The dog and the phone

You answer the phone. 

It's a dog.

Well, at least it sounds like a dog. It barks like a dog. You say hello a few times and the response is the same bark each time. With slight variations. But none resembling anything other than a bark. 

But you think, rationally and logically, that it simply can't be a dog. A dog can't use a phone. So you realise, ah it must be a joke. A good one, you think. So you enquire again. This time, with a knowing laugh, 

Alright, who is it really?

A bark again meets you. A crueler noise this time. This is a joke at your expense. The person on the other end is laughing at you. You are incensed. You demand an answer.

WHO IS THIS?

A bark again. Dog like. Convincing.

Its a dog. Or at least, the bark would suggest it's a dog. Or someone committed so completely to playing the role of a dog in this context that they may as well be a dog, to you. 

But a dog can't operate a phone, can it? Certainly not any dog you've ever met. 

But maybe its not just any dog, you think. The chances of any old dog making a phone call by accident are a million to one, you think. But maybe this dog... meant to phone you?

You laugh. It's ridiculous. But then again, you are on the phone to a dog. And the dog is waiting patiently for you to speak. Does it.. understand you? 

You say, again:

Hello?

It barks

You ask if it understands you. 

It barks. 

You say do you know how to use the phone? 

It barks. 

You ask it if it knows who you are. 

Silence.

Then the loudest bark of all. 

My god, you think. What does this all mean? This dog appears to understand me. Every time I ask it a question it seems to respond. It responds in barks, yes. But well timed barks. Barks that, if you read between the lines, are more than just barks. 

You ask it if there is a purpose to its call. 

It solemnly barks. 

Oh no, you think. That dog sounded sad. That's not good. What does this dog want from you?

What do you want?

Silence. Perhaps the dog doesn't want anything from you. Maybe it has something to tell you. Maybe something terrible. It's better to know, you think. 

Is something...wrong?

A bark even more solemn than the last. 

Oh god, you think. 

What's wrong?

Silence. Perhaps it is not the dogs way to say outright. Your father was the same. 

Dog?

A bark that may as well have said yes. 

Do you know something about me? Something that I should know?

A hesitation. Panting. Then a bark that sounded, once again, like yes. 

Why are you so hesitant? 

Silence. Panic. Maybe its not news at all. Maybe its some grand truth about life. Time. Space. Existence. Love. 

Is it a revelation? Are you some form of supernatural being?

Nothing. The presence of the dog still emanating from the phone speaker, but the question itself rejected. 

Do you have news? Bad news? Is this why you are hesitant to tell me?

The dog relents. It sighs as if to say, once again, yes. It is bad news. 

What is it? Is it my family? My mother? My father?

Silence. 

Is it me? Is something to do with me?

A yes - bark. You begin to feel fluent in dog. Or this dog is able to bark in human. You have been feeling unwell, but... that was nothing. Surely. Just a sore head. Bad sleep. Can't sleep because of the sore head and head's sore because you can't sleep. Rational, reasonable explanations. Take some paracetamol, get an early night. You think you shouldn't even bring it up, but... just in case. It would be better to know, wouldn't it?

Am I... am I sick?

A bark. Immediately. 

Is it serious?

Another bark. Almost before you finish the question. Jesus. You're freaking out. You knew it. You knew it wasn't just a sore head. 

Is it my head?

A bark again. You knew it. 

Fuck. Is it cancer?

Hesitation, then... a soft bark. Admission. You knew it.

I knew it. Is it...terminal?

A whimper. Not a bark. There's something the dog isn't telling you. 

Am I dying? Am I going to die?

One bark. Then two softer barks. As if delivering brutal information, then softened with empathy. The dog had been trained well on how to deliver the news. 

How... how long do I have?

One bark. One year? One month? One day? One hour?

A year?

Silence.

A month?

Silence. Oh god. 

A day?

Silence. No. It couldn't be. 

An... an hour? Do I have an hour to set my affairs in order at least? To say goodbye to my loved ones?

Nothing. You don't even have an hour. The dog says more in silence than words ever could. 

Will it... will it be painful?

A howl so loud you have to move the phone from your ear. It rings in your head. A warning. 

Is there... is there anything I could do to make it easier, dog? I don't want to die in agony. 

The dog barks as you look over to the kitchen. You see the knife. Oh god. 

Is this... is this the best thing I can do right now, dog?

Silence. 

Dog? Answer me! Before I end it all, give me the respect of answering me. 

Silence. 

Keys in a door. 

Excited barks. 

A door opens. 

Muffled warm greetings. 

Shopping being placed down. 

From the distance, but closer every word:

Is that.... That bloody... JOHN! The bloody dugs startit phonin people again... oh Jesus Mary and Joseph the poor bastards still oan the... Hello? Hello? 

Hello?

Did our bloody wee dug phone you? I'm so sorry. He's done this every day this week! Our phone bills a nightmare. 

You hang up. You look at the knife. Your heartbeat doesn't slow down. 

It was just a dog on the phone.