Free Carmen Dog by Carol Emshwiller

yellow vest, served as a sort of minidress and did not attract so much attention. She had, she confessed, frequently been involved in sexual play with her young master, but not going “all the way,” so to speak, and so still technically a virgin in spite of all they had known of each other. However, Basenji said, she had known that “all the way” must come soon, and she dreaded it. This was a side of Basenji that only Pooch knew and, of course, would never tell. Whatever poor Basenji's life had been, Pooch knew it was certainly not her fault. The poor thing had just barely reached adolescence and now, to be cut down at first flowering, never to know true love and a true loving sexuality. To Pooch, Basenji would always be the essence of the sweet and the virginal. And how sad that, at this very moment, her owners were probably enjoying Paris while Basenji, pauvre petite , would never see it.
    She wishes that she had more time to write the poem, that it could be better, not for her own pride, but for Basenji's sake. She wants to do the absolute best that she can in this last task for her friend. As it is, she finishes it just in time for the service, which is very moving and beautiful, though everyone wishes that Pooch, rather than writing about songs, had sung.
    â€”
    Poem on the Death of a Dear Dear Friend
    â€”
    First crocus of the season
    Whiter than the very snow
    I have watched it tremble
    When the harsh winds blow—
    This spring, though it come not again,
    Will linger ever in mind
    As will the crocus. Another one so white
    And pure I will not find.
    â€”
    I would lift my voice in song
    And let the bleak wind hear my cries
    But hope the crocus doth sleep on,
    For her my voice be lullabies.
    â€”
    Pooch hopes that someday, especially if they do not live through this experience, someone might set the poem to music, and Basenji thereby be remembered.
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Chapter 7: In Which the Baby Learns a Second Word
    None are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.
    â€”Elizabeth Barrett
    Now the doctor is going to try a completely new direction. He brings into the laboratory a solid Morris chair and arranges leather straps as though to confine the individual in it, but he cuts them all partway through. The thick one for the waist he will not even buckle, but will let it hang out the back of its own weight. Of course he must be careful not to let 107 realize that she's not strapped in except lightly at wrist and elbow.
    He opens one of the high little basement windows. Takes out the thick screening that serves as bars. Only someone quite at the end of her rope could make such a leap up from the floor to what she would take as freedom. Even then, probably impossible. Still, can't be guessed at, what they can or can't do. Not to take any chances, the doctor places a small stool and then a waist-high bookcase next to it to form steps. Then he adjusts the testing cage so that it gives only the slightest of shocks even when turned on full. Partly this is in case he gets carried away. It's possible that he might get very angry. Often does these days. He's found out so little so far. Suspects most of them are as ignorant as they say they are. But not 108 and 107. They know things. And something wise about them that the others respect. They're listened to. 107 may lead him somewhere useful. Perhaps to their leader. Except she doesn't talk now. Could tell that from the tapes. There's a waste of time. All those tapes. Grunts, chuckles, quacks. Even worse than it used to be. Bad enough then. Bla, bla, bla. “How do I look with feathers in my ears?” “Tell me, is my topknot mostly blue or green?” “Have my feet grown ugly already?” “Am I too fat? Too thin?” Pleasant singing voice, though, 107's was. Powerful. A bit strange. Music. Used to like it. Beethoven. What they say about menstrual and estrous might be useful. Somewhat. Try to find their