Lupus Langour
By: Taliyaah Onze
Tags: Dogs, Fiction Writing, Science Fiction Writing, Short Story, Family

Lupus Langour

Fred. It was the most fitting name for the bag of bits and bolts in the paper bag. Oliver dropped Fred on the oak dining table, with complete disregard to its fragile varnish. “I got you a present,” he announced to his wife.

Marie winced. Whatever Fred was, he was heavy. At least Fred didn’t destroy the varnish or overturn the table. Yet. She flipped her magazine page. “Oh, good. You cleaned the garage. Do you mind taking it out with the trash to the curb, darling?”

“It’s not scrap metal. Aren’t you going to ask me what it is?”

Another page turned. Oliver tipped the bag over, slowly dumping Fred out across the table. Marie threw the magazine aside, crying out for her poor table. The bits and bolts were held together in a fake fur silicone sack—hardly dangerous at all. Marie craned her neck and squinted. Fred took the shape of roadkill and didn’t look like anything in the garage. Oliver answered for her. “Remember when I was working on the dev team before my promotion?”

“Barely. You were never home.”

Oliver bent Fred back into shape. He took the form of a pale white Terrier, one ear flipped backwards, his spine and legs gnarled. “I built the exoskeleton for the ‘Terrible Terrier’ toys when they were in beta testing. The boss was cleaning out the project room for the next toy tests after some of the guys quit. He asked me if I wanted to keep the beta model. Don’t you think it would be a great gift for Caleb?” He twisted the dial on Fred’s collar. Soon, the ear flipped back into place. He barked, muffled by the popping speaker box in his snout.

Marie dog eared her magazine. “Grandpa already is sending one for Christmas. It’ll collect dust in the garage. Like your other projects.”

Fred stumbled, chasing his tail in circles. He fell over on the first twirl. Two weeks from Christmas, and already Oliver’s father-in-law beat him. Once again, with toys he designed. If he could play that game, so could Oliver. He picked up Fred and carried him to the living room. Marie turned the next page.

Caleb sat in front of the TV, still in his school uniform. Harriet, their fat orange tabby cat, lay in his lab. She saw Oliver first, spiking her tail and hissing when Fred began to yap. Harriet scrammed. Caleb looked up, his eyes lighting up. “Did Grandpa’s gift arrive?”

“Even better.” Oliver set down Fred. Fred hobbled over to Caleb. Caleb had the same twitchy eyebrows as his father. They twitched, trying to make desperate sense of the mangled mutt ramming its face against the sofa.

Caleb straightened Fred, pushing him away. “Why do you have that?”

Oliver sighed. He wished Caleb had some of his curiosity and imagination. “It’s the beta model of the Terrible Terrier, handmade by your old man right here. His name is Fred. Isn’t he cool?”

Caleb shrugged. By then, Fred ran back towards the sofa, bending his neck and tilting his head near backwards. “It should have stayed in beta.”

“Don’t be like that. None of your friends have one quite like it!” Oliver huffed. “Some days, I swear, your grandpa spoils you too damn much…”

Fred righted himself, spotting Harriet. She backed into the corner of the bookcase, hissing at Fred. Fred cornered her, the latter taking a testing swat. Fred nipped at her, catching her tail between his plastic jaw. Harriet shrieked. Marie picked her up, saving the cat from the terrible dog. “I’m telling you, Ollie, every year it’s the same. You bring home a broken toy, grandpa brings home the finished model. It’s annoying, but Ollie, this thing is dangerous. Get rid of it, would you?”

“Fred is harmless. Harriet causes trouble. Like all cats do. I’ll fix him, and make him better than those dumb terrier toys. You just watch.” Oliver’s speech went ignored. Marie carried Harriet back to the kitchen, soothing her mewling cat. Caleb stared at the TV again. The commercials were over.