Submitted for the July 2024 prompt: This Mortal Coil

“I want Zippy to live forever,” Jeremiah cried. He leaned his big, blubbering body into his girlfriend, Aaliyah. She patted him on the back to soothe his wailing.

 

“Jer, I know this is hard to hear, but you have to let Zippy go,” Aaliyah said.

 

“But he’s my dog!” Jeremiah cried. His sobs filled the veterinarian's office, enough that the veterinarian and the neural transfer clinician excused themselves to let the couple cry over the dying miniature Australian Shepherd on the table.

 

“He’s still just a puppy!” wailed Jeremiah. “I can’t imagine life without him. What am I going to do for work? People won’t follow his social media if he’s gone. It’s not fair he got hurt like this. We have to undo this wrong. Please, Aaliyah, I want him to live. Please!”

 

Aaliyah continued to comfort Jeremiah with one hand as her other hand comforted Zippy on the stainless steel table. Jeremiah’s breathing was sporadic, and Zippy's slow and labored from a crushed ribcage.

 

“Jer, I know we’ve talked about it. But I don’t think using this transfer technology is a good idea. It doesn’t feel right.”

 

“But it’s here,” Jeremiah said, pulling back. His face was full of snot, tears, and desperation. “We have the technology to transfer his brain into a clone. He can live again. He deserves to have a chance at a full life.”

 

“But honey, the neural transfer cost—” Aaliyah started, but Jeremiah angrily shook his head.

 

“I don’t care how much it costs! I’ll pay every dollar we’ve made so far through social media if it means I get to keep him.”

 

“But Jer, sometimes they don’t come out the same way. You don’t know how the dog will react to being transferred into a clone. The technology isn’t perfect yet—”

 

“It’s a new chance!” Jeremiah yelled. He pulled at his hair and paced around the stainless steel table of the small office. “The technology is available. How could you tell me not to use it to keep Zippy alive?”

 

“It wouldn’t be entirely him,” Aaliyah said.

 

“Yes, it would!” Jeremiah screamed.

 

The echo of his yell bounced across the sterilized room. Aaliyah gripped Jeremiah's big hands tenderly.

 

“Jer, listen to me. It isn’t right to make a dog immortal,” she said.

 

“We’re not making him immortal. It’s just one more lifetime, one more chance,” Jeremiah said.

 

“No, it isn’t just one more time. Even if Zippy comes out the same and is a happy dog for another lifetime, what will happen if he gets hit by another car, or just gets old? Would you keep choosing to keep him alive by cloning him?”

 

The silence was filled with Jeremiah's sniffling.

 

“Yes,” he said softly, “I’d choose to do it again.”

 

Aaliyah took her husband's cheeks in her hands, and they looked into each other's eyes.

 

“Honey, if we go down this path, it’ll never stop. Zippy will never rest. That’s not okay to do to him.”

 

“But allowing him to die from a car accident? That’s okay to do to him? Even though we can right a wrong?”

 

“Humans have never had this chance to right death. Death has always been part of life. We don’t live forever for a reason,” she said.

 

“And what reason is that?” asked Jeremiah.

 

“We wouldn’t value life anymore,” Aaliyah said softly. “If Zippy can learn that he can run into the street and die without consequence, he might stop worrying about surviving. This wouldn’t be the last time we come here to transfer him to a clone. It’ll never end.”

 

Jeremiah collapsed over the table with the injured Zippy, hugging and sobbing into the dying dog. Aaliyah rested her hand on his back as he grieved. At one point, the door cracked open. Aaliyah shook her head to the neural transfer clinician looking in. She heard the clinician softly call for the veterinarian to return.

 

“I don’t know why I feel so connected to this dog,” Jeremiah said. “This hurts so much. How am I going to get over this?”

 

“Do you remember the shelter where we got Zippy?” asked Aaliyah.

 

Jeremiah nodded through his sniffles.

 

“They’ve called me in the last few weeks looking for us to adopt again. It turns out that neither of Zippy’s sisters has been adopted yet. We can take in both his siblings and love them like we loved Zippy.”

 

Jeremiah bear-hugged Aaliyah, sobbing harder than he had all evening. He continued to cry more as the veterinarians prepared the injections to put Zippy to sleep. The doctor stepped back as Aaliyah and Jeremiah pet Zippy to say goodbye.

 

“I love you, Zippy,” said Jeremiah. “You were such a good dog. I promise to take care of your sisters for you. We’ll love them forever, just like we love you.”

 

They kept petting him as the injection was administered. They told him they loved him and that he was a good dog until his breathing became still, and the life from his little body left him.

 

Jeremiah and Aaliyah lamented the loss of their dog for several days. When they visited the shelter and the two young sisters of Zippy in the waiting area, Jeremiah and Aaliyah cried and relived their sorrow.

 

The young puppies smelled their recently passed brother.

 

They howled with Jeremiah and Aaliyah, huddled and grieving together.

 

As a new family.