Animal Math
By Jack Rousseau


Frank Castro sat at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand, loyal dog at his feet. Among articles about floods in other towns, earthquakes in other cities, genocide in other countries, Frank noticed an advertisement:






In that moment, Frank felt a pang of guilt. The world is a crowded place. And here at Frank’s feet sits an unneutered dog: healthy, fruitful, and in his prime. There’s nothing to stop Frank’s dog from fathering a litter of puppies. And then what? What is to become of the litter? They are thrust into the world and into an uncertain future?

What’s to stop Frank’s dog from fathering a litter of puppies?

Frank nearly leapt from his seat at the kitchen table, crumpling the paper in his hands and frightening the loyal dog at his feet, and declared: “I’ll stop him!”

At the clinic, Frank was given a stack of papers to sign, and then told to sit in the waiting room with his dog. There, they sat among other owners and dogs. Frank browsed through the magazines, but they appeared to have been written for dogs, with titles like “Ass Sniffing Quarterly” (Article: How To Tell Who is a Good Dog and Who is a Bad Dog) and “Coprophagia Digest” (Article: 10 New Recipes! 1 Common Ingredient!).

Frank observed the other dog owners, many of whom were consoling their dogs before the operation. It was the sensitive thing to do, so Frank decided to do the same. He lowered a hand and pat his dog on the head, offering petty reassurance:

“Sorry, ol’ boy! It’s for the best, I promise! You won’t feel a thing! It’ll be quick and painless!”

Frank’s mock tenderness and insincere terms of endurance were interrupted by two orderlies. They came from the back room and stood beside Frank and his dog, waiting. One of the orderlies wound his finger, giving Frank the sign to wrap it up. The other checked his watch frequently. But it didn’t end until music was projected over the speakers, the same music they play during a long acceptance speech at an awards ceremony.

Frank’s last words: “Goodbye and good luck, ol’ boy!”

One of the orderlies snickered. Frank looked at him, confused. The orderly explained:

“You’re the one who’s gonna need luck”

“How do you mean?” Frank asked.

“For your operation...”

“You mean my dog’s operation.”

“No, sir. It’s your operation.”

“That impossible! You don’t have my permission!”

“We have your signed consent.”

The other orderly unfolded the papers and held them at eye level. Frank squinted and the orderly held them closer.

“I thought I was signing on my dog’s behalf.”

The two orderlies looked at each other before breaking into laughter.

“Consent belongs to the signatory. The dog didn’t sign the papers. You did.”

Frank made a grab for the papers. He missed. The two orderlies grabbed Frank by the arms. He struggled. A third orderly appeared from behind the desk, holding an oversized needle. The two orderlies tied Frank by the hands to the arm rests of the chairs. It took all three orderlies to wield the oversized needle. They looked like extras carrying a log to break down the door of a castle in a medieval film.

Substitute the door with Frank’s ass.

Frank felt the prick, the stick, and then he didn’t feel much of anything. He went limp in the chair he was tied to, with enough control of his body to turn his head and look at his dog.

“It’s for the best, I promise!” his dog said. “You won’t feel a thing! It’ll be quick and painless!”

Frank lost control of his body, but he didn’t fully lose consciousness. He was awake when the orderlies untied him and carried him into the operating room and prepped him for surgery. He was awake for everything, the whole ordeal.


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Just as common people consume food and produce waste, Jack Rousseau consumes absurd details of everyday reality and produces irreal fiction. There aren't enough fire hydrants and the world is burning. Jack Rousseau lives and writes somewhere in Canada.