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'...and that’s why you need a representative who has your future in mind. Someone who’s been on the front lines of the climate crisis, someone who knows what it means to fight for the world that your children will lead one day, someone who cares. My name is Rocky, and I want to be your next governor.’
The image of a smiling mixed breed in a sage green suit standing between a rippling American flag and the capitalised words ‘ROCKY FOR GOVERNOR’ faded to black, and the evocative music playing alongside it drifted down to a gradual flatline. There was the briefest silence before the room erupted into applause. The noise was enough to drag Rocky by the scruff of his neck back to the present and he blinked. The whole team had packed itself into the conference room – a smorgasbord of Canis, Felis, and Homo sapiens – and they were all beaming at the TV mounted on the wall. As easy as breathing, Rocky turned in his seat and smiled.
‘That’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Great work everyone, thank you.’
‘Alright, guys,’ said Serenity, the labradoodle sitting on the opposite side of the table, placing her paws together as she addressed the team. ‘We’ve got a big day at the rally tomorrow so be sure to go home and get some rest. Goodnight.’
The bodies filed out of the conference room in a steady stream until their chattering was muted by the shutting of the glass door and only four remained: Rocky, Serenity, his human assistant, Tom, and Cletus, a tabby cat whom he’d recently appointed as a member of his core team. Almost as the second the door drifted shut, the smile on Serenity’s muzzle vanished and was replaced by a visage of absolute seriousness. ‘What do we think about the forest fire footage? Too grim?’
‘I’d say the perfect level of grim, given recent events,’ said Tom. ‘That footage has been broadcasted on nearly every news channel there is. Even Stanton’s climate-deniers can’t argue with it.’
‘What? No, the video’s great,’ said Rocky. ‘The video’s perfect, guys.’
Silence returned as Serenity, Tom, and Cletus exchanged glances. Rocky frowned. ‘What? I’m serious! There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘Rocky,’ Serenity said, leaning forward so she was perfectly eye-level with him. ‘I didn’t sign on as your campaign manager just because I believe in your cause. I signed on because I want to help you annihilate Derek Stanton’s privileged, dog-hating ass in the debates. But I can’t do that unless I know everything that’s going on with you.’
Derek Stanton was, for all intents and purposes, the face of the state’s republican party and, more prominently, was Rocky’s adversary in the race for the position of governor. Stanton held a plethora of qualities that Rocky and anyone like him found distasteful such as his stance on the climate crisis being all but a histrionic work of fiction orchestrated by scaremongers, but the one that stood out the most had to be his shockingly outspoke and, frankly, bigoted views towards dogs and animals of any kind. Stanton had made it abundantly clear throughout his campaign that he did not believe anyone who didn’t walk on two legs was suitable for a position of political power in the United States of America. Rocky’s mere presence in the election was anathema to him.
‘…Okay,’ Rocky said, adjusting himself in his seat in sudden discomfort. He had no idea where Serenity was going with this.
‘Let’s start with your actor friend.’
It took a second for Rocky to register whom she was referring to. ‘Marshall?’
‘From the PAW Patrol,’ she affirmed.
A pause. ‘What about him?’
‘You were seen with him at a party in L.A. a while back,’ said Cletus, his paws subtly kneading the table.
‘Uh, yeah, we bumped into each other there, talked for a little bit. What does that have to do with anything?’
Another beat of silence and exchanged looks. Rocky felt his temper twitch. He was tired and wasn’t in the mood for…whatever was happening here. ‘Guys, seriously, what is this? Why are we even bringing this up?’
‘Rocky, a huge part of your appeal is your squeaky clean and uncomplicated image,’ said Serenity. ‘You’re a hero to a lot of people, but you’re also the first mixed breed to run for governor. The last thing we need is you being associated with…controversial figures.’
An incredulous little chuckle escaped Rocky’s lips. ‘Okay, well, as far as Hollywood actors go, I’d say Marshall is the least controversial out there.’
‘It’s not so much him that’s the issue,’ Tom chimed in, knitting his fingers together. ‘It’s more about what he represents. A lot of people haven’t forgotten about what happened with the PAW Patrol.’
Serenity nodded in collusion. ‘Exactly. It would definitely be best to separate yourself from that as much as possible, now more than ever.’
Beneath his shirt, Rocky felt his hackles prickle. It was an intrusive reaction more than anything else at this point, like breaking out in hives. ‘I have separated myself from it. God, before that party I hadn’t even spoken to any of the others in years! What, are you saying I can’t even interact with certain people just because they had some connection to an organisation that dissolved ten years ago?’
‘No one’s saying that,’ replied Cletus. ‘But we have to think of numbers and optics. You’re not polling as high with humans as it is, and even less so with cats.’
Rocky opened his mouth for a rebuttal, found none, then exhaled through his nose and excised the tension from his gut. They were right and he knew it. This was politics, and politics, whether it was right or not, was built on appearances. Appearances could make or break an election. That was the whole reason for the ridiculous campaign video and the speeches and the televised interviews. ‘Alright,’ he conceded.
‘We just don’t want anything to jeopardise the campaign,’ Tom said, raising a placating hand. ‘This far in it’s better to be too careful than not careful enough. We don’t need Stanton having more ammunition to throw at you.’
‘No, I get it,’ Rocky said, running a paw across his muzzle. God, he was tired. ‘You’re right, of course.’
That should have been the end of it, but Serenity cleared her throat. ‘While we’re on the subject, there is…another issue.’
‘What is it?’ Rocky asked. He opened his eyes and found her and Cletus looking at Tom. He followed their gaze and saw the young man absently running a hand through his blond hair. It wasn’t an encouraging sight.
‘I know a couple of people in the publishing world,’ he said, picking up the iPad beside him and unlocking it. ‘One of them has connections to Flyinghouse – the publishing house – and the team that works with their authors.’
Rocky watched as Tom tapped and swiped at the tablet before slowly pushing it in front of him. An email was displayed across the screen, dated from yesterday. It was only a few lines long but might as well have been War and Peace for everything it told Rocky. What followed was the disquieting sensation of all the moisture leaving his mouth and throat at once and the claws of his left paw digging themselves into the table.
‘…Zuma just signed another book deal,’ Tom said.
-
Night had set in by the time Rocky pulled into his driveway. His car, being entirely electric, moved with a phantasmic silence as it rolled to a halt and he cut the engine. Although his body opened the driver’s side door, left the car, unlocked his front door, and stepped inside the house, his mind hadn’t followed. It was still back in the conference room, replaying the conversation over and over like a grim film reel.
‘We don’t know anything yet,’ Serenity had said to the expression on Rocky’s face. ‘There’s been no announcement, no publicity.’
‘It’s probably not even written yet if the deal’s just been signed,’ Cletus had added. ‘There’s a good chance it won’t be released before the final election.’
‘And even if it is, we’ll handle it,’ Tom had said. ‘We just thought you should be aware, but don’t let it throw you…’
He’d lost track of what was being said after that. His team had started talking to each other in quick succession and their voices had blended into white noise as Rocky stared at the email. Breathing had suddenly become a labour and the padlock of a large black vault full of buried things, things that had been buried for a goddam reason, had started to chip and loosen.
Get a grip, mongrel, he’d told himself. Get a damn grip. He’d been down this road before; during the first hate campaign against him, before his first press conference, when he’d read Dog Und- no, not that. He needed to rein it in. He was in control. He didn’t get anxiety. He was the stable one. He was doing better than the others. He was a politician for God’s sake. If he wasn’t careful he’d turn into Cha-
‘It’s fine,’ he’d said aloud, silencing the others with the metallic calm in his voice. ‘This doesn’t mean anything. If Zuma wants to write another book, let him. Like you said, we’ll handle it if we have to.’
Rocky’s hind paw shut the front door behind him and he dropped the keys from his mouth into their little bowl on the coffee table in the living room. He headed straight for the kitchen and poured himself a scotch, then another.
As he stood under the shower ten minutes later, letting the hot water soak into his fur, he idly marvelled at how he’d once detested water. The shower was where he did all his best thinking – he couldn’t live without it now.
It was fine. This was fine. He was fine. It didn’t matter what Zuma was or wasn’t doing. He had far more important things to worry about, like his next public appearance and the debate with Stanton. He’d be having all kinds of statistics and percentages and reports hurled at him, no doubt a dash of wild conspiracies against him thrown in as well if his opponent became desperate enough. He needed to be able to counter every golden ticket Stanton had. Not only that, but he had to deliver a speech first thing tomorrow as well. That was all that mattered. Rocky shut off the shower, shook himself, and stepped in front of the built-in furdryer in the wall. When it was done, he shook the frizz out of his fur and glanced at himself in the fogged mirror. Maybe it was the long day he’d had, maybe it was the bathroom’s lighting, but it occurred to Rocky how old he looked all of a sudden. Having an entirely grey pelage was great when it came to hiding aging hairs, but it did nothing to conceal the bags that had grown beneath his eyes, or the way his one crooked ear seemed to be sagging further and further by the day.
‘A voice of a people,’ he murmured to no one, puffing his chest out a little. ‘Representing mixed breeds everywhere.’
He sniffed and pulled himself away from the mirror, heading for his bedroom. He needed to put his brain on pause for the night and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was a big day and things would be clearer in the morning. They always were.
Things were not clearer when Rocky awoke at seven AM sharp the next day, or when he dressed himself in the navy suit his stylist picked out for him, or when he was sitting in the back of the car on the way to his next public event.
Rocky rehearsed the speech on repeat in his head, sometimes with the paper transcript, sometimes without. His brain should have been in work mode, in smile-for-cameras-and-tactfully-answer-antagonising-questions mode, but in between the proclamations and promises and flowery drivel he was practising, the words ‘Zuma’ and ‘Book deal’ flashed through in aggressive, sporadic bursts like a broken LED light. Rocky didn’t look through the tinted windows as his driver parked the car by the sidewalk. His ears had long since picked up the sound of the crowds that had gathered before the stage in the city square. The rally was in full swing and, if the din surrounding them was anything to go by, attendance was good. One of his security detail opened his door and Rocky stepped out of the car to face the uproar. A pathway between the crowds had been sectioned off by metal barriers and uniformed guards. People on either side screamed as they saw him. There were signs and placards held high and being waved around erratically, there were posters and badges and flags with his face on them, worn and held by humans, dogs, and cats of every calibre. Rocky smiled and nodded and ‘thank you’d and smiled and ‘nice to see you’d and nodded and smiled as he walked across the carpet with just the right amount of confidence, flanked by security, and as the camera flares of the press exploded in his face from all angles. He was led to a large private tent that had been set up behind the stage a safe distance from the crowds. Serenity, Tom, and Cletus were already there and swarmed him the moment he stepped inside.
‘There he is!’ Said Serenity, beaming. She was a far cry from the serious, tell-me-your-private-life manager she’d been yesterday. ‘How’re we feeling?’
‘Great,’ Rocky lied in just the right tone of voice. He still hadn’t dropped the smile. His team stayed with him while the hair and makeup people spruced him up until not a single strand of fur was out of place, going over the speech and offering various words of encouragement.
Eventually it reached the point where Rocky was forced to let them know that this wasn’t actually helping and that their helicoptering was stressing the hell out of him.
‘Alright, alright,’ said Serenity. ‘Knock ‘em dead.’ She smiled at him then gestured for Tom and Cletus to follow her out of the tent. Tom gave him a final thumbs up before disappearing through the flap.
When they were gone and the cosmetics team followed, Rocky exhaled and took a moment to embrace the solitude. He’d done a thousand events like this, today was no different. It wasn’t a big deal; he’d go onstage, greet his supporters, read the speech without even having to glance at the transcript (maybe once or twice, maximum), smile for the applause, and exit stage right. Stanton didn’t have his charisma. Stanton read speeches like a robot being held at gunpoint. An if nothing else, Stanton was far less cute than he was.
Rocky resisted the urge to shake himself to avoid ruining the styling of his fur. ‘A voice of a people,’ he muttered. ‘Representing mixed breeds everywhere. A voice of a people…representing mixed breeds everywhere…a voice of a people…’
If anyone had walked in right then, they’d have probably thought he’d lost his mind; Rocky’s pre-speech rituals would probably be concerning to an outsider, but he found the phrase to be a stabilising reminder of why he was even here.
He’d first heard it early into his career, around the time when he’d moved from pure activism to politics with Tracker. Some online journal had coined it as their headline and it had resonated with him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He’d seen all the smear campaigns, all the mockery, all the articles beginning with “Rocky, best known for his membership of the infamous PAW Patrol,”, but that had been a nice change to the narrative. He received the signal that it was time to go. He was escorted backstage by security and spotted his team waiting in the opposite wing. Rocky took a deep breath, waited for the announcer to introduce him, and stepped onto the stage. The applause flowed over him like the tide, the cheers of his supporters ringing through his ears as they waved their flags and bounced their placards.
‘Thank you,’ Rocky said into the microphone with a smile. ‘I’d like to start off by saying how great it is to see all of you here.’ The crowds cheered again and he waited for the din to simmer. ‘I stand here in front of you all today because I want to talk to you about…’
Rocky delivered the first two-thirds of the speech without a hitch. He paused in the correct places, accentuated the right words, measured his inflections so he sounded passionate but not cartoonishly so. The crowd applauded during the breaks, less ferocious now but just as devoted. It wasn’t until Rocky looked up from his papers at just the right moment and just the right angle to spot a particular placard near the front of the stage that he stopped mid-sentence. He couldn’t see who was holding the sign. He couldn’t see the look on their face or the glint in their eye. But he could see the bright orange capitals printed across it, standing out from the masses like a third degree burn on skin.
ZUMA WAS RIGHT
-
‘We don’t need this,’ Rocky said for the third time in the back of the Sedan. ‘We do not. Goddam. Need this. Not now. Definitely not now.’
‘Okay,’ Tracker said through the phone. ‘Just hold on a minute. It was just one sign, just one person, right?’
‘One is too many,’ Rocky snapped. His glare was fixed on the window, his eyes tracking the passing by of every house, street, and pedestrian while his claw tapped against the leather seat at double speed. ‘Why the hell were they even there? What the hell is the matter with some people? Ten years and they’re still pulling this crap. It was an environmental rally for Christ’s sake!’
‘Rocky, hermano, you gotta calm down,’ said Tracker. ‘You’re spiralling.’
‘I’m not, I’m just…’ Rocky closed his eyes and let out a sharp exhalation. ‘Frustrated.’ He said it through his fangs. ‘Every time I think we’re finally clear of PAW Patrol nonsense, it comes right back to bite us on the ass again.’
‘You finished the speech though, right?’
Rocky snorted. ‘Of course, I did.’
‘That’s good. That’s a positive.’
‘Why are you not upset about this?’ Rocky demanded into the phone. ‘This affects you as well.’
‘Because A: Getting upset doesn’t fix anything, and B: What exactly can we do about it? We’re public figures, Rocky. We knew going into this that people were gonna try and use the PAW Patrol against us. They’ve done it before and they’ll keep doing it until people stop caring and move on. You can bet your ass that Stanton’s gonna try and find a way to use it to make you look bad in the debates. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, hermano.’
‘I…Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,’ sighed Rocky. ‘It’s just…we’re so close, Tracker. We’re so close to making a real change. We can’t let anything get in the way now, especially not this.’
‘I know,’ said Tracker. ‘Whatever comes, we’ll deal with it. We always do. Right now, you need to stay focused.’
‘Yeah…how’re things on your end?’
‘All good over here.’ There was a new cheerfulness in his tone. ‘Support’s still on the rise and we’re making decent progress with the re-forestation project. I’ve got a meeting with Louis Sanchez tomorrow about possibly getting some serious funding.’
‘The football player?’
‘Yeah. He seems pretty eager to work with us. I’m pretty sure it’s more for his image than anything else, but you know what they say: Money talks. And he’s got a lot of it.’
‘That’s great.’ When Rocky had made the definitive decision to run for governor, Tracker had taken over their initial project and become it’s executive leader. Since then, its growth had been exponential. Tracker was a natural leader. Sometimes Rocky wondered if they had taken on the wrong roles.
‘The video looks great, by the way,’ Tracker said.
Rocky blinked. ‘Huh?’
‘Your campaign video. They sent a copy of it over to me this morning. It looks great.’
‘Great enough to win me the election?’
‘You never needed a video for that.’
Rocky grinned. ‘Thanks.’
‘But seriously, Rocky, are you gonna be okay?’
That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? The question he’d been asking himself for the last ten years and never wanted to hear from anyone else ever again. Rocky leaned back in his seat and returned his gaze to the window. A gentle drizzle had begun; tiny droplets appearing on the glass and drifting along a diagonal descent. ‘I can’t go back there, Tracker,’ he murmured. ‘You didn’t see all of it, how bad it really got. Being stuck between Zuma and the others when they were ready to rip his head off, having to always be the middle dog, it was just…it sucked the life out of me, I think. And now he’s doing it again.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Zuma. He’s writing another book.’
A pause. ‘Wha-how d’you know?’
‘Tom found out about it. He’s got connections in the publishing world. Zuma’s signed another deal and is gonna be releasing another book. I’ve seen it, Tracker. It’s happening again.’
A longer silence. ‘Okay. Okay. That’s…we’ll deal with that when it happens.’
‘If it comes out before the election…’
‘Rocky, relax. It’s…we don’t know anything about anything yet, okay?’
‘I can’t do it again, Tracker. I can’t. If it comes down to me or him…’
‘Rocky, stop. That’s way too many ‘If’s for one conversation. Look, go home and get some rest. You’ve got enough things in the present to worry about, never mind the future. Like I said, you gotta stay focused. You can’t let this throw you. You’re stronger than that, yeah?’
‘…Yeah.’
‘Hey, listen, I gotta go, but we’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay? All you need to think about is being a kickass politician that’s gonna smash this election and be the best damn governor the state’s ever seen. Got it?’
‘…Got it.’
‘Alright. Talk later.’
The call ended and Rocky closed his eyes as the Sedan made a left turn, the driver maintaining his stony silence all the while. Tracker was right. He was spiralling. He needed to get a damn grip and stop letting the past get one over on him. He should be over this by now. He’d gone to therapy, done the introspection exercises, built an entire career in politics, yet all it took was a cheap, handmade sign made by some obsessed loser to throw him off completely and turn him back into the grief-stricken adolescent he had been when Zuma had almost ruined his life. He was better than this. Rocky shook himself and looked at his phone again. He’d given Marshall a healthy dose of counselling the last time he’d seen him. Why was it that he couldn’t follow his own advice? He’d had the nerve to question Marshall on why he’d made the choices he had, but what about Rocky’s choices? He’d set out to change the world, but he hadn’t changed that one poisonous aspect of himself; the thing that caused his blood pressure to spike at the mere mention of Zuma’s name.
Rocky didn’t notice the Sedan slowing to a stop before a red light or how the rain had grown from a drizzle to a full-scale downpour. Ten years ago, he’d severed himself from everything people wanted to see him as. He’d turned and fled into a new life with new dreams and a new direction. But it hadn’t worked. The thing inside him had stayed there, festering and growing and waiting for the moment to rear its hideous head and bring it all crashing down. Rocky was a fixer. He’d always been a fixer, hadn’t he? And this needed fixing. It needed fixing before it destroyed the future he’d envisioned for himself, for Tracker, for the whole damn world. When you needed to fix something, when you needed to take it apart and put it back together over and over again until it finally worked, there was only one appropriate approach: Head on.
The light switched to green and the Sedan picked up speed again. Rocky tapped his phone screen until his paw landed on Tom’s number. It rang twice before he picked up. ‘Hey, you okay?’
‘Hey, Tom. Listen, that email you showed me last night? You said you knew someone who’s working with Zuma on his new book?’
‘Uh, yeah, that’s right. Why?’
‘…I need their number.’