“It’s a slightly older model,” I explained. “But we know how much you like snow dogs, dreamed of going dog-sledding one day.”
“Tiny Balto,” she said. She held the dog close to her chest. “Hollywood.”
I pointed to the robo-dog welcome packet on the tray table that outlined its popular features: facial recognition, voice commands, audio recording and playback, an expandable library of songs, games like go fetch, eating a plastic milk bone. The Husky 3.0 model can pick up the beat of whatever music is playing and dance in time. Its LED eyes can display the weather forecast, personal calendars, and journal entries, and help with arithmetic. Its personality changes the more its owners interact with it and, if it’s ever lost, a GPS beacon can be used to track it online. Ayano flipped through the packet and triggered Hollywood’s myriad sensors. After that, anytime I slept over, I’d hear barking and electronic jingles throughout the night, my wife telling Hollywood how she really felt. So tired, she’d say, thinking I was asleep. Panting bark. Melodic chime. I know I’m getting worse, pup. I don’t know if you can understand me.
A few days after receiving Hollywood, Ayano hosted a show in her room for some of the children on the ward. Aki was already there when I arrived, helping with the musical arrangements, playing his mother’s shamisen while she sang and clapped. The kids danced and watched as Hollywood jumped around excitedly, eyes displaying fireworks. He sat up on his hind legs and waved his arms in the air. Ayano and Aki noticed me watching from the doorway. I felt like I’d intruded on something special that was just for them. Even Hollywood settled down and looked at me as if I’d taken a piss on the floor. “Okay, it’s time to say goodbye, Hollywood,” Ayano said.
Hollywood scanned the children. “Goodbye,” he said.
“And I love you,” she added.
“I love you,” he repeated, and this time the voice was different, not the preprogrammed foppish Englishman’s, but my wife’s. The kids filed out of the room and Ayano commanded Hollywood to say it again. “I love you,” he said.
“That’s your voice,” I said.
“I’ve been teaching him a lot of things,” she said. “I wish we had gotten one sooner.”
*
Next weekend we’re holding a group goodbye ceremony for three robo-dogs. I’m meeting with Toru, a Buddhist monk who helps with the services I hold once a month in our small yard—incense, sermons, cakes from the grocery store, even tiny pine caskets I make myself. In the shed, there are nearly twenty dogs waiting to be used for parts, and for Toru’s blessing, to ultimately be reunited with their families when they are nothing but shells. Each one sits on a cushion, and at night, thanks to the donation of a client, strings of miniature LED lights surround them like fireflies. Toru prays over the three we’re preparing today. I notice how his eyes linger on the empty cushions that grow in number with each visit.
“It’s almost impossible to fix them now,” I say. “But people need to hope.”
“This one, I remember”—Toru points at a shih tzu missing its front legs—“was with Mrs. Ito from down the street when she died. The dog was already gone, of course. Had been for a while as far as I know. But she didn’t know that. And this one—” He picks up a white pit bull with a painted brown spot over its back and studies its face. “This is Kogi. His owner lost his real dog who looked just like this. His ex bought him this one secondhand. He was drinking, missing work. Almost got fired from the post office. Kogi saved him, allowed him to connect to the world again. These dogs will be remembered—their spirits will be rewarded.” I know Toru has to say these priestly things, but spiritual rewards don’t mean a whole lot when your life has been cut in two—you want your wife back, not her voice trapped in plastic; you want your son to love you again.
Across the street, I give him the contact info for the owners and show him out.
My neighbor, Kigawa-san, is restocking his vending machine. He runs a small beer and sake shop. Most days, he sits on the sidewalk in a folding chair watching the time pass, punctuated by the chimes of bicycle bells, children petting Astro. His Akita robo-dog sits on the ground beside him. The neighborhood grandmothers, friends of his late wife, power walk up and down the street for exercise, stopping to chitchat, asking him how Astro is doing. “Is he being a good boy? Is he helping his master guard the shop?” Always the same questions. And always Kigawa-san pets Astro and answers: “He’s a very good boy.” Of course, Astro does not respond. His eyes are devoid of a single pixel. Months ago, I sat down with Kigawa-san over drinks at the corner bar and broke the news: I could not save his robo-dog, and it would only be a matter of time before he stopped functioning altogether.