Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

article in the Times, the one about the wealthy couple who had agreed to pay 2.3 million dollars to Texas A & M University, to the scientists who had promised to clone their dog, Missy, a part Border collie mutt. At first, like everyone else, I guess, I thought the whole idea was crazy, either a joke or a scam to get a ton of money from some very rich, very naive people.
    But then the Times was full of news about cloning, news that made the idea of cloning a dog not only seem plausible, but inevitable. There’d been the piece on the successful cloning of stem cells, the stuff of life. And then the disturbing piece about a human nucleus growing in a cow egg whose own nucleus had been removed, inspiring thoughts of half-human, half-animal monsters when, in fact, the cow egg was merely a cheap and easy way to harvest a host for the human nucleus, which, as it grew, displaced all signs of cowness. Still, it had gotten President Clinton’s attention, and that of ethicists all over the nation. There was already a ban on using government funds for research on cloning. What else would be banned, and done anyway with private funding, was anyone’s guess.
    After this later news, I’d wondered again about the “Missyplicity Project,” as the attempt to clone the pet dog had been called. With each article in the paper about other attempts at cloning, the plan to clone Missy seemed less like science fiction and more like science.
    But what would those anonymous rich people think when they got their cloned dog? They loved their pet enough that they were willing to spend a fortune for a carbon copy of her, something, I thought, a surprising number of pet owners might do, if they had the means. But weren’t they bound to be mighty disappointed when they got what they’d paid for? No matter what they did, the clone would never be the real thing. She wouldn’t be Missy.
    With sheep, it wouldn’t matter. The scientists in Scotland were funded by a pharmaceutical company that wanted to clone sheep that were able to produce a certain drug in their milk. You could say it had to do with profits.
    Or you could say it was altruistic, that the company wanted enough of a supply of a necessary medication to meet the demand. Either way, no one gave a damn about what Dolly’s personality would be, if she’d have the same little quirks and endearing habits as the original, all the things that had made her separate, different, and better than any other sheep around.
    Dolly wasn’t a pet. No one shared their bed with her, loved the sound she made chewing her food, told her what was in their heart.
    That wasn’t true for Blanche. True, she was a service dog and performed an important function for her owner. But she was family, too. Who she was counted for as much as what she did.
    Was that what all this was about, I wondered as I waited to hear the rest of the story—Sophie’s disappointment, that despite the fact that Blanche had been cloned, Bianca was simply her own dog?
    And if so, what was I supposed to do about it? But I wouldn’t have the answer to that question until it had turned dark and almost everyone had taken his dog and gone home.
    “Go back to when you met Loma,” I said. ‘Tell me exactly what the deal was. Tell me how they got the cells, how long it took, what they told you along the way. Tell me how you felt when they gave you Bianca. Tell me everything.”
    Sophie smiled. “Then you’ll help me?”
    I didn’t say. But when I reached out and touched her hand, we both knew what my answer to her question was likely to be.
    “Loma said they’d need a blood sample and some cells they’d scrape from the inside of Blanche’s cheek, no big deal and far less stressful than her annual checkup. She said they wanted to clone three puppies. Three little Blanches. She said I’d get one, and the other two would go to people who needed a seizure-alert dog but didn’t have one. She asked if I’d agree to that and I nodded, too stunned to speak. Then she asked if I’d meet her the following Sunday, at a veterinary office on the corner of Horatio and Washington, at ten in the morning. I said I would. I didn’t know that part of the Village well, but Loma said she’d be there. She’d meet me and take me in, no problem.” I took exception to the wording of that, but didn’t say so.
    “I was so happy all week. You know the feeling. It was like when I decided to get Blanche. Even before I found her, I was happy all