The Last Dog by Katherine Paterson

[1]
Brock approached the customs gate. Although he did not reach for the scanner, a feeling it might have labeled
“excitement” made him tremble. His fingers shook as he punched in his number on the inquiry board. “This is
highly irregular, Brock 095670038,” the disembodied voice said. “What is your reason for external travel?”

Brock took a deep breath. “Scientific research,” he replied. He didn’t need to be told that his behavior was
“irregular.” He’d never heard of anyone doing research outside the dome — actual rather than virtual research.
“I—I’ve been cleared by my podmaster and the Research Team….”

“Estimated time of return?” So he wasn’t to be questioned further.

“Uh, 1800 hours.”

[5]
“Are you wearing the prescribed dry suit with helmet and gloves?”

“Affirmative.”

“You should be equipped with seven hundred fifty milliliters of liquid and food tablets for one day of travel.”

“Affirmative.” Brock patted the sides of the dry suit to be sure.

“Remember to drink sparingly. Water supply is limited.” Brock nodded. He tried to lick his parched lips, but his
whole mouth felt dry. “Is that understood?”

[10]
“Affirmative.” Was he hoping customs would stop him? If he was, they didn’t seem to be helping him. Well, this
was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To go outside the dome.

“Turn on the universal locator, Brock 095670038 and proceed to gate.”

Why weren’t they questioning him further? Were they eager for him to go? Ever since he’d said out loud in group
speak that he wanted to go outside the dome, people had treated him strangely — that session with the
podmaster and then the interview with the representative from Research. Did they think he was a deviant?
sometimes disappeared. The word was passed around that they had “gone outside,” but no one really knew. No
deviant had ever returned.

The gate slid open. Before he was quite ready for it, Brock found himself outside the protection of the dome.
He blinked. The sun — at least it was what was called “the sun” in virtual lessons — was too bright for his eyes
even inside the tinted helmet. He took a deep breath, on last backward look at the dome, which, with the alien
sun gleaming on it, was even harder to look at than the distant star, and started across an expanse of brown
soil [was it?] to what he recognized from holograms as a line of purplish mountains in the distance.

It was, he pulled the scanner from his outside pouch and checked it, “hot.” Oh, that was what he was feeling.
Hot. He remembers “hot” from a virtual lesson he’d had once on deserts. He wanted to take off the dry suit, but
he had been told since he could remember that naked skin would suffer irreparable burning outside the
 protection of the dome. He adjusted the control as he walked so that the unfamiliar perspiration would
evaporate. He fumbled a bit before he found the temperature adjustment function. He put it on twenty degrees
centigrade and immediately felt more comfortable. No one he really knew had ever left the dome (stories of
deviants exiting the dome being hard to verify), but there was all this equipment in case someone decided to
venture out. He tried to ask the clerk who outfitted him, but the woman was evasive. The equipment was old,
she said. People used to go out, but the outside environment was threatening, so hardly anyone (she looked at
him carefully now), hardly anyone ever used it now.

[15]
Was Brock, the, the only normal person still curious about the outside? Or had all those who had dared to
venture out perished, discouraging further forays?2Perhaps he was a deviant for wanting to see the mountains
for himself. When he’d mentioned it to others, they had laughed, but there was a hollow sound to the laughter.

If he never returned, he’d have no one to blame but himself. He knew that. While his podfellows played virtual
games, he’d wandered into a subsection of the historical virtuals called “ancient fictions.” Things happened in
these fictions more — well, more densely than they did in the virtuals. The people he met there — it was hard
to describe — but somehow they were more actual than dome dwellers. They had strange names like Huck

Finn3and M.C. Higgins the Great.4They were even a little scary. It was their insides. Their insides were very
loud. But even though the people in the ancient fictions frightened him a bit, he couldn’t get enough of them.
When no one was paying attention, he went back again and again to visit them. They had made him wonder
about that other world — that world outside the dome.

Perhaps, once he had realized the danger the ancient fictions posed, he should have left them alone, but he
assa couldn’t help himself. They had made him feel hollow, hungry for something no food pellet or even
virtual experience could satisfy. And now he was in that world they spoke of and the mountains of it were in
plain view.

He headed for the purple curves. Within a short distance from the dome, the land was clear and barren, but
after he had been walking for an hour or so he began to pass rusting hulks and occasional ruins of what might
have been the dwellings of ancient people that no one in later years had cleared away for recycling or
vaporization.

He checked his emotional scanner for an unfamiliar sensation. “Loneliness,” it registered. He rather liked having
names for these new sensations. It made him feel a bit “proud,” was it? The scanner was rather interesting. He
wondered when people had stopped using them. He hadn’t known they existed until, in the pod meeting, he
had voiced his desire to go outside.

[20]
The podmaster had looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a sniff. “Next thing you’ll be asking for a scanner,”
he said.

“What’s a scanner?” Brock asked.

The podmaster requisitioned one from storage, but at the same time, he must have alerted Research, because
it was the representative from Research who had brought him the scanner and questioned him about his
expressed desire for an Actual Adventure — a journey outside the dome.

“What has prompted this, uh — unusual ambition?” the representative had asked, his eyes not on Brock but on
 the scanner in his hand. Brock had hesitated, distracted by the man’s fidgeting with the strange instrument. “I
— I’m interested in scientific research,” Brock said at last.

So here he was out of the pod, alone for the first time in his life. Perhaps, though, he should have asked one of
his podfellows to come along. Or even the pod robopet. But the other fellows all laughed when he spoke of
going outside, their eyes darting back and forth. Nothing on the outside, they said, could equal the newest
Virtual Adventure. He suddenly realized that ever since he started interfacing with the ancient fictions, his
fellows had given him that look. They did think he was odd — not quite the same as a regular podfellow. Brock
didn’t really vibe with the pod robopet. It was one of the more modern ones, and when they’d programmed its
artificial intelligence they’d somehow made it too smart. The robopet in the children’s pod last year was older,
stupider, and more “fun” to have around.

[25]
He’d badly underestimated the distance to the mountains, the time was well past noon, and he had at least
three kilometers to go. Should he signal late return or turn about now? He didn’t have much more than one
day’s scant supply of water and food tablets. But he was closer to the hills than to the dome. He felt a thrill
[“excitement”] and pressed on.

There were actual trees growing on the first hill. Not the great giants of virtual history lessons, more scrubby
and bent. But they were trees, he was sure of it. The podmaster had said that trees had been extinct for
hundreds of years. Brock reached up and pulled off a leaf. It was green and had veins. In some ways it looked
like his own hand. He put the leaf in his pack to study later. He didn’t want anyone accusing him of losing his
scientific objectivity. Only deviants did that. Farther up the hill he heard an unfamiliar burbling sound. No, he
knew that sound. It was water running. He’d heard it once when the liquid dispenser had malfunctioned.

There’d been a near panic in the dome over it. He checked the scanner. There was no caution signal, so he
hurried toward the sound.

It was a — a “brook”— he was sure of it! Virtual lessons had taught that there were such things outside in the
past but that they had long ago grown poisonous, then in the warming climate had dried up. But here was a
running brook, not even a four-hour journey from his dome. His first impulse was to take off his protective
glove and dip a finger in it, but he drew back. He had been well conditioned to avoid danger. He sat down
clumsily on the bank. Yes, this must be grass. There were even some tiny flowers mixed in the grass. Would the
atmosphere poison him if he unscrewed his helmet to take a sniff? He punched the scanner to read conditions,
but the characters on the scanner panel danced about uncertainly until, at length, the disembodied voice said
“conditions unreadable.” He’d better not risk it.

He pushed the buttons now for liquid and pellets. A tube appeared in his mouth. It dropped a pellet on his
tongue. From the tube he sucked liquid enough to swallow his meal. What was it they called outside
nourishment in the history virtuals? Pecnec? Something like that. He was having a pecnec in the woods by a
brook. A hasty consulting of the scanner revealed that what he was feeling was “pleasure.” He was very glad he
hadn’t come with an anxious podfellow or, worse, an advanced robopet that would, no doubt, be yanking at his
suit already, urging him back toward the dome.

It was then, in the middle of post-pecnec satisfaction, that he heard the new sound. Like that programmed into
a robopet, yet different. He struggled to his feet. The dry suit from storage was certainly awkward when you
wanted to stand up or sit down. Nothing on the scanner indicated danger, so he went into the scrubby woods
toward the sound. And stopped abruptly.
[30]
Something was lying under the shadow of a tree. Something about a meter long. It was furred and quite still.
The sound was not coming from it. And then he saw the small dog — the puppy. He was sure it was a puppy,
nosing the stiff body of what must once have been its mother, making the little crying sounds that he’d heard
from the brook. Later, much later, he realized that he should have been wary. If the older dog had died of some
extradomal disease, the puppy might have been a carrier. But at the time, all he could think of was the puppy,
a small creature who had lost its mother.

He’d found out about mothers from the Virtuals. Mothers were extinct in the dome. Children were conceived and
born in the lab and raised in units of twelve in the pods, presided over by a bank of computers and the podmaster.
Nuclear families,6as everyone knew, had been wasteful of time, energy, and space. There was an old proverb: The
key to survival is efficiency. So though Brock could guess the puppy was “sad” (like that fictions person, Jo, whose
podmate expired), he didn’t know what missing a mother would feel like. And who would whimper for a test tube?

Brock had never seen a dog, of course, but he’d seen plenty of dog breed descriptions on the science/ history
virtuals. Dogs had been abundant once. They filled the ancient fictions. They even had names there — Lassie,
Toto, Sounder.7But now dogs were extinct, gone during the dark ages when the atmosphere had become
warm and poisonous. The savages who had not had the intelligence or wealth to join the foresighted dome
crafters had killed all animals wild or domesticated for food before they had eventually died out themselves.
It was all in one of the very first virtual lessons. He had seen that one many times. He never confessed to
anyone how, well, sad it made him feel.

But obviously, dogs were not quite extinct. Cautiously, he moved toward the small one.

“Alert. Alert. Scanning unknown object.”

[35]
Brock pushed the off button. “Are you sure you want to turn off the scanner?”

“Affirmative.” He stuck the scanner into his pouch.

The puppy had lifted its head at the sound of his voice. It looked at him, head cocked, as though deciding
whether to run or stay.

“It’s all right, dog,” Brock said soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.” He stayed still. He didn’t want to frighten the little
beast. If it ran, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to catch it in his clumsy dry suit.

Slowly he extended his gloved hand. The dog backed away anxiously, but when Brock kept the hand extended,
the puppy slowly crept toward him and sniffed, making whimpering sounds. It wasn’t old enough to be truly
afraid, it seemed. The pup licked his glove tentatively, then backed away again. It was looking for food, and
plasticine gloves weren’t going to satisfy.

[40]
Brock looked first at the dead mother whose source of nourishment must have long dried up, then around the
landscape. What would a dog eat? A puppy on its own? He took off his glove and reached through his pouch
into the inside pocket that held his pellet supply. Making every move slow and deliberate so as not to startle the
dog, he held out a pellet. The dog came to his hand, licked it, then the pellet. It wrinkled its nose. Brock laughed.
He didn’t need the scanner now to tell him that what he felt was “pleasure.” He loved the feel of the rough
tongue on his palm and the little furred face, questioning him.
 “It’s all right, fellow. You can eat it.”

As though understanding, the pup gulped down the pellet. Then looked around for more, not realizing that it
had just bolted down a whole meal. When the dog saw there was no more coming, it ran over to the brook.
Brock watched in horror as it put its head right down into the poisonous stream and lapped noisily.

“Don’t!” Brock cried.

The puppy turned momentarily at the sound, then went back to drinking, as though it was the most normal
thing in the world. Well, it was, for the dog. Where else would a creature in the wild get liquid? If the streams
were not all dried up, they must have learned to tolerate the water. But then, it was breathing the poisoned
atmosphere, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t it hit Brock before? This was a fully organic creature on the outside
without any life support system. What could that mean? Some amazing mutation must have occurred,
making it possible for at least some creatures to breathe the outside atmosphere and drink its poisoned
water. Those who couldn’t died, those who could survived and got stronger. Even the ancient scientist

Darwin8knew that. And Brock had come upon one of these magnificent mutants.

[45]
The puppy whimpered and looked up at Brock with large, trusting eyes. How could he think of it as a mutant

specimen? It was a puppy. One who had lost its mother. What would it eat? There was no sign of food for a carnivore.
Perhaps way back in the mountains some small mammals had also survived, keeping the food chain going, but the
puppy would not live long enough to find its way there, much less know how to hunt with its mother gone. For the
first time in his life something deep inside Brock reached out toward another creature. The thought of the puppy

languishing9here by the side of its dead parent until it, too…

“Your name is Brog, all right?” The ancient astronomers had named stars after themselves. He had discovered
something just as wonderful. Didn’t he have the right to name it sort of after himself while preserving the
puppy’s uniqueness? “Don’t worry, Brog. I won’t let you starve.”

Which is why Brock appeared at the customs portal after dark, the front of his dry suit stained, carrying a
wriggling Canis familiaris of uncertain breed.

If there had been any way to smuggle the dog in, Brock would have. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how.
As it was, every alarm in the area went off when he stepped into the transitional cubicle. The disembodied voice of the
monitor queried him:

“Welcome back 095670038. You’re late.”

[50]
“Affirmative.”

“And you are carrying contraband.”

“I pulled a leaf.”

“Deposit same in quarantine bins.”

[55]
“Sensors denote warm-blooded presence not on official roster.”

“I found a dog,” Brock mumbled.

“Repeat.”

“A dog.”

[60] “Canis familiaris is extinct.”

“Well, maybe it’s just a robopet that got out somehow.” “Correction. Robopets are bloodless. Leave dry suit for
sterilization and proceed to quarantine inspection."

The officials in quarantine inspection, who rarely had anything to inspect, were at first nervous and then, as they
watched the puppy happily licking Brock’s face, interested despite themselves. An actual dog! None of them had ever
seen one, of course, and Brock’s dog was so much, well, more vital13 than a robopet. And although, on later reflection,
they knew they should have terminated or expelled it, they couldn’t quite bring themselves to do so that night.

“It will have to go to Research,” the chief inspector finally declared.

“Permission requested to hand carry the dog known as Brog to Research," Brock said. There was a bit of an argument
about that. Several inspectors sought the honor, but the chief declared that Brock, having shed his dry suit and being
already contaminated, should be placed with the dog in a hermetically14 sealed air car and transported to Research.

[65]
The scientists in Research were predictably amazed to see a live Canis familiaris. But being scientists and more
objective than the lower-grade quarantine inspectors, they kept a safe distance both physically and psychically
from the creature. Only the oldest scientist, dressed in proper protective clothing, came into the laboratory with
Brock and the dog. He scanned and poked and prodded the poor little fellow until it began to whimper in
protest.

“Brog needs to rest,” said Brock, interrupting the scientist in the midst of his inspection. “She’s (for by this time
gender had been indisputably established) had a hard day. And if there’s some actual food available — she’s not
used to pellets.”

“Of course, of course,” said one of the researchers through the speaker in the observation booth. “How
thoughtless. Send someone out for a McLike burger without sauce. She may regard it as meat. Anyhow, it will
seem more like food to her than a pellet, affirmative, Brock?”

The scientists, Brock soon realized, were looking to him for advice. He was, after all, the discoverer of the last
dog. It gave him sudden scientific status. Brock had sense enough to take advantage of this. After Brog had
swallowed the McLike burger in three quick gulps, Brock insisted that he be allowed to stay with Brog, so that
he might interact with her. “She’s not like us,” he explained. “She’s used to tumbling about and curling up with
other warm bodies. In the old myths,” he added, “puppies separated from their litters cried all night long. She
will need constant interaction with another warm-blooded creature or she might well die of,” he loved using his
new vocabulary, “loneliness.”
 The scientists agreed. After all, Research was rather like quarantine, and since Brock had touched the dog

ungloved and unprotected, he might well have picked up some germ from her. It was better to keep them both
isolated in the research lab where proper precautions would be taken.

[70]
For nearly a week, Brock lived with Brog in the research center eating McLike burgers, playing “fetch,” teaching
Brog to “sit,” “heel,” “come”— all commands he could cull from the ancient tests. The dog quickly learned to
obey Brock’s commands, but it wasn’t the automatic response of a robopet. Brog delighted in obedience. She
wanted to please Brock, and those few times when she was too busy nosing about the lab and failed to obey
instantly, those times when Brock’s voice took on a sharp tone of reproof, the poor little thing put her tail
between her legs, looked up at him with sorrowful eyes, begging to be forgiven. Brock was tempted to speak
sharply to her even when there was no need, for the sight of her drooping ears and tail, her mournful eyes
was so dear to him that he did what Travis Coates had done to Old Yeller. He hugged her. There was no other
way to explain it. He simply put his arms around her and held her to his chest while she beat at him with her
tail and licked his face raw. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware that one of the scientists was watching.
Well, let him watch. Nothing was as wonderful as feeling this warmth toward another creature.

For the first week, the researchers seemed quite content to observe dog and boy from their glass-paneled
observation booth and speak copious notes into their computers. Only the oldest of them would come into the
lab and actually touch the alien creature, and he always wore a sterile protective suit with gloves. The others
claimed it would interfere with objectivity if they got close to the dog, but they all seemed to behave positively
toward Brog. No mention was made to Brock of his own less than objective behavior. So Brock was astounded
to awake in the middle of the night to the sounds of an argument. Someone had forgotten to turn off the
communication system.

“Cloning — it’s the only thing to do. If she’s the last, we owe it to posterity to keep the line going.”

“And how are we going to raise a pack of dogs in a dome? One is nearly eating and drinking us out of test tube
and petri dish. We can’t go on this way. As drastic as it may seem, we have to be realistic. Besides, no one has
had the chance to do actual experiments since the dark ages. Haven’t you ever, just once, yearned to compare
virtual research with actual?”

“What about the boy? He won’t agree. Interfacing daily with the dog, he’s become crippled by primal urges.”

“Can you think what chaos might ensure if a flood of primordial18 emotions were to surface in a controlled
[75]
environment such as ours?” another asked. “Apparently, emotions are easily triggered by interactions with
primitive beasts, like dogs.”

“Shh. Not now. The speaker is —” The system clicked off.

But Brock had already heard. He knew he had lost anything resembling scientific objectivity. He was no longer
sure objectivity was a desirable trait. He rather enjoyed being flooded by “primordial emotions.” But he was
more worried for Brog than for himself. It wasn’t hard to figure out what the scientists meant by “actual
experiments.” Cloning would be bad enough. Ten dogs who looked just like Brog so no one would know how
special, how truly unique Brog was. But experiments! They’d cut her open and examine her internal organs,
the way scientists had in the dark ages. They’d prod her with electric impulses and put chips in her brain.
They’d try to change her personality or modify her behavior. They’d certainly try to make her eat and drink
 less!

In the dark, he put his arm around Brog and drew her close. He loved the terrible smell of her breath and the
way she snored when she slept. They’d probably fix that, too.

The next day he played sick. Brog, faithful dog that she was, hung around him whimpering, licking her face. The
scientists showed no particular concern. They were too busy plotting what they might do with Brog.

[80]
Brock crept to the nearest terminal in the lab. It was already logged in. The scientists had been doing nothing
but research on Canis familiaris. COMMON CANINE DISEASES. Brock scrolled down the list with descriptions. No
distemper wouldn’t do. The first symptom was loss of appetite. He couldn’t make Brog fake that. On and on it
went—no, heartworms wouldn’t do. What he needed was a disease that might affect Homo sapiens as well as
Canis familiaris. Here it was! “Rabies: A viral disease occurring in animals and humans, esp., in dogs and wolves.
Transmitted by bite or scratch. The early stages of the disease are most dangerous, for an otherwise healthy
and friendly appearing animal will suddenly bite without provocation.”

Rabies was it! Somehow he would have to make Brog bite him. There was no antirabies serum in the dome, he
felt sure. There were no animals in the dome. Why would they use precious space to store an unneeded
medication? So, they’d have to expel him as well as Brog for fear of spreading the disease. He shivered, then
shook himself. No matter what lay on the outside, he could not stand to go back to the life he had lived in the
dome before he met Brog.

He crept back to bed, pulling the covers over Brog. When one of the scientists came into the observation booth,
Brock pinched Brog’s neck as hard as he could. Nothing. He pinched again, harder. Brog just snuggled closer,
slobbering on his arm.

Disgusted, Brock got out of bed. Brog hopped down as well, rubbing against his leg. Pinching obviously was not
going to do it. While the scientist on duty in the booth was bending over a computer terminal, Brock brought his
foot down on Brog’s paw. A tiny yip was all he got from his cruel effort — not enough sound even to make the
man look up.

“Feeling better, Brock 095670038?” The oldest researcher had come into the lab.

[85]
“Affirmative,” Brock answered.

“And how are you, puppy-wuppy?” The old man tickled Brog under her chin with his gloved hand. If I were a
dog, I’d bite someone like that, thought Brock, but Brog, of course, simply licked the researcher’s glove and
wagged her tail.

That was when he got his great idea. He waited to execute it until the proper moment. For the first time, all the
scientists had gathered in the lab, all of them in protective garb, some of them twitching nervously in their
chairs. They were sitting in a circle around Brock and Brog, explaining what must be done.

“It has to be done for the sake of science,” they began. Then they went on to, “For the sake of the dome
community, which is always, as you well know, short on food, and particularly short on water.” Brock listened to their
arguments, nodding solemnly, pretending to agree. It won’t be as if she'll really be gone, you know. We’ve made
virtuals of her — a special series just for you to keep. You can virtually play with her whenever you like.”

That was the cue. Brock turned and bit Brog on the tail so hard that the blood started. Brog, surprised and
enraged, spun around and bit Brock on the nose.

[90]
There was a shocked silence. Every scientist leaned backward, body pressed hard against his or her chair back.
Every eye was on the two of them.

“I — I don’t know what got into me,” Brock said. “I’ve been feeling very weird.” The scientists continued to stare.
“I was checking the historical records…”

All of the scientists fled the room. Someone ran to a computer terminal. When Brock offered to take Brog out of
the dome and let her loose in the mountains, no one argued. Neither did they say, “Hurry back,” or even, “Take
care.” No one came close as he loaded his pouch with water and food pellets. The customs gate monitor asked
no questions.

Out of sight of the dome, Brog was delirious with joy, jumping and running about the circles around Brock’s
boots. Why wasn’t the atmosphere choking Brog if it was as poisonous as the dome dwellers claimed? His heart
beating rapidly, Brock unscrewed his helmet just enough to let in a little of the outside atmosphere. Nothing
happened. In fact, he seemed to be breathing perfectly normally. He took off the helmet entirely. He was still
breathing freely. But his heart was beating so hard, he couldn’t be sure. He waited for the choking sensation he
had been warned of. It didn’t occur. Could they be wrong? Could the outside world have healed itself? Perhaps
— perhaps the reason the scanner had so much trouble reading the outside atmosphere was because it wasn’t
within the range of computerized expectations.

Could it be? Could it be that fear had kept the dome dwellers prisoner many years longer that a poisoned
environment would have?

[95]
He unfastened the dry suit and slowly stepped out of it into the sunlight.

It was wonderful how much faster he could walk without the clumsy suit. “Who knows?” Brock said to a frisking
Brog. “Who knows, maybe out here you aren’t the last dog. Your mother had to come from somewhere.”

Brog barked happily in reply.

“And maybe, just maybe, where there are dogs, there are humans as well.”

They stopped at the brook where they’d met, and both of them had a long drink. Brock no longer carried a
scanner, but he knew what he felt was excitement. The water was delicious.