The Day I Went to the Dogs

by Shawn Jacobson

I roll off the pool table, crashing to the floor.

“That wake you up?” F’tima, my Fi’one literary agent, purrs from the height from which I’ve fallen.

I check myself; yes, I’m awake, though I have no desire to be. Each check I take of myself — body, recent memory, etc. — adds a new pain to my head. I wonder how I got into this mess.

Recent memory answers the question. I’d just received bad news about my sales to the Fi’one and was drowning my sorrows with members of the Gurn, the race that runs this lonely space station. By sheer dumb luck, my bad news coincides with their version of Contact Day. This means that they were in a mood to drink. The Gurn can drink and play pool much better than I can, thus my sleeping on the pool table and my night spent cuddling with my Fi’one literary agent.

And if you’re wondering why I’m not cuddling with something more human, there are only two other humans on the station. I don’t swing the way that Dan does. As for the other “human,” Daquille isn’t safe to swing with. The last person who tried had to be transported to a medical facility five light-years away. Daquille likes to play rough, and they’ve installed enough cyborg upgrades to allow them to play very rough indeed.

“Hair of the dog?” Dan asks as I stumble from the billiard room.

“Sure, Dan,” I respond twinging with more than a hangover.

To know while the above phrase makes me twinge, you need to know that dogs are the reason for me being out here in space. It isn’t that I hate dogs, I respect them as hunters, and some dogs are beautiful beasts. I just don’t have a great affection for them as a species. In a world of dog lovers, I really don’t fit in. So, I went where a lot of humans go who don’t fit in: space.

But going into space didn’t solve the problem. Space was where I ran into Kujo. Kujo’s owner got the name for his miserable beast from a friend who’d seen the name in one of those classic works of human literature. Kujo’s owner hadn’t read anything beyond his tech manuals since I could remember, so he had no idea just how appropriate the name was.

The fourth time, Kujo tried to take chunks out of my body, I arranged for him to exit an air lock, sans doggie spacesuit. Yes, there are such things.

I was surprised to find that the rest of the crew was more upset at the waste of my actions than their cruelty. Biomass is limited on a spaceship, so pitching it overboard is a grave offense against survival. The ship’s veteran spacers were reconciled to seeing their beloved pets on their plates, in one form or another, should said beloved pet not survive the journey. But when I’d spaced Kujo, I’d deprived the ship of a large amount of biomass.

As punishment, I was ordered to pick up the messes from the other pets on the ship and transport them to the mess hall to be processed back into food. The whole thing was a disgusting job, which I really got tired of in a hurry. When I got to my current home, I thanked the captain for helping me with my weight; there’s nothing like feeding dog product to a food processor to suppress the appetite. I bid the ship a less than fond farewell.

“If you’ve got your head together,” Dan says, “you have a visitor.”

“Who?” I ask still putting my head back together.

“Says his name is Carl,” Dan replies. “He says he’s your literary agent. I doubt it, I can’t see anyone paying good money for your junk, but you should see him anyway.”

Dan’s view of my work is typical among humans. The problem may be the Kung, a villainous race found in most of my work. One reviewer described them as “doggie aliens as envisioned by a cat lover.” Again, most humans find doggie villains a turnoff.

By contrast, the Fi’one appreciate my work. They’ve had to fight their way to the top of their planet’s evolutionary pile through a race of predators that resemble canines. They feel it vindicates their struggle. Up until now, I’ve had no trouble selling my work to the Fi’one.

Having said all that, Dan is wrong; I do sell enough books to humans to have a literary agent. I have three sources of sales. The first is to my family; fortunately, my family is large. The second is to critics who buy my books so they can trash them. The critic at Doggieverse Times takes special joy in savaging my work; I’m told she has every book I’ve ever written mounted over her fireplace. The third group is a disturbing cult that uses my books in animal sacrifices. Between these and random sales, I generate enough money to justify an agent, though I can’t see why one would come out here to see me.

* * *

“It smells like a zoo here,” my human literary agent, Carl, says as we meet at the station’s ceremonial entrance.

“Scent is part of the Gurn language,” I reply. “If they cleaned up the air, the Gurn wouldn’t know what they were talking about.”

“I guess I should expect this sort of stuff out here in the back of beyond,” Carl grouses.

“What brings you out to the back of beyond?” I ask.

“An opportunity,” Carl replies.

“An opportunity?” I ask.

“Another chance to sell your work,” Carl says shoving a brochure in my face.

“The worst of the worst,” I read. “Learning how not to write from the masters of bad literature.”

“Yes,” says Carl, “the professor wants to use your books as part of his course material. Granted, everyone who takes the class will believe that your writing sucks, but then, people already do. This way we make money.”

“How many people in this class?” I ask. Academic sales are cool, but they won’t put you on the best-seller list.

“Thousands,” Carl replies. “Maybe millions. This class will be broadcast via ansible across human space. Every aspiring writer will take this class; your stuff will sell like never before.”

“OK, I’ll bite,” I say. My work sells primarily to the Fi’one and, if that market dries up, I’ll be in real trouble. Air is not cheap on the space station.

“What do I have to do?”

“The transport is waiting to take you to see the professor; he wants to meet the man who wrote the stuff he will use,” said Carl. “If you’re interested, be ready to board in thirty minutes.”

* * *

According to Spacenet, the planet Dogwood is shared by three cultures. The first is a sect of religious devotees whose literary traditions begin and end with The Holy Bible. The second is a commune of neo-Marxists with a literary tradition made up of hymns to socialism; their writers enjoy a readership compelled by the state through various literacy initiatives. The third is an artist colony; I assume, correctly, that this is my destination.

“Welcome to Dogwood,” the colony’s cultural representative says. “I’m Karen; I’ll be your guide while you’re here. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to see Professor Ruffman.”

I follow Karen to the ground car and climb in the back. My nose wrinkles with the unique smell of the place. The planet gets its name because the local vegetation secretes a sap that smells like a place well marked by canines, this makes the planet smell like a kennel.

Karen whisks us off to the university. The twisted-looking things that serve as trees here disappear as we reach a collection of glass spires.

“The local vegetation clashes with the aesthetic of the city,” Karen says. “We’re proud of our landscaping,” she continues, pointing out an especially unique glass tower.

Shortly, we transition to an area of stone buildings that I assume is the campus. We find a particularly grand structure which Karen calls the Hall of Literature. I follow her up to Dr. Ruffman’s top-floor office.

My first reaction to Dr. Ruffman’s office is surprise bordering on shock. The literary professors I’d known had offices that were holes in the wall. This office looked like it should belong to a football coach whose team has won the first bowl game in school history. The professor sits behind a huge desk made of honest-to-God wood from honest-to-God Earth.

“I called you to my den,” the professor growls, “because I have a bone to pick with bad writing. When I see your miserable slop, it makes me want to pound.”

“I’m sorry you don’t like my work,” I stammer.

“You should be,” he barks. “But this class will put an end to your bad writing once and for all.”

“How?” I ask.

“By having you in this class where you will learn why your books are so execrably bad.” He explains. “You’ll not only get to see why they’re bad; you’ll get to experience the shortcomings of your work. The first class will be tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. planetary standard. Be there.”

* * *

The next morning, I show up at the basement room where class will be taught.

“Here is your visitor’s lanyard,” Karen says when she meets me at the door. “Please wear it while you are in class.”

I put the thing on, surprised at the thickness of the metal, and await class.

The professor arrives just before class. He begins with typical introductions and administrative details. Then, the real lesson begins.

“First, we will look at character behavior. Do characters act in a realistic way? In Rough Planet, the writer tricks the antagonist into wearing a shock collar,” the professor says as my lanyard constricts about my neck.

“The antagonist is forced to do humiliating and self-destructive things as electric shocks are generated,” the professor continues as pain rips through my body.

“Note how the author, unlike his antagonist, resists my commands even after the administration of excruciating pain.”

The professor continues his lecture as he puts me through my paces. I feel less and less inclination to resist as the pain mounts. Finally, after what seems like forever, the class ends.

“I would like to see our author after class,” the professor says.

I don’t feel that I have a choice.

* * *

After class, I return to the professor’s sumptuous office.

“It will be good to shed this monkey suit,” the professor says taking off his face. What remains looks like a large upright dog.

“I trust you know what I am,” professor Ruffman says taking off the last part of his disguise.

“You’re the folk the Fi’one defeated to take control of their world,” I guess.

“The world the Fi’one claimed for themselves,” the professor replies. “It was never theirs.”

“If you say so,” I reply too tired to fight over semantics.

“I say so emphatically,” the professor says. “They drove us from our homes. They hounded us across the galaxy. They thought they’d exterminated us, but they were wrong.”

“I guess,” I said, “since you are here telling their story.”

“Better I tell their story than some hack,” professor Ruffman says, “which is why you are here. You have given aid and comfort to our ancient foes through the schlock you write. Now I will have vengeance. You may have heard that the antagonist is the hero of his own story; now, you will live that truth as I inflict upon you all the torments that you have imposed on my people.”

I try to remember what I’ve written about my villains over, what was it, the twenty or so volumes in my body of work. Unfortunately, the professor had an exceptionally good memory.

“I shall drag you around campus the way you dragged the villain in The Howling Menace. Then, I will make you dance on hot coals as you did to your villain in The Fur Will Fly. At the end of the class, we will take a field trip to the mountains where there is a scenic cliff like the one you tossed your villain from in Twilight of the Dog Lords. That will be a most fitting end to this class, and your career. In the meantime, I will make your life an absolute bitch.”

“And don’t think you can just walk out of here,” he says with a barking laugh, “if you try to flee this place, you will learn the hard way how an electric fence works. When I’m done with you, you’ll be so dog-tired that you’ll beg for release.”

* * *

I look out from the garret provided for me by the academic staff. I’m trying to figure out whether the pain of the class is greater than the pain of my escape attempts.

I’m able to get about fifty meters from the building before my collar sends me into convulsions. I’m surprised that none of the students wandering the grounds doesn’t notice my plight. Maybe the artist colony values its professors so highly that it is OK for them to do whatever to their students. Professorial torture may be common here.

Suddenly, I hear a snicking sound and feel the chain around my neck fall to the floor. A sleek figure ascends through my window. “Are you ready to leave?” my literary agent asks.

“Born ready,” I say. “How do I get down?”

The Fi’one are good climbers; me, not so much. So, a couple of my rescuers need to help me descend the stone exterior. Just as we reach the ground, I hear a too-familiar voice.

“So, you think you Fi’one scum can help this contemptable hack escape his just punishment? Think again,” Professor Ruffman says.

At this point, conversion stops replaced by barking, hissing, and yowling as my rescuers and the professor’s goons go at it. I expect battles between spacefaring species to feature ray guns. Instead, this fight is all about teeth and claws, a jungle war between feral beasts.

I hide from the fray; I’m a writer, not a fighter. Just as I’m figuring out a path to the spaceport and how to get off this rock, I feel a small, soft hand on my shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here,” my agent says.

“Great minds think alike,” I say, and I follow her through the maze of academic buildings to a ground car.

* * *

“I’ve been reading your books,” Karen says. “They’re not as bad as the critics say they are.”

“Thanks,” I say; it’s always good to hear a good, or at least less than bad, review.

“I think that if you worked on characterization and tried some plot variations, you might be a good writer,” Karen continues. “A little more variety in your antagonists wouldn’t hurt either, at least not as much as a shock collar.”

“Good points all,” I say. “Maybe if I can find a reputable writing classes, I may increase my readership.”

“Our university offers many good writing classes,” Karen says helpfully; “most of them aren’t excruciating.”

“I’ll have to look into them,” I say realizing the utility of good advice.

“Well,” Karen says, “your lander is here. I’m sorry that your stay on Dogwood was so rough.”

I leave thinking of the next story I’ll write. I think I’ll call it Attack of the Eggheads, or maybe Rough House. Either way, I look forward to getting my writing out of the doghouse.