In which our doggo thinks things.

(And the writer reminds you to check They are Smol, its community, and have a good time.)

Potato Kibbles was contemplating his existence. In the stillness of the hospital room, it was easy to think alongside the humming and beeping of the medical machines. There was not much else to do, after all.

As he laid on his bed face-up with a collar on his neck (the result from literally running at breakneck speed), he reminisced of the early years of the experiment, when getting hurt had been more frequent.

Back then, he knew nobody but himself, as he was processed separated from the other volunteers and the scientific team made it clear they wouldn’t form any meaningful bond with him (besides giving him a humane treatment, of course).

He had been selected due to his lack of family, low level (former) job, basic spacefaring education, and because he was deemed expendable. Which he knew and accepted.

The experiment, he was told, was meant to advance humanity by providing an option to those who wished to be more than human by the end of their lives. That is, grant them an extended chance at life by experiencing it from the perspective of their longlived xeno neighbours.

What were the moral and ethical implications of this objective? He didn’t know.

He trusted that the scientists had everything under control, and he was made aware of the dangers from day one, just as he was told that his reward would be a billion GRC after 20 years of living as a Dorarizin (in his case).

It was only a temporary thing, he believed. And being a hulking space wolf with three rows of “clicking” teeth, big meaty paws, razor sharp claws, piercing amber eyes and a fluffy silver-blue furcoat, wasn’t so bad all things considered.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

There were complications, of course.

One being his inability to speak any human language due to his mouth and vocal cords exclusively producing the equivalent of a bass-boosted muscle car engine (to put it lightly). The scientists had to teach him sign language as a result, or he would had been left in the dark.

Another were his super strength and speed (compared to humans), which caused most of his visits to the hospital bay, even though the scientists had taken the precaution to introduce them as slowly as possible.

Smell was also a high contender, as he was too sensible to every single element. So, during his first years as a xeno, he was put in a sterile room and attended exclusively by drones, which gave him odor samples little by little until he could control his “animalistic” curiousity.

Of course, such isolation would have an effect on his psyche (specially since Dorarizin were a highly social species), so he was also given as much (protected) human interaction as possible, beginning with playtime through The Ball.

Oh, how he adored The Ball. It was round and soft and colorful, and bounced everywhere, driving the chase.

But, it was also fragile.

“Do no rip it to shreds again!” He was told once by his caretakers. “Or you won’t get a new one for years.”

And they spoke truth.

When he accidentally ripped another Ball, he was deprived of its goodness as they would not replace it (they couldn’t, the balls were brought all the way from Earth and that requires time and paperwork. But, he didn’t know that.), and he had to endure his free time staring at the wall in solitude. Until he was transferred to the communal room and met his fellow Potatoes, discovering to his joy that they also had The Ball.

Oh, what a blessing it was!

Through The Ball they broke the ice and learned to play together. Through The Ball they learned to control their animalistic urge and care for fragile things. Through The Ball they learned to endure the boredoom and remain human.

Through The Ball they learned to be friends.

But, he grew too proud, it seems. And, before he knew it, The Ball was ripped to shreds, turning their friendship sour immediately.

“It was my fault.” Thought Kibbles, lost in the expanse of the ceiling’s dull paint. “I provoked them into playing rough. Now they are fighting.”

“…I’m sorry, brothers.”