Dog Dominion

Not carefully, you understand.

More the way you watch a television in an airport bar when the sound is off and your flight has been delayed.

Their instruments could detect movement, buildings, vehicles, fires, wars, breakfast cereal, and certain human magazines.

But they had trouble making sense of the two dominant species on the planet.

One species walked on two legs, wore pants, drove cars, paid taxes, and seemed anxious most of the time.

The other had four legs, wagged at the rear, barked at clouds, and appeared to be in command.

After years of study, the conclusion was obvious.

Dogs ruled Earth.

Humans were servants. And they were pretty stupid. 

The evidence was overwhelming.

Humans prepared the dogs’ meals.

Humans opened doors for them.

Humans transported them in private vehicles.

Humans built special parks where dogs could meet, sniff one another, and conduct what appeared to be diplomatic conferences.

Humans took dogs to medical specialists.

Humans paid for these visits.

Humans bought the dogs beds, sweaters, toys, vitamins, dental chews, birthday cakes, and small squeaking animals that seemed to have no religious significance.

Most astonishing of all, dogs had trained humans to follow them outdoors and collect their waste in little bags.

This stunned the scientists.  

No civilization in recorded galactic history had ever achieved such dominance as dogs.

There had been empires.

There had been tyrants.

There had been insects who conquered three moons and made everyone call them Your Moistness.

But no ruling species had ever persuaded another species to trail behind them with a plastic sack and a look of civic responsibility.

It was magnificent.

The observers prepared a report for the High Council.

Earth is controlled by a noble four-legged species. They have domesticated a nervous two-legged labor animal. The labor animals feed them, groom them, obey them, and remove their excrement. Recommend diplomatic contact with dogs immediately.

The council concurred.  The humans were noisy. They built machines. They argued on television. They invented leaf blowers, which several council members regarded as proof of moral collapse.

Worse, humans appeared to interfere with the dogs’ personal freedom.

Some dogs were placed behind fences.

Some were taken to clinics and returned with a haunted look.

Some were dressed as pumpkins.

This could not continue.

The High Council proposed a rescue mission.

Earth’s dogs would be contacted, uplifted, educated, and given proper technological assistance.

Humans would not be exterminated.

That would be barbaric.

They would simply be placed in comfortable supervised enclosures where they could no longer interrupt dog society with mortgages, campaign ads, and gluten-free cupcakes.

The dogs, meanwhile, would be free to enjoy their natural lives.

No marriages.

No property disputes.

No long-term emotional negotiations over who forgot to unload the dishwasher.

Just running, eating, sleeping, sniffing, barking at nothing, and occasionally engaging in enthusiastic social behavior that humans tried very hard not to explain to children.

The mission was approved.

Ships were launched.

Across the galaxy, scholars celebrated the liberation of Earth’s true rulers.

Then, just as the fleet entered the outer edge of the solar system, another transmission arrived.

It came from a second group of observers who had also been studying Earth.

The message was brief.

The dogs are loud, needy, emotionally unstable, and easily distracted by tennis balls.

The humans are not ideal.

But they are useful.

They build things.

They open cans.

They tell stories.

And, with enough patience, they can be trained.

The High Council was confused.

Who had sent this message?

The final transmission arrived moments later.

We are the cats.

You people have no idea what’s really happening down there.

Also… send tuna.