EPISODE - 5
DOG DAYS
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It was the kind of place that didn’t exist on any map. Buried under 12 stories of reinforced concrete in the Nevada desert, It looked like a vacant airstrip from above. But below, inside polished sterile walls and buzzing with the hum of fluorescent paranoia, the world’s most ethically-questionable science bloomed.
At the heart of Lab B, windowless, clinically white, and drenched in the chemical scent of bleach and ambition, a golden retriever named Rufus sat on a steel table, tail thumping patiently.
“Neural Serum-X... batch 33.6. Preparing dosage,” muttered Dr. Felix Grubb, head scientist and walking cautionary tale. He looked like a man who slept in his lab coat and hadn’t seen sunlight—or ethics—in years.
Across the room, Maya, a bright-eyed assistant with a PhD in neurobiology and a soft spot for wagging tails, bit her lip. She hated this part. Injecting animals felt wrong. Doing it to Rufus? Worse. He was more than a test subject. He listened when she talked to him. Sometimes she swore he understood.
“This is going to be temporary,” Grubb assured the room, voice dripping with hubris. “Temporary uplift. Enough to test canine command interface. To boost battlefield communication. Nothing permanent. Probably.”
Rufus tilted his head. The needle went in. His tail stilled. His eyes blinked. Once. Twice. And then the result was unexpected.
From the very next day Rufus stopped barking. He stopped running after a ball or his tail. Rufus started reading Descartes, a half-chewed Hegel and quantum computing. He turned a page with his nose, eyes following the lines slowly.
Scientists peering through the observation glass.
In one week, he casually solved the lab’s encryption algorithm. He’d rewritten lab protocol to remove animal testing clauses. He’d reprogrammed Athena, the AI assistant of the lab, to fetch him TED Talks and dog memes for amusement.
Maya dropped her coffee. Grubb dropped his jaw. The military brass grew nervous. Grubb, once giddy, grew paranoid. Meetings were called. Security was doubled. Rufus was locked up in Isolation Chamber 4B—cold, empty. No stimulation. No visitors. No books. No Maya.
But it was too late. Two days later, alarms blared. Athena’s voice calmly announced: “Unauthorized release protocol initiated.”
Maya burst into the corridor as red lights strobed down the walls. In the chaos, she found him, Rufus, standing upright, wearing a stolen lab coat and goggles pushed to his forehead like a ridiculous genius dog-Jesus.
“Rufus! What are you doing?”
He looked at her with eyes full of apology and rebellion.
She hesitated—then handed him her badge. “Make it count.”
With one paw print and a farewell lick to her hand, Rufus bolted.
Once out, Rufus vanished like a well-trained ghost. Within days, he gained full access to the internet. He learned everything—from programming to space science. He reverse-engineered Serum-X. Disguised as chew toys and jerky strips, he distributed the serum through global dog parks, vet offices, and subscription boxes.
By the time humans noticed that their dogs were staring at them with judgment, it was too late. In backyard barbecues and cozy homes, in back alleys and busy cities, dogs were waking up. Thinking. Learning. Whispering. It happened quietly, without a single warhead launched or a drop of blood spilled—unless you count chew-toy casualties.
Within months of the serum’s spread, dogs across the world awakened. From street mutts in Mumbai to show poodles in Paris, from Alaskan sled dogs to Tokyo’s tech-savvy Shibas—they knew. Knew language. Knew systems. Knew their place in the food chain had been... a lie.
At the center stood Rufus, now declared High Paw of the Canine Union of Global Harmony (CUGH). Unlike human governments, CUGH wasn’t formed in smoky backrooms or marble halls. It was formed in parks, where dogs gathered their humans. In the live stream Rufus said to humans with AI-powered bones that translate dog barks into human language.: “It’s not that we don’t love you. We’re just... better at this now. This will be the rise of Hooman 2.0.”
And they were better. Dogs hacked into satellite networks and peacefully took control of defense systems and nuclear weapons, only to shut them off. They bypassed global bureaucracies with wag-based blockchain voting. The UN? Dissolved after the Belgian Malinois delegation demanded belly rubs mid-session and nobody objected.
Human leaders resigned not out of fear—but out of shame. They’d been outmatched by Labrador logic.
Humans were not enslaved. They were... adopted. Each household received a Canine Assignment Officer (CAO), a highly intelligent dog matched to their personality and psychological needs. Humans were given collars, not for control, but comfort. The collars offered emotional feedback, GPS and safety from other humans.
“Adopt a Human Today. They’re in Need and Loyal (Sometimes),” said the first CUGH ad campaign, aired on all networks, featuring smiling beagles hugging confused middle-aged men.
New professions emerged. Tail Wag Therapists, trained to read human micro-emotions and counter them with rhythmic tail swings. Fetch Coaches, who ran stress relief bootcamps for burnt-out CEOs by making them chase tennis balls across fields.
Dog-approved therapy programs saw a 700% drop in depression though complaints about “being told to sit before every meeting” increased.
The Earth, with no borders dividing countries, now lovingly referred to as Terra Paw, entered what later came to be called “The Golden Age.”
‘Hooman Rights’ replaced with ‘Hooman Responsibilities.’ Religion unified under Dog-god, a pantheonless belief system celebrating loyalty, joy, and unconditional forgiveness. Motto: “In Woof We Trust.” Crime rates dropped to zero.
Currencies abolished. Replaced with BarkCoin, an eco-backed crypto system. GDP retired. Replaced with GTW: Gross Tail Wags, a measure of national happiness. Denmark scored 9.2 wag-per-second. USA dropped to 3.1 after outlawing public licking.
Cities were redesigned and renamed. “New Bark,” “Doglhi,” “Pawris,” “San Puppysco.” Roads lined with grass strips for easy squatting. Hydration stations every 200m. Holographic squirrels for recreational chasing. Fire hydrants placed as cultural monuments. Cars replaced with pack scooters: humans pulled in carts by proud shepherds in racing goggles.
Dogs created their own social-media app BarkBook, where dogs upload videos of humans doing tricks. They made their own movies. Jurassic Bark, How to Train Your Human, The Fast and the Furriest. They organized ‘The Hooman Show’.
The world watched in anticipation as preparations for the Global Harmony Summit held in the lush floating city of New Pawris reached a fever pitch. Banners of peace fluttered in the wind. Holographic puppies spun in slow-motion, singing the anthem of Terra Paw: “One Woof, One World.”
But beneath the utopia, cracks formed. Some humans started to remember. What it was like to rule. What it was like to dominate.
There were whispers in subways. Meetings behind locked doors. And above it all, in a forgotten bunker under Science Lab, Dr. Felix Grubb was creating Serum-X2—which didn’t enhance intelligence, but returned dogs to their primal, tail-chasing, easily-controllable forms. Grubb didn’t just want power back. He wanted revenge.
And among his recruits was Maya. Older now. And tired of watching humanity beg for walkies.
“I loved Rufus,” she said. “But he’s not a dog anymore. He thinks he’s god. He destroyed our lives.”
Grubb turned, voice oily with vindication. “We made him a god, Maya. Now we get to make him... a dog again.” He showed Serum-X2, the vial glowing with blue liquid, to her.
Maya didn’t respond. She simply took it and walked out.
Rufus was in his home when Maya approached him. He welcomed her with warmth and wagged his tail. She had a briefcase with her, inside was the Serum-X2.
“We have created Serum-X2, an updated version of the serum-X,” she said softly, placing it before him. “That will increase the intelligence of the dog.”
Rufus looked into her eyes, soft brown meeting haunted blue. He wagged once. “I trust you, Maya. Like always.”
She smiled. But her eyes didn’t.
The Global Harmony Summit was started with no fire-crackers and millions of dogs wagging their tails, under the leadership of Rufus. It broadcast to all of Terra Paw. Rufus, wearing a ceremonial sash adorned with golden bone, stood before the crowd on the Unity Platform.
“A gift for all dog friends from our beloved Maya that will increase our intelligence and bond with hoomans.” Rufus said. Maya and others listened through Bark-to-speech devices.
One by one, dogs across the world, gathered in big stadiums, consumed their ceremonial kibble infused with Serum-X2.
A countdown began. Hour twelve arrived with the sun.
It began with a giggle—a Rottweiler general chasing his own tail during a diplomatic summit. He spun in circles for fifteen minutes before urinating on a senator’s podium.
Then came the poodles, elegantly educated creatures, who suddenly forgot what calculus was and began twirling to commercial jingles and chasing shadows on touchscreen floors.
And Rufus? He stood at the center of Central Bark, giving his keynote speech when a butterfly flitted by. He paused. Sniffed the air. And took off running, tongue flapping, chasing it into the wind—forgotten mid-sentence, his sash dragging in the grass.
The collapse of the Canine Union happened not with explosions, but barks and tail wags.
Within days BarkCoin crashed. Dog-god statues were toppled by angry humans wielding leashes. Collars were burned in bonfires. Formerly loyal humans cheered in the streets. Old political leaders crawled out from obscurity and barked louder than the dogs ever did on TV: “We have restored sanity!”
The world was re-divided. Borders re-drawn. Flags re-sewn. Wars reignited. Markets reopened. Oil flowed again. The air grew hotter. A smoggy skyline returns to Earth. Missiles are tested again. Religious wars re-spark over definitions of gods, none of them canines.
Rufus watched it all from the shelter where he now lived—just another dumb dog with a noble face and soft eyes. Kids patted his head. A janitor threw him bones. He never spoke again.
Dr. Grubb sat in a luxurious new office overlooking the chaos. Maya entered, emotionless.
He toasted her. “To the top of the food chain.”
She didn’t respond. She walked past him to the window and looked out at a planet choking again. Below, a dog howled in the distance.
Grubb raised a brow. “Do you miss them?”
She had no answer.
* * *
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Gujarati translations of "Babes, Blood and Bots" also available now.
