‘The Dump-’Em Dog’ by Anna Zumbro

I arrived home after a twelve-hour shift to the yaps of a small dog. I didn’t have a dog.

“Mae?” I called. “Do we have company?”

The dog bounded out of the kitchen, skidding to a stop at my feet. A robot dog. Blue ovals blinked in its black eye-screens as it rose on its hind legs to jump on me, its front paws only reaching my knees. Chrome-plated toenails grazed my scrubs.

“Hi, Alicia!” The dog’s voice was youthful and energetic. So not just a robot dog, but a robot puppy. I patted its head and tried to remember where I’d seen this brand before.

“Hey, buddy. Where’s Mae?”

“That’s why I’m here! Let’s snuggle on the couch, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Mae’s piano synthesizer and recliner were gone. The dog’s eye displays were adorably wide. Sympathetic. 

“You’re — I’ve seen ads for you — you’re a Dump-’Em Dog. You’re …” 

“Oh, you don’t need to call me that! You can call me by my name. Fin.”

“Finn?” 

“F-I-N, Fin. Like ‘the end’.”

“Mae!” I shouted. “What the hell? I don’t have time for these cheap jokes.”

“I’m not a joke. I’m not cheap, either — second from top of the line! Mae recognized that after fifteen months, she owed you more than the base model.”

The dog rose on its hindquarters again. This time its head came level with mine. I had sunk to the floor. 

“Oh yes, tears can be healing. Let it out. I’ve already ordered burritos.”