There is a dog at the end of the lane that can talk, my brother says. He shows us a fifteen-second video on his phone of a white dog pressing an assortment of buttons. “Walk. Outside. Now.” This dog…
I was on the train to work when I imagined what a family crowded around a small kitchen island might be watching on social media during the end of the world, what ten-second video would hold their attention while a disaster occurred over their shoulder. I imagined the scene like a Netflix title card—a tableau of an airbrushed, unknown cast with turkey-toothed grins spliced against a green screen explosion—and later that evening, I wrote about that family, a family like any other who have grown complacent in their cohabitation and who centre constant distraction over interpersonal communication.
In “The Talking Dog,” each member of the family is unable to understand one another, despite their proximity to technology, to social media, and to each other. The space between the father and the mother is fractured and stale, not necessarily hostile, not necessarily loving. In contrast, the dog has manifested the miracle of being understood, and has done so in the language of its master. It isn’t clear whether the dog can actually “talk,” or if it has simply learned to associate sounds with rewards in the way any dog learns commands, memorising the tones of our language without necessarily understanding the meaning of the individual words. I wonder then if the family isn’t doing the same—asking questions to get a response but not understanding or retaining the information they receive.
There is something dystopian about a dog pressing buttons to “talk” to us in our own language, especially when it seems as though the dog can harness the inherent premonition animals possess to warn their owners of inclement weather, or strangers approaching the house before they’ve reached the front door. I wanted the talking dog in my story to be the only creature capable of understanding and being understood, and for that irony to be felt in every sentence. The family in the story is captivated for a brief moment by simple, deliberate communication, a concept they unknowingly crave and yet have always been capable of, should they have ever attempted to exist outside their own hierarchy of needs. I think most of us have encountered people like this, perhaps even members of our own family. Perhaps some of us have been the talking dog, and have been made a momentary spectacle for simply asking to be heard and understood.
JAMIE MULLINS is a queer Glasgow-based short fiction writer of stories about isolation, decay, escape, and transformation. His recent works include “my first friend,” published with Effy Literary Magazine, and “two seconds,” upcoming with Beyond Words Magazine. When he’s not writing, he enjoys voice acting, embroidery, and researching Scottish folklore. Find him on Instagram @jameseymullins.
