I sent you an email months ago about my son’s dog. Samson won’t bark anymore. Just these strained mechanical wrrr wrrr sounds. His eyes light up, but we don’t think his cameras are working on account of him walking into walls and heading in the opposite direction when we call. Last week, I thought he was gone for good. It took forever for him to charge again. All the forums say you’re the best. I know you said things have changed, that you might not be able to help, but if there’s even the smallest chance . . . we’re prepared to pay whatever it costs. Please, help us. My son doesn’t have much time left. He fights to breathe. The doctors say he’s got maybe a few months. Samson is a part of him. When Samson was working, it was like my son could run and play. We just want our boy to be with his dog while he still can.
Attached to the letter is a photo of the man’s son with Samson. The kid’s hooked up to all manner of wires and tubes. He’s so pale you can see the veins branching across his body. I take the dog out of the box, brush away the packing peanuts, and hear a rattle inside, telling me that this pup is likely dead on arrival. Poor kid. I open Samson up to confirm before emailing the owner. I regret to inform you . . . I think about the boy in his bed, waiting, hoping, maybe already deep in a coma in some crowded plague ward. I think about his father, skimming from monthly paychecks to buy his son something new that can never replace this dog. As a kindness, I include a cushion for Samson and refurbish the exterior as best I can. I’m preparing packing materials to send him back express when Aki emerges from his room, sees the poodle stuffed in the box.
“I told the guy not to send it,” I say. “Nothing to be done.”
“You should update the website and be honest with people,” he says. “All you do anymore is open them up, shake your head, and send them back. It’s pointless. Maybe it’s time for you to get a real job.”
My face grows hot and part of me wants to smack him on the back of his head, put him in his place, even if I know he’s right. I still cling to the belief that I can do some good for these dogs and their owners. Aki goes into the other room and begins playing the shamisen. Soon, I hear my wife’s voice, a song from her favorite enka singer, Keiko Fuji. I’ve begun to preserve all the artifacts of my wife’s voice that she stored inside Hollywood on a digital recorder, in preparation for his eventual failure. I know it won’t be the same, though. After all, Ayano sang into Hollywood’s ears. I sit next to Aki as he plays. He gets up and says he needs more space. I shift over on the sofa. He watches me move before resuming his song. Every so often, my wife’s voice is overcome by static or another melody from Hollywood’s data bank. My son continues to play until Ayano finds her way back to us. Usually, this is our evening together: I cook dinner, Aki performs with Hollywood, and I spend the rest of the night alone in my workshop, thinking about how much time we’ll need before we can move beyond this.
“I miss her so much,” I say. I’m surprised that I let the words leave my mouth. I’ve broken the ritual my son and I created together. Aki’s bow hand is still. He looks to the floor. I can see his tears falling to the tatami, forming dark spots on the straw. I move closer. He backs away and puts the shamisen in its case. I’ve never been a hugger. It’s just not something men in my family have ever done, but I want to hug my son. I want to feel his heartbeat against my own, his tears on my shoulder. I want to connect to the only real part of my wife that is left.
“I’m finished,” he says. “I’m tired.”
It’s a warm but not terribly humid day for the group memorial service, and my former clients find support in one another, sharing stories about their pets. I arrange a simple picnic lunch for everyone—sandwiches I bought half off at the grocery store, arranged on a plastic tray with some fruit. I’m about to go back inside to allow them their space when they invite Aki and me to join them.
“You’re one of us,” they say. “In a way these dogs belong to you, too.” One of my clients points to Hollywood, sitting in Aki’s lap. Aki tells Hollywood to say hello. Instead, he asks the group a series of math questions. His LED eyes flicker. Our guests look at us with pity. Maybe they’re starting to realize that if I can’t fix my own dog, there is no hope left.
“He’s a funny little thing,” I say. Aki is petting Hollywood, and suddenly we’re all listening to my wife’s hopes and dreams for our son. Study hard. Go to college. Meet someone who will make you happy and be kind to our family. Travel to all the places I never got to visit. Aki is trying to make the recording stop, furiously activating Hollywood’s sensors. The dog finally goes quiet and then offers an algebra question to the group.