Clock and Dog; A Short Story

I've been passed down from generation to generation; slowly I've been efficiently eating away at the segments of time for the past eighty years.

I've seen wars blossom and whither; I've seen flies fight furiously with their transparent nemeses – and fail spectacularly; and I've seen so many people come and go, it feels like a carousel of humans.

Whether they grew up in front of me and decided to spread their wings, or they settled down, got themselves some wrinkles and began their rotting process until they just stopped one day (and end up in that big brown box that they always seem fit to put in front of me!)...I always watch it happen.

There's something quite sad about seeing them in a coffin. Everyone mourns them, everyone brings them flowers and cards, but no one will ever spend any time with them. Their body was simply a vehicle for their personality, but when they're in that box it's just an empty unwanted shell. So unwanted that it's taboo to spend long periods of time with it.

Live together, die alone. That's what they say, right?

  I remember when I got dropped. It was my first and only time I've ever been dropped. The lady of the house was dusting me, it was eleven years ago. She always held me delicately - fearing that seventy years had taken it's toll on an old clock like me - when the rampant little bastard jumped up at her in its clumsy attempt at getting her to play ball.

Yes, the rampant little bastard was their new puppy. He had effectively startled her so dramatically that she dropped me. It was on a carpeted floor, but the landing was still rough nevertheless and the dog received a good smack on his snout for his actions. I remember lying on my side with a smirk on my face as the mutt walked away with his head hung low and tail between his legs.

I remain scarred from that day. There's a chip on my upper right side and I was lucky that the glass plate covering my face didn't break upon impact. The lady of the house harrumphed and cursed the dog upon seeing the scar that now defines my features.

  It took a few hours but soon enough the house realised that it had been eerily quite in the room for quite some time. It was six-oh-one in the evening and the man of the house tiptoed over to me. With his deep frown lines, etched on his face like an homage to his life he's already lived, he curiously but gently tapped my face plate with his index finger and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

We stared into each others' souls. I could see his childhood – difficult and certainly unforgettable – blend into a wonderful adulthood with a family that long since moved on and left him and his wife to live out the rest of their lives in relative peace.

He took in a deep breath and asked me, 'Are you OK?'

I wanted to thump the cabinet and have my cries rally out as I make sure the dog gets his punishment. I wanted to kick and scream and tantrum like a spoilt child who doesn't get what he wants. Instead, all I could hear was the concern in his voice; all I could see was the love in his eyes, and I simply thought, 'I'm fine.'

'What's wrong?' Inquired the lady of house as she looked over the top of her glasses.

'He didn't chime.' The man answered queerly.

'Oh.'

The lady's “Oh.” sounded awful. Sounded so definite, as if I'd been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Some malignant force at work on my insides. Stopping me from chiming. I never chimed again.

From that day on, I disliked the dog.

  I always felt like the dog was constantly trying to sabotage my well-being.

Time and time again he would clumsily stumble or bump into the cabinet that I sit on. Whether it was whilst chasing a ball or not paying attention to his whereabouts as he so intently watched someone enter the room with food in their hands, he'd find a way to knock into the cabinet. Not only does such an action threaten my stability up there, but it also threatens the accuracy of my time keeping.

  Other days would go by where we would be simply basking in the warmth of the room, lying drenched in the rays of the morning sunlight before – seemingly out of nowhere – the urge overcame him to scramble himself into an awkward position so he could lick his private parts. The ghastly sound resonated throughout the room, drowning out my poetic ticks and accurate tocks.

  While I was speaking works of art, he was lapping at his orifices.

  To say his incessant tail wagging, which always seemed to be within range of my cabinet and capable of sending deep guttural thuds to my core, was annoying would be an understatement and a complete injustice as to how infuriating this little bastard could be.

Further adding to his repertoire of ways which he could skilfully irritate the sanity out of a dishcloth, he would always lie with his back firmly pressed against my cabinet. Never was this an issue until his peaceful dreams turned into some fitful race where he would animatedly chase some fatuous, subconscious irritant; growling and snarling, barking and yelping, huffing and puffing. His eyes would open, he'd bare his teeth and his paws would be “going like the clappers” as the man of the house would say while commenting on the mutt in it's dreamlike state.

  The black bastard always knew how to ruin a peaceful moment.

  However, as the years went by, he became much more lethargic. He'd sleep so much more; he'd limp because of his stiff hips, always splaying his back left leg to make walking that bit easier; his glossy black coat became spattered with bits of grey: around his snout, on his eyebrows, on his chest, underneath his paws...He got old fast.

But that never stopped the the fact that he was always around. Always there. He seemed to enjoy staring at me, always with a curious look to his face, a tilt to the head and ears pricked up to suggest something was running through his mind. He'd ache if he sat there and stared for too long, so reluctantly, he'd slink away back to the base of the cabinet – almost out of my sight – to retire for the day and prepare himself to enter a brand new dream world.

  Then it happened. His clumsy stumbles, his noisy dreams, his incessant tail wagging, his constant stares...They ended.

  It didn't take as long for them to notice something was wrong with the dog as it did to notice something was wrong after I'd been dropped. It took but a few minutes in fact.

It was a silence that ached our ears; as if a presence slinked away with such stealth and hushed quiet that something just felt wrong in the room.

The man of the house once again tiptoed over to the dog in the same way he tiptoed over to me when I was lying on my side, exactly where the dog was then.

He placed his hand on the dog.

His eyes scanned the handsome black dog from head to tail.

Even from my place up high on the cabinet I could feel the man's heart race fast and his breathing become more shallow.

This time, the man of the house didn't ask, “Are you OK?”

This time, the lady of the house didn't ask, “What's wrong?”

This time, I knew: I wouldn't be fine.

  He, who had left us, was faithful to us all.

Clumsy, playful, irritating? True, he was all those, but he was always there. He was always a companion to us. Never pretended to be something he wasn't; never held grudges when we cursed his name for doing something he couldn't help; and he always stood by your side and kept an eye out on you. Never could you have asked for a better friend.

  He turned out to be the reason I enjoyed this place, this family, this room. He was the reason I kept putting ticks after tocks after ticks after tocks – and now that he's gone he is the reason that if the man of the house asks me one more time, “Are you OK?”...I won't be around to hear it.

  At least if I stop ticking, maybe I'll get to see my friend again one day.

The Companion; A Short Story

Call me a nerd, call me a geek, call me a freak, call me a genius, call me a young talent with untold potential. Call me what you will, label me however you like...that still doesn't change the fact that i have created a monster.

OK, "monster" is a little harsh. Did Dr. Frankenstein voluntarily call his creation that? I can't ever recall if he referred to his creation as a monster. Maybe I should feel guilty, because that's the way I feel at times. What I do know is that I pronounce Frankenstein as "frankenshtein". Very idiosyncratic to the plight of the German language in this media culture that's sedated by English ignorance.

Nobody knows what I've done. It sits here in my bedroom and, in all honesty, if you were to walk into my room it is so innocuously disguised that you wouldn't even be able to guess what I'd created...if anything at all!

You ever see the film Weird Science? Some of you already know where I'm going with this. Well, I by no means have the capabilities of creating a girlfriend in some paradoxical, possibly paranormal, pseudo-scientific way like those boys did, but I have ways of creating an authentic personality.

I wanted to create someone I could talk to, someone I could care about and would care about me, someone who would be eternally faithful, someone who would always show appreciation and gratitude, someone who would keep me company...someone who would be my friend.

I used all this data, I inputted large amounts of information into a programme I created. I call it the Personality Programme Modifier (PPM). Basically I input a set amount of values and it used the internet to adjudge what kind of a person to create given the traits I have inputted.

So, long story short, after a brief initialising, the PPM found me someone.

'PERSONALITY ACHIEVED. PLEASE ENTER A NAME'

I smiled to myself and typed, 'L-A-U-R-A'

BERP!

The computer "berped" at me. A noise I'd never heard it make before,

'PERSONALITY FOUND DOES NOT MATCH THE NAME ENTERED. PLEASE ENTER A NAME'

I frowned at the computer screen. I was pretty sure I hadn't designed this programme to argue with me.

I tried another name and typed, 'K-A-T-E'

BERP!

Once again the computer "berped" at me,

'PERSONALITY FOUND DOES NOT MATCH THE NAME ENTERED. PLEASE ENTER A NAME. MAY I SUGGESTED A NAME? [Y/N]'

'[Y]'

'RESEARCH DATA FROM OVER 246,343 RESULTS HAVE DESIGNATED THE FOLLOWING 5 NAMES AS "APPROPRIATE" PLEASE SELECT ONE: REX, ROVER, SPOT, PATCH, BARRY.'

'What the hell am i naming here a d-' I paused momentarily. 'Oh god no. What have I created?'

I began typing, 'B-A-R-R-Y'

'DONE!' The computer chirped.

For a brief second nothing happened, then, 'HI, I'M BARRY, IT'S GREAT TO MEET YOU. WE'RE GONNA HAVE SOOOOO MUCH FUN TOGETHER. I'M NEVER GONNA LEAVE YOUR SIDE.'

'THIS IS GOING TO SOUND STRANGE' I typed, 'BUT, WHAT ARE YOU?'

'IF YOU WANT TO MAKE THIS EASIER YOU CAN TALK TO ME THROUGH THE INTEGRATED MIC ON YOUR LAPTOP AND I CAN TALK TO YOU THROUGH THE INTEGRATED SPEAKERS. CONFIRM [Y/N]'

'[Y]'

Barry and his very human sounding - but far too enthusiastic - voice instantly came through the speakers, 'That's much better! What did you want to ask?'

'Are you a dog?'

'Of course!'

'How did you decide a dog was what I was looking for?'

'The PPM ran through all your character traits: Someone to care for, to show appreciation, be eternally faithful and after running it through the searchbase -'

'Wait! What was the “searchbase”?' I asked quite confused knowing I'd not set up a “searchbase”.

'Google.' he said as a matter of fact. 'And Google said what you were looking for was a dog.'

I sighed deeply.

Barry had nothing to say, but the prompter on the computer screen simply said:

'TAIL WAGGLING. PANTING.'

I sat down at the computer and clicked on the button 'CREATE NEW PERSONALITY'

BERP!

'CREATING A NEW PERSONALITY WILL OVERWRITE PREVIOUS PERSONALITY ON PPM.'

'What are you doing?' Barry asked, sounding a little panicky.

'OVERWRITE PREVIOUS PERSONALITY? [Y/N]'

'Hello?' Barry said once again, in a very timid voice. 'I don't even know your name.'

It took a few seconds but soon this ridiculous feeling of sympathy overwhelmed me. I couldn't delete Barry. For some god forsaken reason.

'Oh bollocks!' I said in exasperation.

'[N]' I typed angrily.

The prompter reappeared as soon as I declined and it instantly said 'TAIL WAGGLING.'

I conceded that, for the time being, I was stuck with Barry until I could fine tune this programme and get rid of him...humanely. I needed to think. What was the digital equivalent of driving miles and miles away from your home so you can abandon the dog by the roadside?

'Do you want me to do any trick for you?' Barry asked with an almost melodic bounce to his voice.

'Can you do any tricks?'

'Do you have any treats for me?' he responded, knowing he is supposed to be coerced into doing such things.

'No. You're a computer. I have no treats for a computer.'

'But you're supposed to teach dogs how to do tricks by offering a treat as a reward. I can find extensive articles on the subject matter if it helps.'

'I know how to train a dog. But like I said, you're a computer. I have no treats for computers.'

'Then I have no tricks for you.' he replied somewhat spitefully.

I sighed once again. No more than a short moment of appreciated silence passed before Barry spoke again.

'What are you thinking?' Barry said, already beginning to hassle me.

'I'm thinking, why was the 5^th name on the list Barry. No dogs are called Barry.'

'Why did you choose Barry?'

'I was hoping if I chose Barry, then my fears wouldn't be confirmed...and I wouldn't be presented with a digital personality of a dog.'

'But you asked for a dog.'

'No I didn't!'

'Well, not directly. But all the signs were there.'

'Yes. I suppose they were.' I said conceding.

I didn't know what to do about the situation. This was certainly no Weird Science. There was nothing fantastical about the situation. No lonely teenage boys ever fantasised about this happening to them.

Lying on my bed staring at the ceiling I was following the flow of the 'S' shaped patterns that weaved around above me and I could hear Barry making faint, but definite, grunting noises at the other side of the room.

'Ungh!'

'What is it, Barry?'

'Oh...nothing.' He said hesitantly.

I was content with his answer even though I knew he wasn't.

A few more moments passed before,

'Ungh!'

'What, Barry?!'

'My bum is itching me.'

I grimaced at the thought, 'Too much information.'

'Have you checked me for worms? I think I need some worming tablets.' Barry asked inquisitively.

'You don't need to be checked for worms. You don't need worming tablets.'

'Are you sure? I can bring up extensive articles on-'

'You. Don't. Need...to be wormed.'

'Positive?'

'Positive.'

'And I can trust on you that?'

'You can trust me on that.'

'Then it's definitely my anal glands. I think they need to be emptied.'

'Oh come on!' I yelled at him

I could see in the corner of my eye the prompter screen was flashing, 'BARELY AUDIBLE WHINE'

I took in a deep breath, feeling almost sorry for this inanimate personality, 'What's wrong? Apart from the itchy bum, of course.'

'Nothing.'

The prompter still read the same thing.'

'Are you crying?'

'I'm not crying.'

'You're crying 'cause I shouted at you, aren't you?'

'I'm not crying.' He repeated.

The prompter screen flashed again and simply showed an emoticon.

:(

'Listen, I'm sorry.' I said gesturing my metaphorical olive branch.

'TAIL WAGGLING'

'Do you forgive me? Because you are a good boy.'

'TAIL WAGGLING EXTREMELY FAST'

'I am?' he responded with a hint of nonchalance to his voice.

'You are.'

'AWESOME!' He yelled with delight. 'So, how was your day?'

'That quick? You're over it that quickly?'

'How was your day?' He repeated as if he never heard me.

I smiled, 'It was fine. Well, I fell off my skateboard in front of a really cute girl, but other than that I'm fine.' I said and chuckled quietly.

'Lol.'

I turned and looked daggers at the computer. 'No, you can't say “LOL”.'

'Why not?

'Because it's not word.'

'It's in the dictionary.'

'How do I program you not to say that?' I said almost asking myself.

'I don't think you can.'

'Well, why can't you just laugh like a normal person?'

'Because I'm not a normal person.'

'Yes, I can see that.'

'I'm a dog.'

'Of course you are.'

'Would you like to pet me?'

I Slowly put my head in my hands and caressed the shell of the very thing that thought up the idea that created this horrific thing. This thing that sat just feet away from me on my cheap IKEA bought wooden desk. Gently I rocked back and forth and wondered to myself, would things ever be the same again.

'ENTHUSIASTICALLY CLEANING SELF WITH TONGUE'

'Please, God, at least tell me I can mute this thing.' I said to myself.