Cog People

BY Peter Smiley

I am a cat person. Whenever that eternal topic of debate arises, you’ll find me in the feline corner. Dog people have a certain emptiness of the soul, which requires the unconditional devotion of a canine to fill. We cat folk, on the other hand, are complete and content in ourselves. We enjoy the company of our pets, but we don’t need them and they don’t need us. Ours is by far the healthier relationship.

That was my opinion. But then I became a cog person, and everything changed.

My introduction to the cog came by accident. “Entirely new pets,” read a small advertisement in the Sunday Age. “Clean and cute. Contact Shawcroft Laboratories.” There was a phone number. Intrigued, I called it, and was booked in for a personal consultation to determine whether a cog was right for me.

Shawcroft Laboratories occupies an obsidian cube in an industrial park. Inside it is air-conditioned, carpeted and beige. I only had to wait two minutes at reception before a portly man in a white coat introduced himself as William Shawcroft. “Shawcroft like the lab?” I asked. He patted me on the back reassuringly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I like to meet potential customers. I need to know that our little guys are going to be in good hands.” He looked me up and down, searchingly. “Yessss,” he said. “You look perfect. Tell me –” and here he pulled my shoulder down until his mouth was level with my ear. “Dog person? Or cat person?” “Cat,” I replied. Shawcross clapped his hands. “I knew it! I can always tell. But let me tell you, you won’t be one for long. Come!” He guided me quickly through a series of doors, and then stopped before one slightly larger and more serious than the rest. “Mr Smiley,” he said with theatrical gravity, “Ever since man first threw scraps to the wolves that prowled the perimeter of his campfire, ever since the first child tempted an ocelot out of the undergrowth by twitching a length of bark before it, mankind has dreamed of this. It is my great pleasure,” he swung open the door, “to introduce you to Billy.”

The room was white, and the walls were lit from within. In the centre was a cane basket with a tartan blanket inside. Beside that stood a scratching post, and hanging from the scratching post was Billy. How to describe a cog? Picture a cat with an elongated snout, a dog with more graceful forelegs, a cat with coarser fur, a dog with a thin, constantly twitching tail – such composites come close, but don’t quite capture the unique combination of energy, grace and good-natured curiosity that a cog radiates. Before I knew it, Billy had leapt into my arms and was scrutinising me with his round-pupiled yellow eyes. He was lighter than he looked, and his tail whacked against my arm with surprising force. “Hello,” I said. Billy licked my face with a small, flower-petal tongue, then started violently batting at my tie, purring as he did so. I laughed. Shawcroft was watching me with a broad grin. “What do you think?” he asked. “I think he’s incredible.” “Excellent, excellent,” said Shawcroft. “Would you like to take him home for a free trial?”

I was given a brochure, signed some forms, and spent the rest of the day in a darkened room watching a long instructional video. I took notes. An androidal blonde in a lab coat narrated. “During Research Stage One of Project Cog, surveys were conducted among a broad range of pet owners: those who identified as ‘dog people’, those who identified as ‘cat people’, and those who identified as having no preference for either species,” she droned. “Respondents were asked to select their favourite and least favourite physical features and behaviours for their preferred and non-preferred companion animal. The results were collated, and –” a couple entered the room and quietly sat down a few seats behind me. “Hi,” I said. We shook hands. They introduced themselves as Mark and Susan, a lawyer and an interior decorator. “We have a lot of experience with exotic pets,” said Mark, a twitchy man in an immaculate suit. “We’ve had, what have we had? Iguanas –” “– Fennec fox,” put in Susan. “You wouldn’t believe how they moult.” “Salamanders, Siamese cats.” “And the Vietnamese. Don’t forget the Vietnamese.” “Oh my God, how could I!” They laughed. “Peter, a Vietnamese Pot-Bellied Pig is the most troublesome pet, you just have no idea,” said Mark. “My God!” said Susan. “We had to keep a pot of bamboo in every room to make it think it was still in Asia, otherwise it would just have accidents everywhere.” “And no personality,” said Mark. “I was almost glad when she backed over it with the Land Cruiser.” “What did you think of your cog?” I asked. “Oh my God, aren’t they beautiful?” said Susan. “Honestly, I can’t wait to take it for walks. People are just going to die.” “Can you really walk them?” I asked. “Oh yes,” said Mark. “Have you looked through the brochure? Not only can you take them for walks, but they can learn tricks and they’ll even fetch, and when you’re bored with fetch, they just go off and do their own thing!” “We should keep in touch,” I said. “You know, compare notes.” “Excellent idea,” said Mark. We exchanged cards. The video finished, and we took our cogs and went our separate ways.

Billy proved to be a good passenger. I put his carry cage on the passenger seat, and he watched the passing landscape with such unruffled curiosity that I let him out. He did a quick circuit of the car, enthusiastically clawed the seats, stretched, then fell asleep. When I arrived home he allowed himself to be carried inside, then struggled out of my arms, landing with a muscular thump. I followed him as he explored the house, jumping onto sofas and sniffing behind the cushions, sticking his head under the rug, rubbing up against the speakers when I turned the stereo on. I filled a bowl with the special feed the lab gave me, and Billy devoured it. I watched TV, and Billy sat in my lap and watched with me, occasionally padding over to the screen to peer at it. I went to bed, and woke up to Billy purring beside me, the tip of his tail twitching contentedly back and forth.

After breakfast I called Susan and Mark. “Absolutely, come over!” said Susan. “Bring the cog! We’re just dying to meet him.” Their house was a 20-minute walk from mine. I put a collar and a leash on Billy, who twisted and bit at it for a few minutes before seemingly coming to terms with it. It was a nice morning for a walk. Billy initially strangled himself on the leash trying to chase birds, but soon learned to keep pace with me. He stopped once on a nature strip and dug a shallow hole, did his business into it, then fastidiously refilled it. “Good boy!” I said, impressed. We walked quickly. Shawcroft had cautioned me against taking Billy out in public, but there weren’t many people on the streets and although Billy drew a few curious double takes, most people seemed to dismiss him as just a weird-looking dog. We reached Mark and Susan’s house without incident – an angular architect-designed place in North Carlton. Mark let me in. “This is Zyu Zyu,” he said. The cog twining around his ankles was sandier and slightly smaller than Billy. They sniffed each other’s rears, then went racing off up the stairs past Susan. “Aren’t they just wonderful?” she said. “Honestly, they are just going to take the world by storm. And we’re the first! I love being an early adopter!” We had coffee and biscotti in the backyard and enthused about our pets while Billy and Zyu Zyu ran around and play-fought under the table. When I left, I nearly had to drag Billy down the driveway. “Bring him back soon!” said Mark. “The babies would be so beautiful!” sighed Susan. “What would we call them? Pittens? Kuppies?” I asked. “I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Mark.

A few months later, I got a call from Shawcroft. “Have you seen the news?” he asked. “No.” “Turn it on.” I did. Cogs were the top story. There was sinister footage of a young Shawcroft, interviews with a disgruntled former research assistant. The head of the Australian Bioethics Association complained of a lack of transparency. The President of the RSPCA raised serious concerns. Cardinal George Pell called the cog an abomination unto God. I watched with mounting dread, nervously stroking Billy’s whiskers. “It’s okay,” Shawcroft reassured me. “They don’t know about you or Billy. Just get him back here as soon as possible.” There was a knock on the door. Billy’s ears went back. “Hang on a second,” I said. I put the phone down and opened the door to three men in full white bio-contamination suits holding automatic weapons. “Mr Smiley?” said one. “Uh, yeah. What can I do for you, gentlemen?” “We’d like your cog, please.” He waved the gun barrel under my nose. “Immediately, if you don’t mind.”

Billy put up a good fight. He hissed and scratched and bit and led them on a prolonged chase around the house. They stumbled around and smashed vases and shot tranquilliser darts that stuck quivering in the wallpaper, but eventually they cornered him behind the toilet and caught him in a net. He tore open one of their suits, but they stuck a syringe in him and as they carried him out I saw his eyelids close and his body go limp. They wouldn’t let me pat him. “I’m sorry, Mr Smiley,” one said, panting and fogging up his plastic face mask, “but this creature has been judged a significant threat to health and public safety. We simply can’t allow any civilian contact with him. I’m sure you understand.” They left. I picked up the phone. “What happened?” Shawcroft asked breathlessly. “He’s gone.” There was silence, then a soft click as he hung up on me.

The controversy dragged on for months. Shawcroft was exposed as Radko Junken, the ex-manager of a bankrupt fertility clinic in Turkmenistan. Shawcroft Laboratories went into receivership. The cogs were destroyed. I visited Susan and Mark. “Isn’t it awful?” said Susan. “I always knew there was something odd about Shawcroft. I mean Junken. Whatever his name was.” “Yeah. Too bad about the cogs, though,” I said. “I loved Billy. It was terrible, having him just… stolen like that. You know?” Susan coughed. Mark looked uncomfortable. “What?” I said. “Uh, Pete…” said Susan. “Yeah?” “Well… a couple of nights before they came and raided us,” said Mark, “Susan kind of left the back door open.” “What?” “Well, Zyu Zyu, she sort of… went walkies.” “Walkies?” “Yeah…” said Susan. “Also, she was kind of fat, at the time.” “The uhm, the authorities,” said Mark, “think pregnancy might be a possible explanation.” “Are you serious?” “Yeah,” said Mark. “The words ‘potential suburban infestation’ were used. Also ‘cog plague’.” I gaped. Mark grinned sheepishly. “So you know,” he said, “don’t go getting a budgie just yet.”

Thus ended my small but significant role in the historic usurpation of the cat and the dog by their vastly superior hybrid. Today, as you will know, domestic cogs vastly outnumber either of the other species, thanks to their personability, cleanliness, and ability to mate successfully with either species. Cats and dogs are still kept by a few vocal eccentrics, but their numbers are steadily dwindling. Sniffer cogs are now a common sight at airports, and calendars of kuppies in various miniature outfits are popular with spinsters. Shawcroft was repatriated to Turkmenistan, where he became a successful television veterinarian. As for me, I walk Son of Billy in the park every evening, throw him a Frisbee, and compare notes with the other cog people.