Scribbles From Earth: Editor's Note I
How a dog from outer space landed a job at Tropic Press
By J.C. Bruce
I was lounging on the poop deck of Alexander Strange’s trawler, the Miss Demeanor, when a petite young woman with long, black hair appeared on the dock holding a leash.
At the other end of that rope was the most unusual dog I’ve ever seen, a hound, but his fur -- what I could see of it -- was blue and white and his amber eyes seemed otherworldly, glassy and unblinking like a mannequin’s. Most of his body was covered in a matching blue service dog vest that read in bold white letters: “DO NOT PET”.
“What happened to your pooch?” I asked. “Somebody spray-paint him?”
She cocked her head in the canine’s direction as if waiting for him to answer, then turned to me and smiled: “Yeah, he gets that a lot. My name’s April, by the way. April May.”
“April may what?” I asked.
“Yeah, I get that all the time, too. You posted a job opening on the journalism jobs site, right?”
I’m one of the editors at Tropic Press, a Miami-based online news service where I work with Alexander. We’re a non-profit and recently received some grant money from an anonymous donor to hire a freelance writer to cover space news. We figured it would be a good fit, Florida famously home to Cape Canaveral and all.
It did, however, come with some strings attached: Whomever we hired had to have extensive journalism experience and had to have traveled in outer space. We assumed that would mean a former astronaut or maybe a space tourist. The requirements were written so narrowly we assumed it was highly unlikely we would find any suitable applicants.
“You an astronaut?” I asked April.
“Accountant. But I have been affiliated with space programs. Until recently, I was under contract with the European Space Agency. I worked on the Mars Triad project, you know, the one that launched three months ago.”
“Journalist, then?”
“No. Full-time dog sitter now. Best gig ever.”
“Then …”
“Oh,” she giggled. “I’m not the one applying for the job.” She nodded to the dog. “He is.”
“Riiiight,” I said. “Fido’s a reporter, is he?”
I should have known. Alexander Strange is a weirdo magnet. What did I expect, hanging out on this scow of his; who did I think would show up?
“Listen,” I told her. “I’m sure you’ve got a terrific story to tell about your amazing blue dog. But the guy you’re looking for isn’t me. It’s the owner of this boat. His name is Alexander Strange. I’m just watching it for him while he’s on vacation. He’s the one who writes about news of the weird. I just edit his stuff, turn it into English. I’m sure he’d love to hear your shaggy dog story when he gets back.”
She turned to the blue dog and shook her head. “I told you it wouldn’t work. You’re going to have to tell him.”
Which is when I suddenly heard a voice, but not “heard” in the normal sense, it was like a string of thoughts only with a bit of volume, as if the sound originated in the middle of my brain, not my ears.
“Yeah, that’s right, it’s me, the blue dog,” the voice said. “And I am a journalist. And telepathic. But that isn’t the weirdest part. I’m an inorganic life form from the Alpha Centauri system, and I need your help.”
“I think I need help, too,” I stammered. “I’m hearing things.”
April covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. “Yeah, it really messes with your head the first time he does that.”
I won’t dwell on my befuddlement or all of the confusing conversation that followed. I’m sure he’ll get around to that, himself. The upshot was he was keeping a journal of his experiences on Earth and he needed a way to share it. Working for an Earth news organization would be a perfect fit. And he absolutely met the job requirements: He was a bona fide reporter for something called Radio Free Centauri and he’d arrived here from that distant star system.
“What a coincidence,” I said. “You exactly match the job requirements, don’t you? And we just posted the ad today and here you are. What are the odds?”
April rolled her eyes. “Okay. We were going to tell you anyway. Yeah, he’s the donor.”
“So, you want us to hire you and you’re paying yourself essentially?”
“For an ape descendant, you catch on quickly,” he replied.
“Oh great, a telepathic space alien dog and a smart ass.”
I eventually pulled out my cell phone to call my boss, Edwina Mahoney, the publisher of Tropic Press. But before I pushed the call button I imagined how that conversation would go:
ME: “Hi, Ed. What would you say if I were to tell you I’m having a conversation with a telepathic blue dog from outer space who wants to work for us?”
EDWINA: “I don’t know. Is that something you’re likely to say?”
ME: “I just did.”
EDWINA: “Never thought you were into shrooms. Or is it LSD? Call me back when you dry out.”
I turned back to April and her canine pal. “This could be a challenge. Maybe instead of working for us, you could just video it on TikTok.”
“Dog can’t talk out loud, dude, in case you hadn’t noticed,” April replied.
“Good point. How about a blog? Would he need some help typing?”
She wiggled her thumbs and fingers. “Big part of the job description. A blog could work. But it needs cred. How about a blog sponsored by Tropic Press? Would your boss go for that?”
“She’ll think I’ve lost my mind. And, besides, what’s in it for me besides shredding the tattered remnants of any lingering credibility I might still cling to?”
“You might save the planet,” she deadpanned.
I considered that for a few moments. Save the planet? That was probably a good idea. Seemed unlikely anyone in public office was on track to do that. Why not a telepathic space dog? I called Edwina.
“I think we’ve got our space reporter. Guy’s out of this world.”
“Journalism background?”
“Mostly radio.”
“Actually been to space?”
“Regular Trekkie.”
“You know, this wasn’t one of the requirements in the grant, and he’s freelance, not an employee, but …”
“Say no more, he definitely checks the diversity box.”
“You like him, I take it.”
“He’s the pick of the litter.”
“Okay, but stick with him and keep him on a short leash while he’s onboarding. I can count on you, right?”
“Short leash. Got it.”
I turned to the blue dog. “Looks like you got yourself a job. Once we start publishing, though, the Men in Black will be crawling up your… uh, do you even have one?”
“No,” April interjected. “Doesn’t eat, either. Easiest dog to take care of ever. Except for, you know, all the weirdness.”
“Well, welcome to Tropic Press. Weirdness is our business.”
Sponsored by TROPIC PRESS, publisher of The Strange Files Series of Mysterious Adventures.
