DOG'S LIFE
     
     A Short Story by Martha Soukup

Copyright 1991 by TSR, Inc.  Permission is granted to
the downloader to read this story, but further distribution,
republishing or the placement of this story in other archives
without the permission of the author is prohibited.   All Rights
Reserved.

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     "You're _w_h_a_t?" asked Angela.
     Herb, a large, dusty-beige dog, sat beside a cardboard box 
that contained the few items--a bone, a catnip mouse, a couple of 
worn blankets--that the animals agreed they could rightfully claim 
as theirs.  The Siamese, Wayfarer, lay curled atop it.
     "We're moving out," Herb said.  Wayfarer gave a triumphant 
flick of her tail.
     "But why?"
     "Animals," said Martin.  "Don't have an ounce of gratitude."
     "_G_r_a_t_i_t_u_d_e," Wayfarer sneered.  "Gratitude for being locked 
up in this dingy house when there are cats out there I have a 
right to see?  Gratitude for being fed brown sludge from a can?  
Gratitude, I imagine, for being thrown bodily out of any chair I 
happen to be napping in if some human being wants it instead?"
     "So who bought that chair?  Who bought that food?"
     "Martin," said Angela said, warningly.  She turned to the 
animals.  "Wayfarer, Herb, I'm sure we can work this out.  Let's 
talk about this."
     "The time for talking is through.  What reason is there for 
four-footed animals to be subservient to two-footed?  It's 
slavery," she said cooly, her tail describing a figure eight in 
the air.
     "Do you feel that way too?" Angela asked the dog.
     Herb looked away.  "I think she's right," he said, "that 
there's something wrong about living like this.  I'm sorry."
     "Oh, Herb--"
     "No hard feelings," the dog said gruffly.  He nosed the box 
forward.  Angela looked at him helplessly.  "Um, could I trouble 
you to open the door?"
     "Be my _g_u_e_s_t," Martin said, yanking it open with an 
obsequious gesture out.  Angela reached out a hand to stroke the 
dog's ear, but pulled it back, watching as Wayfarer rode the 
carton of worldly possessions Herb pushed down the street.
     #     
     "We should have thought this out more," Wayfarer complained.
     _W_e? thought Herb, since it all had been the cat's idea, but 
he kept it to himself.  Instead he pulled the blankets out of the 
box and arranged them as best he could behind a dumpster.  
Shivering in the autumn chill, he tried to sleep, Wayfarer 
providing the only spot of warmth where she pressed against his 
flank.
     At dawn Herb woke from a fitful doze to find a ragged, 
spotted mongrel sniffing at him.  "Morning," said the strange dog.  
"What's a couple pets like you doing out on the street?"
     "How'd'you know?" Herb mumbled.
     "Hmm what?"
     "How can you tell we're pets?"
     The mongrel looked amused.  "Collars," he said.
     "Oh," said Herb.
     "So?" said the spotted dog.  Wayfarer gave a sleeping snort 
and rolled over.  "What happened--kicked out?"
     "No--our decision."
     The mongrel shook his head.  "Pretty dumb.  You gave up a 
roof and a meal ticket to eat out of garbage cans?"
     Herb had been considering that, but he drew himself up--
trying not to wake the cat--and said, stiffly, "We declared 
independence.  It's a political statement.  Humans and dogs--and 
cats--can't relate honestly until we meet on an equal level."  He 
strained his head around, chewed at his loose collar, tore it off 
and flung it to the asphalt.
     "Wow," said the mongrel.  "No kidding?  Then you got guts, 
kid."
     Herb doubted it, but it felt good to hear.  "Thanks."
     "Maybe not brains, though."  Herb blinked.  "Incidentally, 
this is my alley.  Find yourself other crashspace tomorrow night."  
The spotted dog made a quick deposit against the brick wall and 
trotted off.
     "Tuna?" murmured Wayfarer in her sleep.  "No, I'll have the 
salmon mousse."
     #     
     Herb could--just barely--make himself root through a garbage 
can and pretend it was table scraps, but Wayfarer always demanded 
the best of whatever he found.  "Siamese have delicate 
digestions," she said primly in a voice that allowed no argument.
     It wasn't the food that bothered Herb, or trying to sleep 
without freezing or being run off by former occupants.  He felt 
like a deadbeat.
     "I need time to recover from my deep-rooted trauma," Wayfarer 
said when he brought it up.  "Anyway, if we're really declaring 
independence from an inequitable system, there's no reason to play 
by its rules."
     Herb was stubborn.  Leaving Angela and Martin to be his own 
dog meant assuming his own responsibilities.  And winter was 
coming on.
     "You gotta be kidding," said the security chief.
     "Please, sir," said Herb.  "You're the first employer I've 
been able to get through to.  Give me a chance."
     "Canines ain't independents," said the chief.  "Ain't done."
     "I'll work cheap.  I'll earn any responsibility you give me."
     "How cheap?"
     "Less than minimum wage," Herb offered desperately.  "I'm not 
a human--it's legal."
     "True," said the chief.
     "And you can get rid of me if you aren't satisfied.  I don't 
have a union and I don't need a contract."
     "Good, 'cause I don't sign contracts with mutts."
     Wayfarer expressed disappointment at his joining the system; 
but didn't reject the one-room, no bath apartment Herb found.  The 
landlady looked dubious, but took the cash.  "Just till I get real 
people for it."  With what she charged for the dingy hole, that 
was as unlikely as the animals' getting an actual lease.  Still, 
there was money left over for Herb to buy generic dry dog food, 
and the expensive single-serving food and occasional fresh fish 
Wayfarer demanded for her digestion.
     Herb suggested the cat try to clean the place up while he was 
at work.  Somehow it seemed he ended up doing most of the heavy 
work.
     "You're much better suited for it," she commented, grooming 
her whiskers.
     "What does that mean?" he demanded, losing his patience.
     "You're bigger--you're stronger--you have a better 
constitution.  And you're more tempermentally suited to 
unimaginative work."
     He struggled to remind himself they were fellow oppressed 
creatures, and nothing could come without a little sacrifice.
     And he did enjoy the pride he felt, supporting himself, 
beholden to no one.  He liked working for a living.
     #     
     "Sorry," said the chief.  "This came outta management.  Not 
my idea."
     "But I've worked hard!  I've never missed a day!  I'm the 
best guard at the factory--canine or human!"
     "I wouldn't say that was wrong.  But it ain't the point."
     "Look," said Herb.  "I don't even know where that came from."  
The human-interest section between them bore the headline:  
"ANIMAL RIGHTS?" and the subhead, "TWO 'DECLARE INDEPENDENCE' FROM 
HUMANITY."  There was a picture of Wayfarer looking soberly into 
the distance, head raised nobly.  There was also a small, fuzzy 
old shot of himself leaping for a frisbee, one of the few mementos 
Herb had brought from Angela's house.  "I never talked to any 
reporters."
     "It's lousy publicity for the company.  We don't need 
trouble."
     Herb got home before dawn to find a box on the sidewalk in 
front of their building.  On the box was Wayfarer.  Her tail 
blurred with motion.
     "That rotten--_h_u_m_a_n," she said, and hissed.  "She's evicted 
us!  Said she runs a quiet building.  Hah!  _T_h_a_t'_s a joke.  
Where is she at three a.m. when all the radios are blasting?"
     Herb dropped the moist newspaper in front of Wayfarer.  "What 
do you know about this?" he asked her.
     Wayfarer glanced at it.  "Oh, that.  The picture's not too 
bad, is it?  I think my other side is better."
     "Did you talk to that reporter?"
     "Why not?  I've got nothing else to do all day," Wayfarer 
said.  "This neighborhood doesn't have a very good class of cats," 
she added critically.
     "It got me fired!" Herb said.  "Don't you think you could 
have consulted with me first?"
     The cat stared at him.  "You don't own me," she said coldly.  
"Did I escape the domination of human beings to take orders from a 
dog?"
     "I'm sorry," Herb said awkwardly.
     "All right, I'll accept that.  What's for dinner?"
     #     
     Wayfarer refused to sleep on the street again.  Herb had 
exactly $27.  The place they found wanted ten dollars a night for 
a room that made their previous quarters look palatial; Herb had a 
piece of work talking Wayfarer into accepting the room.  "We can't 
afford anything better.  We can only pay for two nights as it is."
     "So get another job," she said.
     Most places still outright refused to talk to a dog.  Others 
glared.  "You're that troublemaker, aren't you?"  Word seemed to 
have gotten to all the firms that used guard dogs, and he couldn't 
think of other work to try for.
     The second day was worse.  Street animals were no friendlier 
than the humans.  "Life's rough enough without muzzy-head 
idealists like you rocking the boat!" a little three-legged 
terrier called angrily at him.  And there were no jobs available, 
not even interviews.
     Dejected, he walked back to the hotel, five dollars in his 
pouch.
     Wayfarer was not alone.  "Mr. Herb Canis, I presume?" the man 
with the briefcase said, extending a hand.
     "Canis?" said Herb.  He shook hands, which made him feel 
vaguely ridiculous, as though he were rolling over.  A card 
appeared in the man's hand and Herb took it in his mouth.
     "Canis," said Wayfarer.  "We can hardly go by Norlander, can 
we?  Names are identity, the selves we show the world.  --And 
'Wayfarer Norlander' sounds ridiculous.  I considered changing 
'Wayfarer,' but I've dignified that name by making it my own, and 
taken 'Felis' for a surname, as an example to felines everywhere."
     "She has quite a message, doesn't she?" said the man.  "And 
the style and conviction to get it across."
     "This isn't another reporter, is it?" asked Herb.  "Wayfarer, 
we've had enough trouble."
     "Hardly," said the man, with a polite little laugh.  "If 
you'd look at my card--"
     Herb dropped it on the floor and read "Foster Roderick, Flair 
Public Relations."
     "I have engaged Ms. Felis on Oprah and Donahue, and I'm 
working on Letterman."  Wayfarer stretched contentedly on the 
satin cushion Herb had bought her with his first paycheck.
     "What?  So fast?"
     Roderick said, "I had the bookings yesterday evening.  The 
only catch was finding Ms. Felis and yourself--you see what a good 
p.r. firm can accomplish.  Getting you to the top will be trivial 
by comparison."
     "Us?"
     "I speak of you as compatriots, of course.  You do realize, 
though, that it's Ms. Felis--"
     "You may call me Wayfarer, Foster," she purred.
     "Wayfarer has a quality.  She'll be beautifully telegenic.  
She'll just leap from the screen."  He looked Herb over.  "You--
well, you have a certain blue-collar charm, I'd say.  We might be 
able to do something with you later.  But let's start with 
Wayfarer, don't you think?"
     "Sure," said Herb, dazed.
     #     
     A limo picked Wayfarer up for her first interview.  A limo 
drove them, days later, to their new Michigan Avenue condo.  
Wayfarer jetted around the country, and Herb stayed home and 
watched her on television.
     The networks ran stories covering pet-store picketings, 
Wayfarer providing commentary.  Animal rights bills were 
introduced.  Shelters for street animals and disaffected pets 
sprang up.  Wayfarer t-shirts flooded department stores, one of 
the many rights to her image Roderick had sold.
     Herb had nothing to do.
     He slipped out of the building one day and took himself for a 
walk.  He was a little concerned he'd be recognized as Wayfarer's 
partner, but he wasn't.  He walked for an hour before he realized 
he was headed for the office where Angela worked.  No big deal, he 
told himself; the odds of running into anyone downtown are tiny.
     So it took three hours before Angela walked down the street.
     She drew up short and looked at him.  Finally she said, 
"Herb."
     "Hi."
     "So, um, what are you doing downtown?"
     "Nothing much.  Window shopping."
     "Okay."  There was an awkward silence.
     "Hey, um, I know what Wayfarer's been saying about you and 
Martin on TV.  I just want you to know those are her opinions, not 
mine."
     "Sure," said Angela.  "The enemy always has to be made out to 
be a monster to get the fight going.  I know."
     "Well, I know it can't have made things easy for you two."
     "Herb," she said.  "Maybe you--should know Martin and I split 
up."
     "Why?" he asked, surprised.
     "Oh, you know, he wasn't the most sensitive guy in the world.  
House got awfully quiet after. . . ."  She trailed off.
     "Yeah."
     "You wouldn't want to move back?" she asked suddenly.
     "Oh, gosh, Angela, that's really nice of you, but--"
     "I'm sorry.  It was a stupid question."
     "It just wouldn't be right."
     "Sure," said Angela.  Dog and woman stared at each other.  
"Look, I'd better get going.  We'll get together sometime, all 
right?"
     "Sure," said Herb.
     #     
     The Loop was crowded with humans.  Herb found himself 
retreating to the alleys.  He didn't feel like going back to the 
empty condo, not even with all the plush cushions scattered 
through all the rooms and the fabulously stocked kitchen.  Not a 
one of those cushions, he thought, silk or satin or velvet, was as 
comfortable as the beat-up old armchair Angela kept in the den for 
him.
     _D_i_d _I _a_s_k _t_o _b_e _a _s_y_m_b_o_l? he thought.  Maybe he did.  _Y_o_u 
_h_a_v_e _t_o _b_e _a_w_f_u_l _c_a_r_e_f_u_l _i_n _t_h_i_s _l_i_f_e.  He sat down by a dumpster 
to ponder.
     "Hey, this is my turf," growled a voice.  Herb looked up and 
the voice became warmer.  "Oh, it's you.  Herb, right?"
     "Yes," he confirmed to the spotted mongrel.
     "Didn't guess I was talking to future celebrities, way back 
when.  Guess you were smarter than I thought."
     "Maybe not," Herb said morosely.
     "What's your problem?  You got fame and fortune without doing 
squat.  That snotty little cat friend of yours does it all."
     "I don't think she minds," Herb said.
     "Going on Carson and eating caviar?  No, probably not.  Just 
like a cat."  The mongrel paused, then allowed, "Well, maybe not 
all of them."
     "It's like Wayfarer, though, I guess.  But it's for a good 
cause," Herb said defensively.  "It calls attention to social 
problems.  She's living a very fulfilling life."
     "You're not?" the mongrel asked.  "Christ, you've got all the 
money in the world.  You can eat anything you want.  You don't 
need to keep fighting folks out of your sleeping space.  Sounds 
great to me."
     "I hate it!" Herb cried.  "I don't _d_o anything.  I was 
working before, and that was better."
     "So get a job."
     "I'm kind of too famous to be a watchdog now.  What else can 
I do?"
     "Get into investments.  Real estate--that's always good," the 
spotted dog said sagely.  He cocked an eye.  "You don't look 
excited."
     "It's--"  Herb paused.  "I don't know how to say this.  I 
liked the way I lived before."
     "Ah," said the mongrel.
     "I ran into my old mistress today, and she invited me back.  
But I can't do that.  I'll be known as a Fido!  I couldn't live 
with myself either, if I backed down from a moral decision."
     "Yep."
     "So what should I do?"
     "How the hell do I know?" said the mongrel.  "I got problems 
of my own.  And unless you got some food to share, I got 
business."
     "Thanks a lot," Herb said to the empty alley.
     #     
     "You want a job?" Wayfarer said.  "No problem.  Why didn't 
you say something before?"
     "When were you around to talk to?"
     "We can arrange something.  Let me see--there've been some 
threats recently.  We can find room for Herb with the bodyguards, 
can't we, Foster?" she said to the manager, interrupting his phone 
call.
     "Mmm?  Oh, sure."
     "How's that, Herb?  Put Herb on the payroll, Foster."
     The manager jotted a note.
     "One other thing, Wayfarer."
     "Could you make it fast?  My personal groomer will be here 
soon."
     "I'd like to invest some of the money."
     Foster Roderick looked up.  "Ms. Felis's money?"
     "I thought this was a partnership."
     "Certainly any 'partnership'--of which there is no legal 
existence --is more than fulfilled by your excellent room and 
board here."
     Herb took a deep breath.  "I supported Wayfarer--"
     Roderick snorted.  "Hardly at this level!"
     "And whether or not there's anything legal, I think--"
     "I have to protect Ms. Felis's interests--"
     The buzzer sounded.  "That's my groomer," said Wayfarer 
stiffly.
     "Of course," said Herb.  He rose with great dignity.
     "He probably wouldn't cost that much to buy off," he heard 
Wayfarer tell Roderick as the door swung shut behind him.
     #     
     So he became one of Wayfarer's personal bodyguards.  He 
followed her around and stared at anyone who got too close.  
Wayfarer didn't like anyone to get too close.
     When she traveled, humans, not Herb, traveled with her.  When 
Wayfarer was on a lecture circuit out of Chicago, he studied how 
to invest the little parcel of money she had allowed him, shopping 
rental properties and studying commodities.
     He felt a little better.  But still lonely.
     One of Wayfarer's bodyguards broke his leg two hours before a 
flight, with no time to replace him.  "You don't mind, do you, 
Herb?"
     Not only had Herb never been on an airplane, he had never 
dreamed of flying first class.  He was nervous about flying, but 
excited.
     Wayfarer said he was to board to check out the cabin.  They 
were late to the airport, and there was some confusion, until 
Roderick explained the situation to the boarding attendant.
     The first class cabin was nearly full, the flight attendants 
preoccupied with a screaming set of triplets in back, and Herb 
didn't know how to find his seat.  He turned to a matronly woman 
sitting on the aisle.  "Pardon me, ma'am, could you--"
     The woman shrieked.  "My god, a wolf!"
     The man sitting behind her said, "Calm down.  It's only a 
mangy dog.  Stewardess!  Stewardess, a dog has wandered onto the 
plane."
     "Get that thing out of here," someone else said.  "I'm 
allergic.  I paid good money to have a good seat on this plane.  
What is this airline coming to?  I'm writing a letter!"
     "No, I have a--ouch!"  The allergic man had swatted him with 
the inflight magazine.  Herb's ticket fell from his pouch and was 
trampled.
     Wayfarer strolled onto the plane.  "Herb, what is going on 
here?"
     The matronly woman turned.  "Oh, my, you're--you're--you're 
that famous one, aren't you?  I have your book in my purse!"
     "Wayfarer Felis," supplied the allergic man.
     "This is terrible," the woman said.  "A celebrity on board 
and this scruffy beast causing trouble!  He could eat her!  I'll 
complain to the airline for you, dear.  You will autograph my 
book, won't you?"
     "That dog is my traveling companion," Wayfarer said.
     "Oh--my--"
     "I can see I have a long way to go in my mission to bring 
animals to full legal stature."  Everyone looked respectfully 
chastened.
     A steward hurried up, Herb's ticket was found and he was 
seated beside Wayfarer with many apologies.  Wayfarer looked 
coldly at him.  "You should have handled it," she hissed under her 
breath, then smiled at the matronly woman and autographed her book 
with a pawprint.
     There was caviar for Wayfarer.  The flight attendants were 
polite, even deferential, to Herb, but it seemed everyone wanted 
to pretend he didn't exist.  Wayfarer didn't say another word to 
him.
     Herb resigned before she could fire him.  He talked to a 
lawyer, who talked to Roderick; a week later, he put his pawprint 
on a release from any future demands on Wayfarer, and took the 
check she wrote him in return without a word.
     #     
     Managing a six-unit apartment building was hard work.  On a 
typical day he might take a shoulder to Mrs. Fox's stuck window, 
vacuum the front steps with the vacuum hose in his mouth, drain 
the muck from the hot water heater, mediate a dispute between 
across-the-hall neighbors, grant the young dance student a week 
extension on her rent, take out the trash and call the plumber 
about the Prokopiaks's toilet.  The roach problem would be getting 
worse again, the neighborhood kids throwing beer bottles on the 
front lawn, and the gutters developing a leak.
     He was exhausted.  He was deeply satisfied.
     And every night at 11:30, he would look both ways, sneak up 
the stairs and across the hall to apartment 2-B, and snuggle under 
the blankets at the feet of his tenant--Angela Norlander.
     It was a dog's life.  He could deal with it.