Hereafter: A Holodog Story (Part One of Three)

Hereafter: A Holodog Story (Part One of Three)

Before the midwife had even finished making sure he was breathing, Harold Newman’s fate was sealed. He was to be indoctrinated into the temple of convention. In nursery, the daily mantra was to learn to abide by rules; make good choices. To earn social acceptance by compliance. And that the way of all things was that you were born, lived and died. It is still subject to conjecture as to what comes after the final stage; religious texts differ in interpretation. Science is blurring the “norm”. Mortality stands and falls on the length of mitochondria. To suspend or even reverse the decay of these pivotal strands can lead to longer lives or even immortality itself. In the meantime, alternatives to meeting the Grim Reaper are under research. Perhaps death can be subverted somehow. Cheated.

Harold Newman had been through the wringer. He was still processing the death of his beloved Doris when his dog went and died as well. These were bleak times; like something from a Charles Dickens novel. Bleak House. He glanced over at the alarm clock on the small cabinet next to his bed. It was one of those old-fashioned ones that you pressed down to silence when the designated time arrived. The circular clock face showed it was two minutes before 10am and he was still in bed, curtains drawn, the day waiting for him to fill the room with light and join the rest of the human race. His head hurt. It was the half a bottle of scotch he had downed until the early hours. His breath stank of alcohol. Groaning, he threw back the quilt and lumbered towards the en-suite, his bare feet kicking up the crumpled heap of clothes that lay scattered on the carpet.

Looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Harold caressed the stubble on his jaw and chin. He looked like shit. His eyes were puffy, his dirty-blond hair unkempt. People had often commented on his rugged looks; like maybe he belonged in a western movie. Seventy years of life weighed heavily on the former security guard as he briefly pondered what to do with the day. He had only been retired this last twelve months. The insurance company that he had worked at during his final ten years had thrown him a retirement party. There had been music and dancing, speeches and tears. Every fond farewell had carried a sting of sadness, despite his apparent escape from the rat race. Bitter sweet. His health could be better than it was, what with daily pills for blood pressure, an under-active thyroid and other meds he was taking for a variety of ailments. Time was being less than kind to him.  All of the plans for his golden years had gone out of the window with the loss of his wife within weeks of retiring and now his black Labrador. Fumbling in the cabinet above the sink, thoughts of shaving were dismissed again as he closed the glass doors and turned on the shower instead.

The walk downstairs was a precarious one. Having showered and dressed, the journey to the kitchen was loaded with triggers. His faithful hound had always slept in the hallway overnight. As soon as the spot where Ben used to sleep crept into view, Harold felt a lump rise in his throat and his shoulders sag. Every morning, the slumbering canine would rouse himself on seeing his owner and circle around his legs expecting to be fed. It was an exchange of oxytocin that was much missed. Where there was once a dog, now an empty hall lay silent. It was deafening.

Harold shuffled into the kitchen and poured water into a kettle. He still felt groggy from drinking last night. A couple of slices of bread were slipped into the toaster. Parking himself on the stool next to the breakfast bar, it was a wait of a couple of minutes for the toast to pop and the kettle to boil. Running fingers through his hair, thoughts meandered. Ben had finally succumbed to old age. The canine had nearly made it to the grand old age of seventeen but small ailments had turned to bigger issues. It had finally been accepted that the woofer just couldn’t go on. Saying goodbye at the vets had broken his heart. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the dog’s baleful eyes looking back for the last time. That quiet injection then eternal sleep. The whole thing haunted. 

With the toast popping and hot water ready to pour into his favourite mug with a picture of a panda on it, Harold plonked the food and drink down on the table. Taking a swig of coffee, he sensed the continuing silence that enveloped the house like a shroud. Doris had been larger than life. Usually, at this stage of the day, breakfast would have been long since done and they would have started a list of jobs to do or be out and about visiting the shops. All after the dog had been walked, of course. Ripping a piece of toast smothered in butter with his mouth, his gaze fell down the crack of his open dressing gown. A gentle paunch of a stomach belied his septuagenarian years. A ringing sound from the doorbell broke the reverie.

There was the outline of a face at the frosted glass panel in the front door. Opening slowly to rebuff any potential sales people or Jehovah’s witnesses, Harold immediately recognised the slim frame and smiling face of his daughter, Hannah. He ushered her in and they sat down in the lounge. The room was untidy. An empty, cut-glass tumbler lay on a coffee table flanked by a two-piece settee that was laid out in a right-angle. Yesterday’s newspaper was open-paged on the cushions where Harold had chosen to sit, the flat screen television directly opposite with its tiny red light signalling stand-by mode, whispering subliminal temptation of daytime viewing. It was clear that no housework had been done in days.

“How are you, dad?” Harold’s offspring was a quietly spoken fifty-something. Her hair was mousey brown with a fringe, her face thin. She lived a few miles away on the other side of Northampton so calling in from time to time was no inconvenience. If anything, she considered it to be a responsibility, especially of late. Sooner or later she would have to put her foot down and get the vacuum cleaner out.

Harold felt guilty at being found in this state. Again. He couldn’t seem to break the cycle. Every day he told himself he would get a grip. Things would be better. He would wake feeling like he used to; ready to attack the day and be productive. To be useful. To be accepted socially. He offered his daughter a cup of tea. It was the only thing he could think of doing. He thought to himself how neat and tidy she looked in her black top and tight jeans with flower patterns sewn on the thighs.

“Dad….look.…I’m worried about you. I know how much you loved Ben. He’s been gone a couple of months and you look as down now as if it had just happened.” Hannah’s voice was softly spoken but assertive. For someone so quiet, she had a will of iron. Usually. On this occasion she wasn’t so sure about herself. Grief could be unpredictable.

For a few moments, nothing was said. The concern expressed by Hannah had hit a raw nerve. Harold was taken aback by the observation although reassured that his daughter cared enough to say what she had said. They had been through the cycle of despair with the loss of his wife. It seemed unfair to have to deal with it all again so soon. He thought about the right words to reply with.

“I’ll be fine, darling. No need to worry, just a bit down at the moment. I’ll come out the other side. You’ll see.” It was an unconvincing statement, full of self-doubt. The smile that went with the words was strained. Harold stared absently at the front, bay window. The cherry tree mid-garden was in blossom. He liked the way it obscured the view of most of the houses in the close.  It was sunny outside today; he could hear birds singing.

Hannah had dropped in a few times since the demise of Ben. She had been there for her father in his darkest moments over the last year. He had been there for her, as well. As much as Harold had lost his wife, his daughter had lost her mother and the pain was shared equally.

“Well that’s what I thought you would say. I’ve been thinking about things. I have an idea that might help.” Hannah leaned forward, her arms outstretched, hands gripped together. She peered into her dad’s face ready to gauge his reaction. Everything was softly, softly at the moment.

“There’s a section in my company that offers a service that you may be interested in. It’s been around for a few years now. Would you consider something that would ease the pain of losing Ben?”

For a few seconds, respective gazes locked. Harold took a while to process what his daughter had just said, his brain whirring with cognition. What could possibly help with the loss of his dog? He felt confused as he stared at the wooden floor, the edges of a rug formed a borderline underneath a glass-topped coffee table. He looked up again.

“Hear me out. There is a team in biotech that specialise in holography. For the last couple of years the technology has extended to replicating deceased pets for owners. They have the ability to do the same with people but that’s being considered by a governmental ethics committee at the moment. All they need is some DNA. The main advantage is that you get a near identical animal that never gets ill and, in theory, lives forever.”

Part two at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/hereafter-holodog-story-part-tw...

Image free to use at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rainbow_hologram.jpeg