Sequel to:
The veterinary nurse leads me through into the treatment area, tallying up the treatments he'd given Simon and their costs. Whatever the price, it was worth every penny as I stared in delight at the ‘dog’ now caged within the machine against the far wall, ‘her’ begging eyes fixed on me.
His tone is businesslike and bored. Most of the advanced treatments are conducted by the autokennel, leaving only the menial tasks to the nurses. It's clear that, in his boredom, he's failed to notice my dog is not a dog at all. I relax. It had been a risk bringing Simon to the vet but one I'd been unable to resist.
“So we’ve administered Princess’ vaccinations,” says the technician. “And I’ve trimmed her claws as they were getting a little long. You might want to think about giving her more outdoors-time. Let her run around and wear those down.”
“Princess has a habit of escaping when her cage is unlocked,” I explain. “Keeps winding up at the pound, doesn’t she, Princess?” I snigger, tapping on the sealed glass front of the autokennel.
He’d learned his lesson the last time, after the pound had kenneled him with feral males. He’d been shaking like a leaf when I collected him in the morning and the experience had taught him obedience more than months of shock collars ever could.
"Well we've microchipped her, so escape attempts should be less of an issue now," says the nurse.
The thought that my ex-stalker is now electronically labelled with his new name, Princess, and the details of his owner, me, amuses me. Even in those dumb dog eyes, I see he feels it too, the horrified realisation that the truth of his animal existence is implanted in his flesh.
My doggified stalker moves sluggishly, his paws pressing up against the glass as if begging to be freed.
“Did she make any noise?” I ask.
“Not a bark. She was very well behaved. You must have her well trained,” he says. “Although she was more agitated when it came to putting her in the autokennel. The little missy put up quite a fight. We gave her a muscle relaxant to calm her down.”
He'd fought just as hard to escape being brought to the vets, only agreeing to enter the pet crate when I assured him the experience was only a humiliation for my entertainment as the vets poked and prodded him like some mindless mutt. Nothing more invasive than that. Now that he is loaded into the autokennel with my leering face staring through the glass, the truth of how invasive things are about to become is dawning on him.
My heart pounds in anticipation as I peek at the red warning notifications on the autokennel monitor. Chromosomal anomaly. Hormonal imbalance. Deformity of vocal chords. Organ damage. Infertility. It confirms my suspicion that Simon had simply used a human autocloset, hacked to override the ethical and physical safeguards. He was still human, deep down, simply mutilated into the shape of a dog, which the autokennel registers as damage.
“Is that everything?” I ask.
The man sucks air through his teeth, his tone turning sympathetic. "I gave her a physical. Externally, she appears in perfect health. But inside..." He shakes his head. "I've never seen an animal this bad. The autokennel can fix her, correct her genetic problems, but it would be expensive." His voice softens. "If it's outside your budget, we do offer painless euthanasi-"
"No!" I'm already reaching for my wallet. "Nothing is too much for my Princess. Whatever it takes to make her whole. To make her a full, functioning dog again," I snigger in mock-sweetness. Simon's half-canine whimper filters through the thick glass as the vet feeds my credit card into the autokennel. "Besides, Duke would be distraught if he lost his favourite breeding bitch."