Dogs with Arms

I want every other human being on this planet to be as terrified of this GIF as I am.


It's the beginning of the end, folks. Not a whimper, not a bang, not the zombies or the machines, it's the dogs. The dogs are how we die. That … probably should have been the title, actually. "The Dogs Are How We Die."

That dog is so goddam happy. To be alive after whatever tragedy stole his fore-quarters? No. That wasn't a tragedy. It was a miracle. While he may have lost his ability to "shake," he gained the incredible power of bipedal locomotion, a trait heretofore reserved for man and–in a limited capacity–gorillas and some other large apes. This is true, sustained, balanced self conveyance.

And it's a goddam superpower for that mutt.

He's happy because he knows how it feels to be a human, the power that comes with it; the joy of every counter top being within reach, not a mystery, the sheer clarity of his surroundings. Look at that little skip in his step. He's effing ecstatic.

And he knows this is just the beginning.

He's adorable. And he's "hurt." No one ever said, "Hey, Barry Allen, I know that lightning strike/electrified chemical bath gave you super speed, but would you want us to cure you?"

We're going to feel bad for this dog, so we're going to make him a little set of front wheels so he can scoot around like he used to. Then some industrious undergrad is going to say, "Well wait, let's just give him little arms since he's used to walking upright now."

Then he'll have arms, and it would only make sense to give him little opposable thumbs so he can grab stuff, because why else give a dog arms if you're not going to make up for the loss of utility of extra legs. And once that stupid genius dog has thumbs, you know what he's going to do?

Build goddam rocket launchers.

Or other weapons, anything to start with. Then it'll escalate. It's goddam "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" except it's a dog and it's rocket launchers.

Basically, we're straight fucked.

And it's all your fault somehow.