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Humans put a lot of stock in "The Meaning of Life" or the search for what may be called the Ultimate Truth, or some such similar concept; they have a million terms for it. Some say that the meaning of existence is not to be found in mortal life and that it awaits in some great hereafter. Others say that it lies in helping one another to better live here and now, or that each of us must find our own meaning in our own lifetimes. Humanity has devoted countless volumes to the subject and I will never understand them all nor read even a fraction of them, though honestly I have little reason to. For you see, I was created with a purpose and I knew that from an early age... or at least I thought I did. Humans must experience a great emptiness inside, wondering if there is meaning to their existence here on this blue gem of a planet floating in the endless void. When I try to imagine what it must be like, I am sometimes moved to pity, but not often. For it was humans who created me and gave me my purpose...

I should probably tell you more about myself as I'm not your typical author. For starters, I have no hands, but I have four feet which I used to use quite a lot when I was younger. My ears are floppy and my nose is wet and I've often been described as "cute," "cuddly" and "adorable." Often in a single gushing sentence. Humans tend to think of themselves as quite complex, but they can be extremely predicable at times. If you haven't guessed it yet, I'm a dog, a Golden Retriever to be exact, or at least mostly. More than half certainly, though the breeding gets rather complicated the further back you go.

My life hasn't been very long, certainly not by human standards and due to circumstances beyond my control, I doubt I can expect much more than a year or two more, given my precarious constitution. I suppose it is alright. A season to me seems as long as an age and I have little to want for, save perhaps an irresistible need to scratch behind my ear where I can no longer reach.

I'm sure that by now you have many questions, the least of which is how a dog has come to be writing his memoir and by what means. Well, I'll get to that momentarily. To complete this foreword, I just want to state plainly that although my life may not have been a long one, nor even a very interesting one by most standards, it was my life. I was here and although I was born knowing I had a purpose, I want to die knowing that I left an indelible mark on the world in which I lived. It's not a lot, but at this point, I think that I am beginning to understand more than ever the human need to stand up and shout out at the infinite black universe, "I am here, and I existed."

***

To begin my tale, I suppose I best start at the beginning. I was born to a litter of ten, six bitches and four dogs. Like human infants, I remember little of my infantile state. The first memory I have occurred well after I had opened my eyes and begun to carouse with my fellow litter mates. At that time, I had very little happening in my head other from the smells of mother, the other puppies, the frequently soiled and frequently changed towels that made up our nest, and of course, the succulent sweet smell of Mother's lactating teats offering the only nourishment and comfort I'd known so far. The memory starts with me foolhardily charging away from the overwhelming mass of mother and the other pups, over the rim of the nest. Although it was far colder away from mother, I went simply because it was something new to do.

Humans have a saying, "Live in the Moment." It, perhaps, captures the concept, but it doesn't really do it justice. Humans don't realize it, judging by the overwhelming amount of bad science-fiction concerning the topic, but they are time traveling creatures. They race ahead into the future with their thoughts and revisit the past at will. "Living in the moment" is something they say when the human animal simply becomes too bogged down with time traveling to function properly. But to understand how I once existed, and how most of my canine and other animal cousins still exist, you must understand that there was only the moment. Not to say we didn't remember, nor that it was impossible to anticipate the future, not at all. But these functions were internalized and instinctive, like how a human balances upright or wakes according to their internal clock. I could learn from past experiences and even use them to anticipate future events, but I paid no heed to memories. The smell of a stain near my foot was a puzzle of infinite complexity and beauty that was only exceeded by the next moist patch and the one after that. I was as simple as any beast who'd come before me. It would be far later in my life that I would learn we were different from the average dog and in more than a few ways.

But back to my story. I remembered the time I wandered farther from my mother than I had ever before. I am sure that sheer terror - as well as hunger - would have driven me back before long, but I had not traveled far before I reached the end of my world. I came to a barrier I would later name "door" and saw a cold grey barrier reach far, far overhead to the only sky that I'd known. I looked to and fro and saw that I was similarly encased in that cold grey, hard substance. I remember the unease that filled me at that moment. It was the first time that I realized I was trapped. Poor foolish creature that I was, I had no idea the level of entrapment I was truly subject to.

For you see, I was born in a laboratory. Born in a facility belonging to the Aardvark Research Corporation in St. Louis Missouri to be clear, although "born as the property of the Aardvark Research Corporation" would be even more correct. Of course, at the time, I hardly knew that the sky was blue let alone knowing what a laboratory was. But really, although at that moment, I discovered that I had no where to go beyond the immediately vicinity of mother, the knowledge washed over me like a light drizzle. I scampered back to my mother's warm belly and had myself a good feed. My world, though small, did not yet feel constrictive and for the time, I was content.

My second memory, was of my second family and really, they would come to define my life more than my biological family ever could. I am speaking of course, about my human family. Some humans don't realize it, but dogs, all dogs mind you, live in two worlds; at least the sane ones do. First, there is the dog world and that comes easily enough although you would be surprised at just how many neurotic dogs do not know how to behave like a dog. Second, there is the human world. Two entirely different sets of customs and expectations. Humans unknowingly demand a lot from "Man's Best Friend" merely by expecting him (or her) to coexist in his world. I could drone on for ages about the comparative differences, but I fear rambling into another tangent. Suffice to say that I remember being picked up and held by human hands and although I was sure that I had been handled quite frequently in the past, even before my eyes had unglued themselves, and I knew my handler by scent, it was the first time that I was taken from my mother.

Out of the kennel we went and into a wide, bright space. The human male carried me close against his chest and I felt at ease in his grip by this point, although the bright lights overhead were blinding and the wide space surrounding me was vast and we were ever so high up. I trusted the man with a blind, simple trust that I believe that only a dog is capable of. I was taken and placed on a scale while other humans around me talked in their incomprehensible mumbling. They consulted their computers and their charts and paperwork; all meaningless to me. After weighing me, they pressed a cold, hard stethoscope against my chest and took my temperature in the way that was easiest for them, and most degrading for me. And they took my blood as well, delivering to me my first and sharpest memory of pain. By the end of it, I wanted nothing more to do with the enormous creatures and they obliged, returning me to my mother and taking another puppy instead. I cared little for my sibling. I cared little for my stinging rump as well once the pain had quit for that matter. Suckling virtually erased the encounter from my mind, although I was slightly more wary the next time that they lab coats came for me, and the time after that and the time after that.

I never came to fear the opening of the kennel gate, however. For there were plenty of good times that far exceeded the discomfort of the constant examinations and measurements. The scientists who were responsible for my care made sure that all the new puppies were well socialized and for the most part, the staff seemed positively ecstatic to interact with us fumbling biting puppies. We chased them and they chased us and they watched us puppies chase each other. They handled us softly and tenderly in their huge, but clever hands. When I was picked up, it seemed almost like flying, I was so high in the air, frightening and exhilarating. My siblings squeaks taught me not to bite flesh and human cuffs taught me not to bite their shoes. I licked a woman's nose once and for the first time, I saw and heard a human laugh. It was a delightful sound and began to awake in me my innate need to please. I learned more from our play sessions, usually in the late afternoon before the scientists went home, and never for more than an hour at a time, than I did from all the rest of the time I spent in the kennel. And it wasn't long until the kennel began to feel small indeed.

I nursed until I was ten weeks old and would have gone longer had not mother begun to snap at us for feeding on her with our sharp puppy teeth. However, despite my late weaning, solid food was introduced to us at a tender 3-weeks, in the form of powdered dog food mixed with milk into a mushy paste. From the start, we went at the paste alternative with gusto, even when it was new and strange. The reason was simple: We were greedy, hungry pups. But really, we were just plain hungry.

I am sure that our diets were carefully monitored from the start just as our weights and growth were carefully monitored, but I cannot go any farther without mentioning a crucial element that has shaped my life and every dog that I've known at the lab. That is the Hunger. I capitalize it here because it is a proper noun. The Hunger is not merely a sensation as I have had it described to me. It is more like another person entirely living on my back, putting constant pressure on me. Its insistences waxes and wanes, but I am never truly free of it. I've never found myself able to resist food freely offered, even now, knowing that it can do me no good to eat to excess. The same goes for my siblings and every dog I've ever known. But it was only the dogs at Aardvark who were like that. It was one of the ways in which we were "special."

As a result of sucking my mother dry and fighting with my siblings for every morsel offered in the shallow food plate the scientists would bring - what a mess we would make as we fed! - at a time when I ought to have begun shedding some of my puppy fat, I found myself round and as roly-poly as I'd ever been. I was hardly unique, my siblings were round as well, and of the boys, in fact I was certainly not the heaviest. My comparative size didn't matter to me in the least way, but unbeknownst to me, I was already being judged in a way that would determine the outcome, or lack thereof, of the rest of my life.

At ten weeks of age, mother left us for the last time. She was needed to breed again, but I certainly didn't know that. We were moved from the whelping kennel and moved to a different part of the building. The females or at least most of them, I would later learn, were to remain in the barracks were I'd spent my whole life up to that point. They were needed to produce the next generations of research dogs. Us males, however, had an entirely different destiny.