, jabbed one stiff forefinger at the scientist’s chest. “Which do you consider more difficult: leaving something intact as it exists. Or deleting some part of its makeup, some undesirable quality, and so altering the animal’s nature irrevocably?”

“Yes, yes.” Lauderdale smoothed the lapels of his lab coat with quick, nervous gestures of his hands. “You make a valid point. I only wished to emphasize the difficulties involved. Tinkering with dog psychology is not a simple matter of deleting something and everything else remains the same. It involves a great deal of trial and error, of give and take, to achieve a stable and enduring balance.”

Westervelte appeared unmoved by this declaration – and unimpressed by the obstacles Lauderdale and his team had had to overcome. He had paid good money up front to fund this project. That, to Westervelte’s way of thinking, should be sufficient to produce the desired result.

“But enough technical talk.” Lauderdale lurched forward with sudden enthusiasm. “Let us have a demonstration.” Lauderdale whistled to the dog. The animal came bounding over, frisking and frolicking. The scientist stroked its head. He took a rubber ball out of his pocket and tossed it across the room. The dog ran to retrieve it.

“PM we named him. That’s shorthand for production model. He’s number eight in the series, so actually he’s production model eight. But we all just refer to him as PM.” Lauderdale watched the animal with a certain proprietary pride, his manner reminiscent of a doting parent. “The first of the series, models one through three, were seriously flawed. But along about production model four we began to hit our stride. We still had to work through a number of issues. But each succeeding model in the series was better than the one before. Now, with number eight,” the dog came bounding back, offering Lauderdale the ball, “it’s safe to say that we’ve finally arrived.”

Lauderdale scratched the dog under its jaw. Then, without warning, he directed a vicious kick at its head. The blow caught the dog across the left side of its face, sent it skittering across the room, claws raking the floor. The animal gave a yelp of pain. It sat stunned for a minute, gathering its senses, casting a wary glance across the room at the two men. Neither man moved nor made any gesture of encouragement. They watched in silence. What might have been a spark of resentment flickered in the dog’s eyes. It rose with seeming reluctance but, once on its feet, came bounding back with the same enthusiasm as before.

Lauderdale waited until the dog was within range then caught it with a perfectly timed kick, square in the chest. The dog tumbled backwards. Again it scrambled to its feet, again it hesitated, and again it came running back.

“Remarkable.” Westervelte’s expression was a curious study in ambiguity. “And it’ll go on like this – indefinitely?”

“All our tests indicate that it will.” Lauderdale made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “We’ve defused the traditional response mechanisms. Normally, the dog would react in one of two ways. By becoming aggressive and responding to the abuse in kind – a most undesirable outcome. Or by becoming servile, adopting a cringing, submissive posture, tail planted between its legs as it were. A behavior we were equally determined to avoid. Production model eight incorporates the best of all possible worlds: a friendly, devoted and loyal pet, yet one offering the heretofore unheard of upgrade of accepting any manner of abuse.” 

Westervelte lifted his shoulders ever so slightly, a gesture which might be interpreted as expressing a whole range of emotions. “All of our marketing surveys, all of our research into consumer preferences, indicate that this is what the public wants.” Westervelte paused, considering his words. “Wants really isn’t adequate. A genuine hunger exists for such a product. I don’t know whether that reflects any particular credit upon our customer base. But then, that isn’t our concern. We’re here to make money. Production model eight,” Westervelte looked at the dog sitting at his feet, staring up at him with shining, devoted eyes, “is going to make us a bundle of cash.”

Westervelte thrust his hands in his pockets. The scowl had returned. “That’s a wrap then, I guess. I’ll get in touch with Higgins and we’ll sit down and have a strategy session, decide how best to market the product. It’s going to require a certain . . . finesse. We can’t come right out and baldly state what we’re offering. We need some way to take the stink off of the whole affair. But Higgins is the best there is. If he can’t come up with some suitable euphemism, no one can.” Westervelte directed a searching look at Lauderdale. “I suppose I should offer you our thanks, Doctor.”

Lauderdale beamed. “That’s very kind of you. It was a challenge, I’ll admit. We put in a lot of fourteen hour days. But I think I speak for all of the staff when I say it was an experience none of us will ever forget.”

“I said I suppose I should offer our thanks.” Westervelte’s eyes were as cold as his voice. “That’s not the same thing as actually thanking you.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!” Lauderdale held out a hand to detain him. “You don’t want to leave without testing out the product yourself, do you?” Westervelte stared at him. “You know. . .” Lauderdale mimicked kicking the dog.

“What do you make me for, Lauderdale? I’ve seen enough as it is. More than enough. Besides,” Westervelte smiled with sharp malice, “should the mood strike me I can use you as a substitute for the dog. You and production model eight, you’re all but interchangeable. I can hardly tell you apart, in fact. You respond to abuse in the exact same fashion. That’s what made you the ideal candidate for conducting the research.” Without further farewell Westervelte left the room.

 Lauderdale followed him to the door, stared after Westervelte’s departing back. For the moment his ego was deflated. But he was ready to come running back again at the first sign of a smile.

~

Bio:

Thomas Canfield’s phobias run to politicians, lawyers and TV pitchmen. He likes dogs and beer. On a recent camping trip to the mountains, Canfield encountered the rare Eastern Hellbender – one of the world’s largest salamanders (upwards of 60 cm). Ugly, but in an engaging sort of way. The Hellbender probably had much the same impression of me.

Philosophy Note:

The latest iteration of a product is frequently marketed under the catch phrase ‘New and Improved’. But ‘improved’ rests largely in the eyes of the beholder and, not infrequently, consists of pandering to certain human traits which reflect little credit upon anybody. A short story which engages with similar themes is Ozymandias by Terry Carr, published in Science Fiction Stories in 1958 and reprinted in many ‘Best of’ anthologies. It is a haunting and memorable tale. Without divulging too much, it addresses how many of the qualities of canines which render them so engaging and endearing can be perceived as vulnerabilities and exploited. One need only be callous and cruel – and devoid of any sense of empathy.