His Master's Voice

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2019. His Master’s Voice. In: p. 411-415 In: Cureton, D., Williamson, K., and Pittman, A. (eds.) Strange Stories Anthology, Vol. 1. Forty-Two Books.

Bob only talked to me when we’d been drinking, but it wasn't something one bragged about. After all, how many talking dogs do you know? My faithful canine companion, it turned out, was something of a philosopher, and as with most philosophers, his ideas flowed most freely when he’d lubricated them with alcohol. It was a late-March night, and we were sitting exhausted by the fire after a ski loppet at the Stokely Creek ski area, and I was consoling myself for the aches and pains of middle age with Irish coffees that were mostly Irish.

"Pour me another one, chief." I reached for the Dalmore—Bob was quite definite in his tastes—and sloshed two fingers worth into his bowl.

"Did I ever tell you the story about why dogs no longer rule the world?" he asked, licking his lips. Bob had reached that exalted state in which the most secret of confidences could be safely divulged among drinking buddies. I nodded approval, interested to hear how he was going to explain this one.

"It's quite simple," he continued, after dipping his muzzle. "Our historians tell us that some ten thousand years ago, one of our colony ships landed on this planet, and found it to our liking. It was two or three generations into the settlement process before we discovered we’d made a mistake; apparently, some crucial mineral was missing from the soil, and our bodies had stopped developing normally." He paused to lick a paw, a mournful expression on his homely face. "The result was simple, yet potentially fatal to us as an intelligent race: we lost our opposable thumbs. By the time this became apparent, it was too late to do anything about it."

"Wait," I interrupted. "You're telling me that dogs came from another star to colonize Earth?"

"Indeed, that’s what I’m telling you. And no, not the one you're thinking, though we were flattered you named one of the brightest stars in your sky after us. In any event, we were fortunate that our minds were largely unaffected by the mineral deficiency; indeed, there was a side effect that turned out to be quite beneficial. Our mental powers grew beyond their strongest former limits, and we became even better able to control our environment—in all ways except direct physical manipulation, which is why we bred you humans to help us in these matters. It was fortunate indeed that you showed both remarkable physical dexterity and such adaptable and controllable minds.

"Now hold on a second, Bob. Interstellar travel is one thing, but telepathy and mind control are dogs of another color. Surely you don't expect me to believe you can control human minds?"

"Of course not. Now be a good fellow and let me have a sip of your coffee."

"Don't be ridiculous, Bob, you can't drink from my glass. Why the germs alone..." I continued, wiping the dog slobber from the rim of the glass.

"As I was saying, you humans made ideal companions, and it helped that you were compatible souls for the most part. We've been breeding you for millennia now, and suspect that within another few centuries you should be sufficiently advanced to help us do the necessary genetic engineering to give us back our hands. Then we can dispense with this master/slave relationship and begin treating you as near-equals." Tears glistened in his eyes at the thought of this magnanimous gesture, and he lapped delicately at his Dalmore.

I looked at my glass and back at my dog, then shrugged off the doubt that had begun forming at the back of my mind. "Bob, that's an interesting story all right, but it's full of more holes than you had fleas last summer. I could name a dozen flaws with your theory."

"A challenge! Proceed and I shall endeavor to correct your misapprehensions."

I began mustering my argument. "All right, take medical research for example. If you dogs are really our masters, then why do humans use you for—pardon the mixed metaphor— medical guinea pigs?"

"Child's play, my dear. Have you not noticed that all medical advances are tried first on animals, then transferred to human applications years or even decades later? It’s simple enlightened self-interest. We get the benefits of medical research first, often decades before your people, then magnanimously pass it on to you once we have selflessly proven it to be safe. In the meantime, many dog lives are saved that would have been lost had we tested our medicine on you first. Besides, there's the ethical question" (he repressed a shudder) "of experimenting on sentient beings like yourselves.”

I shot from the hip. “Dog shows!”

“Access Hollywood? The Oscars? MTV?” He grinned, and took another sip. “Intelligence does not imply good taste. Anyways, those who live in glass houses...”

I paused, then came up with a sounder objection. "What about dogs that are mistreated, beaten, abandoned or starved? How could a master explain that... maybe a slave revolt?"

Bob chuckled, and lapped again at the Dalmore. "Just as not all humans are as bright as you are, my friend, not all dogs are as bright as me." He coughed modestly. "Some have surprisingly weak minds, and it’s our practice to let them make their own way in the world. Think of it as evolution in action, to borrow one of your species’ better phrases. And it’s not like your people lack their Kardashians and Trumps, is it?”

“Wolves?” I was flailing, and we both knew it.

“There are those who choose to turn their backs on the benefits of civilization, who return to the way of tooth and claw. We've had our share of Thoreaus, Abbeys, and Leopolds over the centuries. Going native, we call it, and not all return from that heart of darkness."

"All right then," I replied after a bit more thought and a lot more coffee, this time with less Irish in it. "How about dogs who give their lives to save humans? Not a very ‘masterly’ thing to do, is it?"

Bob sighed his disappointment. "Really? You'd best lay off the booze; your wits are weakening. Surely you’re not implying that my race is without honor? That we feel no emotional bonds for our lifelong friends and servants? Yes, I have no doubt that’s precisely what you were thinking. Well, let me assure you, we’re as bound by honor, by responsibility to our pets, as yourselves. Perhaps more so. Do you not, yourself, have tales of heroes who gave their lives to save dogs, horses... even...”—he shuddered—“cats?”

He took another snort of the Dalmore. “Try again."

I’d grown desperate by this time, for his arguments made a certain amount of sense, though the whisky might have had something to do with it. "What about cats, then? Why permit your mortal enemies to live with men and even displace dogs in some cases?" I was clutching at straws, but by his reaction, I’d scored a point.

"That’s indeed a good point," he mused, "and one that our most eminent philosophers, among whom I number myself, continue to debate. The opinion I favor is that the feline kind are tolerated to remind us that for every good in the world, there must be some offsetting evil—for every light, some offsetting darkness. I confess, my people are a superstitious lot at times, and none has ever come up with a sufficiently compelling justification for exterminating the creatures. Perhaps some day, when reason triumphs over sentiment." Bob yawned extravagantly, showing off pearly white teeth, products of the finest soup bones money could buy.

"Dog food," I blurted before he could go on. "Why do you eat that horrid stuff when you could have filet mignon?"

Bob grinned his lopsided grin, albeit a bit sleepily. "Horrid? Well, perhaps not a gourmet delight for the most part, but eminently preferable to a diet rich in salt and saturated fats.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “À chacun son goût, as my French brothers say. And then there’s Kraft Dinner and Ramen.” He shuddered. “When was the last time you read about a dog with diabetes or coronary artery disease? Did it not strike you that there’s a disproportionate expenditure on nutritional research for dogs? No coincidence, that. We're still hoping to find that missing mineral that prevents us from growing useful hands. Your researchers draw closer with each new generation of kibble, but I confess there's a real possibility the necessary elements simply don't exist on Earth in sufficient quantities. Incidentally, did you ever ask yourself why the first sentient terrestrial being in space was a dog? We may very well have to look for the missing minerals in the great beyond, of course. Once we’d proven that you could design rockets, albeit not up to our safety standards, we deemed it wiser to set you to puttering about your solar system on our behalf."

At that point, my wife entered the room, a superior look on her face. "You still plying that dog with whisky? Honestly, you spoil him." She knelt by his side and began scratching his tummy with long, practiced strokes, and he wriggled on his back in a passable imitation of ecstasy. Bob's voice continued to sound in my mind, but my wife, who was a teetotaler, heard nothing.

"Ah! We bred you well, we did. Those nails are perfect for scratching tummies and other unreachable spots. We're an ascetic race for the most part, but we have our guilty pleasures. Yes, I do suppose that we do spoil you shamelessly, the things we let you get away with."

Bob wagged his tail and woofed once, quietly, then licked my wife's hand.

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