How To Befriend A Chimera
by Matt Bell
The man looked down at the golden retriever puppy. The dog returned his gaze, wagging its tail and panting cheerfully as the man tried in vain to smile. He still hadn’t named the dog and wasn’t sure if he should, not if he wanted to feel okay about stealing its liver.
Technically, it wasn’t the dog’s liver anyway. Thanks to a handful of implanted genes, the retriever pup’s liver was healthy and whole and unmistakably human.
Trying to sell the man the new procedure, the doctor had explained, “It’s better this way. Slower, but better. What I’m offering is a zero percent chance of tissue rejection.” The doctor showed him statistics, risk factors, price lists. “It’s the rejection that kills you, not the new organ.”
In another six months the puppy would be full grown, and then he’d take it back to the hospital for the transplant. The man would live, and the dog would die.
When he’d signed the release forms, it had seemed so much simpler.
The man felt a wetness on his fingers, and looked to see the dog licking at his jaundiced hand hanging beside his chair. He recoiled, then slapped the dog hard, square on the muzzle. It whined and retreated. He said, “It’s not like it was your liver anyway. It’s not like I have anything to feel bad about.”
The puppy continued to whine. The man look down at the offending hand, at the skin that turned more yellow every day. He looked at the dog, healthy and strong thanks to his new liver growing inside it.
“I’ve decided not to name you. It’s better that way. It’s not like you’re going to be around much longer.”
He watched the dog’s face, waiting for his words to steal the glimmer from its cheerful brown eyes. Maybe then the dog would stop pleading for affection, for a pat on its head or a scratch between its ears. More than anything, what the man wanted was for the dog to realize that it would die for him, that from birth it had been meant to do so. Only then would there be truth between them. Only then would he allow the dog to be his friend.