Dog Days

Chapter 1
Chapter 1

Trevor stood on the chilly linoleum floor of the changing room, feeling as if he was trapped in a bamboo cage about to be plunged into a dark river. He took a final look at his lumberjack shoulders, the crop-rows of abdominals, the scriggly-scraggly beard he was so fond of. With a wince, he pulled on the paisley hospital gown and stepped outside, where a nurse was waiting with a clipboard.

“How are you feeling today?” she said in a chirpy sing-song voice, as if he was in for his annual flu shot. He submitted to the preliminaries in a blurry haze: blood pressure, temperature, drug allergies, and then watched as she scuttled out of the room, beckoning him to relax and make himself comfortable for what was to come.

In retrospect, it had been a titanic mistake to accept the Callaghans’ invitation. But his stand-up comedy career was in the doldrums, and waiting tables at the Crab Shack wasn’t bringing in enough to cover Mum’s mounting medical bills. Besides, he had worked for the couple before going to college and had left a favorable impression. Perhaps one of the constellation of companies they owned was in need of a keen 28-year-old with a wry sense of humor?

When he arrived at their mansion, Mrs. Callaghan had ushered him into the great room, with its reclaimed wood wine bar and Swarovski crystal chandelier, her crocodile leather shoes clicking across the sea of hardwood. They settled down on a row of suede couches, under gilt-framed oil paintings of men and their hunting dogs. Shortly after, Mr. Callaghan stepped in with a puppy clasped in his hands. Dim memories stirred at the back of Trevor’s mind.

“Is that Reagan’s puppy?” he asked.

“No, not quite. Reagan passed away last year, and it was a devastating loss for us. So we decided to have him cloned.”

Trevor stared at the squirming ball of fur. He had heard of the animal cloning labs and the brisk business they did, despite the eye-watering fees involved.

“So he’s an exact copy? Like… Reagan II?”

“Correct, he is a genetic facsimile.” Mr. Callaghan said. “But in order to fully recreate the Reagan we loved, we also have to reproduce his experiences. Which is where you come in.”

“Trevor, you did such an amazing job looking after Reagan the last time.” Mrs. Callaghan continued. “He couldn’t have become the dog he was without you.”

“Are… are you asking me to be your dog-sitter again?”

Mr. Callaghan cleared his throat and put on his most charming smile. “Yes you’re correct, Trevor, but with a slight adjustment. As I said, Reagan needs to have the exact same experiences, but you have changed considerably since you last looked after him. So we’ll need to rejuvenate you back to the age you were when we first hired you – around twelve years old I think?”

Trevor nearly choked on the scotch they had offered him.

“Of course we’ll pay for your rejuvenation treatment, as well as provide you with full salary and benefits, guaranteed for 5 years, the same length of time that you looked after Reagan for.”

Trevor’s mind went into a freefall, trying to grasp the incredulity of the situation. Had these folks gone completely off their rockers? They had a reputation in town for being eccentric, but this was something else. Yet he knew it would be unwise to offend them, so he floundered around for a graceful exit.

“That is a most generous offer, Mr. Callaghan, and I’m honored that you would trust me with Reagan again. But my Mum has been very ill, and a producer just offered me a huge contract for my new show, including a big advance, which I really need to pay for Mum’s treatment...”

“We’re so sorry to hear about your Mum.” Mrs. Callaghan interrupted. “Do not worry, I will personally see to it that she gets the best medical care possible.”

“And I will match whatever your producer offered you.” Mr. Callaghan continued.

Trevor paused, and then threw out a number so large and obscene that he was sure even the most crazed and demented millionaire would balk.

“Deal.” Mr. Callaghan said, the word ringing out like a gunshot.

A contract was produced out of nowhere, a pen was pushed into his hand, and like a deer caught in the headlights, Trevor found himself signing away his manhood.

The nurse returned to the hospital room with a syringe on a tray, and motioned Trevor to sit by the bedside. Rolling up his sleeve, she injected the serum, and asked him to lie down and relax.

For a while he lay in a tense silence, feeling powerless and doomed. Then it began, as if someone had run a hot wire thru him, sending waves of pulsing flames to every corner of his body, incinerating all evidence of his maturity: the craggy jawline, the sinewy forearms, the legs roped with muscle. He stole a glance to his side, just in time to see his shrinking fingers withdraw and then swallowed whole by his deflating sleeve. Swarms of tiny ants fidgeted and writhed on his skin, signaling the retraction of his body and facial hair. His bone structure shifted to fit his diminishing form, emitting a string of muted pops and cracks like a stiff drink being poured over ice cubes. Finally, the pressure on his body subsided, and a dull exhaustion washed over him like a cool breeze.

After a short rest, he felt a vague sense of normalcy return, so he sat up and shifted cautiously to the edge of the bed, noting that his feet no longer reached the floor. Bracing himself, he stepped off and landed with a light thump, his boxers promptly slithering down to his ankles. He cringed, and tried to think of something, anything but the slender twig and acorns it had just abandoned.

Back in the changing room, he avoided the mirror, not wanting to confront the embarrassment of his prepubescent self: the chipmunk cheeks, the large, endearing ears, the pudgy, puckish frame. He pulled on old clothes he never thought he’ll fit into again – a pair of striped Ascis shorts and his lucky white polo shirt, the one he had worn the day he led his school team to victory at the junior statewide tennis championships. It made him feel a little better, a baby spoon of cheer stirred into an otherwise despairing day.

When he got home, he wolfed down a tasteless cheese sandwich, then fired up his game console and immersed himself in a virtual world where he was still a strapping warrior with formidable strength, hacking his way through legions of digital enemies like hot butter. He toyed with the idea of buying an expensive new sword to salve his inner turmoil, and it occurred to him that there were now more zeros in his real-world bank account than his virtual account.

Would it be worth it? His new old job began tomorrow, and he didn’t know what to expect. But for the moment, he decided to lose himself in the sound and light of the flashing game, a desolate refugee hiding out in a cathedral of pixels.