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The letter arrives addressed to Anya.
Neither Shane nor Ilya notice because they are traveling, and then Ilya comes back home first, which means the mail remains unchecked for several more days. Frankly, Ilya often forgets to check the mail, and if it wasn't for Shane's insistence on walking to the mailbox almost as soon as he returns home, they might not have noticed the letter until it was too late. Shane almost flips past the envelope looking for bills in the massive pile waiting for them and then his brain catches up with him an he flips the envelope back to the top of the pile and yep, there is it, in glorious Arial, all-caps:
ANYA HOLLANDER-ROZANOV
"What the fuck?" he mutters, walking back inside the house. He is so distracted by the possibility of his dog receiving mail that he forgets to take his slippers off at the door and this is what tips Ilya off that something is wrong.
"Did they send us Josephine's mail again?" asks Ilya. This is a common enough occurrence that he does not look up from his phone as he shovels Frosted Flakes into his mouth. Josephine is seventy-nine years old and Shane’s mortal enemy. Ilya still does not know why.
Usually the simple utterance of Josephine’s name is enough to completely side-line Shane’s thought process, but Shane does not even frown when Ilya says her name. Ilya drops his spoon into the bowl with a clatter, sending milk all over the counter.
“Oh god.” Ilya sits back. Shane now has the envelope inches from his face and he is squinting at the top left corner. “You’re going blind.”
“What?” Shane looks up, confused. “I just don’t have my glasses on, so I wanted to make sure.” He trails off, sets the envelope on the counter, picks it back up again. Ilya clears his throat.
“Anya got a letter,” says Shane. Ilya immediately makes gimmie-fingers and Shane passes the envelope over.
“Anya, you silly girl, got a boyfriend behind our back?” The dog in question is sleeping upside down in a patch of sunlight in front of the sliding door. Then, Ilya notices what is stamped in the top left hand corner. He finds himself bringing the envelope closer to his own eyes because surely he must be mistaken–
“Shane,” says Ilya. “Maybe my English is still bad. Does this say–”
“‘Ministry of the Attorney General’? ‘Jury Administration?’” Shane finishes for him. “Yeah. I think… I think they’re summoning Anya to jury duty.”
“They let dogs serve on a jury here?” Ilya asks. His tone indicates he’s finally understood the level of corruption in the justice system, and why people take their dogs into supermarkets.
Shane does not deign to reply, instead takes the envelope back and rips it open, scoffing as he scans. “Okay, look, there is a phone number. Let’s call the clerk’s office and get this fixed quickly.”
It is not quick. Shane spends 37 minutes debating learning to code so he can remake the state of Ontario’s government website and then finally gives up and calls the number from the jury summons. He is rewarded by listening to a man wheeze with laughter on the phone before hanging up on Shane. Ilya, seeing the writing on the wall, sits on the floor with Anya, patiently placing her right paw on a copy of Die Hard over and over again.
“Ms. Rozanov-Hollander, do you promise - that’s okay, good girl, put your paw back on - to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
Shane pushes Ilya’s shoulder with his big toe, pulling the phone away from his ear. He has called once more. The sound of tinny elevator music blares from the speaker. “That’s not even the oath.”
“Shane, I watch it on TV many times,” says Ilya reasonably. “And you have never been to jury duty, so how do you know?”
Shane opens his mouth to argue when the bored, monotonous tone of a government employee cuts replaces the 38th rendition of Opus No. 1. “Hello, thank you for waiting, this is Denise, how can I help you?”
“Yes, hi, my dog received a summons for jury duty.”
Denise does not say anything on the other line. Shane can sort of make out the fact that she is typing. Anya can now keep her paw on the DVD case for the entirety of the oath and Ilya is trying to get her to bark her assent (“Nyet, Anya, that bark sounds like ‘no’”).
“Apologies, sir, but is the name correct on the summons?”
“Uhm,” Shane double checks Anya’s name on the envelope before realizing what he is doing. “I mean, yes, but… she’s a dog.”
“Mhm, mhm.” More typing. “Is Anya Rozanov-Hollander a legal resident of Ontario?”
Shane feels a panic akin to watching waiters bring out a cake and clap off-beat, or finding out a nuclear bomb is minutes away from destroying the entire province. “Uhm, Anya is a legal dog?”
When Denise speaks again, the monotony of her tone has translated to annoyance, as if Shane was too daft to understand her. “Sir, if the name matches our records, she needs to appear or file an exemption.”
Shane looks down at Anya, where she has abandoned the ad hoc bible in favor of shoving her snout into Ilya’s pocket, where he is hiding her treats. “She has paws?”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Denise… she can’t file an exemption. She has paws.”
“Just file on her behalf.”
So Shane does. He finds the form online and reads through the options. He contemplates “conflict with religious beliefs” because he does not know if dogs have religion, but decides he cannot prove or deny the existence of a Dog God. Fortunately for Anya, her parents’ brand deals mean she would never deal with financial burdens, so that is out. There is only one option left but it does not stop Shane from feeling ridiculous checking “medical exemption,” outright clownish typing “because she’s a dog” in the Further Explanation section, and a sense of satisfaction when he clicks “Submit” at the bottom of the page and his phone pings with a confirmation email.
What a silly little mistake, he thinks. I should text my mom about it. We should buy Anya a judge outfit for Halloween this year. Maybe Ilya can be a hot criminal.
🐶
“Then, they denied it.” It has been two weeks. Anya is supposed to appear for jury duty in 7 days. With great irony, Anya’s judge outfit arrives at the same time as another letter from the Ministry of the Attorney General. “Shane has asked me how can they deny ‘Anya Hollander-Rozanov is a dog’? I tell him it’s because she sleeps in bed next to us.”
“Did he believe you?” Yuna asks over the sound of her running faucet. Eager to stay busy, Yuna acquires hobbies the way other people complete tasks on a to-do list. In true Yuna fashion, she conquers her hobbies more than enjoys them, creating the perfect, measurable example of the hobby and then moving on to the next one. Ilya enthusiastically joins her, though he is so catastrophically bad at every hobby that his mantel, decorated with a miniature vase, a photo frame, a knitted whale, and a glass bottle filled with sand designed to look like Banff National Park, is exclusively Yuna’s work. Her latest endeavor is tie-dye, and she and Ilya are video-chatting.
“Yes,” Ilya says, laughing. He squirts the blue dye haphazardly on the white t-shirt. “He said, ‘But how do they know?’ before his brain caught up with him.”
“How much more proof do you need besides ‘is a dog’? Shane questions, rudely butting into the sacred Ilya and Yuna time. Shane’s ban from hobby time is a long withstanding rule of their household. Ilya tells him every time he asks it is because he is bad at hobbies, which is just a polite way of saying Shane tries and fails to make the best version and then gets mad when Yuna’s turns out better.
Ilya turns to tell him to go away and gasps when he sees the dog in question running around the house wearing a judge costume, the fake gavel bouncing around her neck. Shane holds a mini-wig and a pair of glasses on a chain, which Ilya rudely snatches from his hands and goes to find his dog. Shane takes this as an opportunity to complain at his mom. “Besides, she’s a senior.”
“Well you know,” Yuna says, and then does not elaborate. “Why did Ilya gasp?”
Shane ignores her question. “Uh, Mom? You know, what?”
“Maybe they need you to prove she’s a dog. People do weird things to get out of jury duty. Why did Ilya gasp?”
Ilya corners Anya by the sliding glass door.
Shane turns the camera towards them, so Yuna can see. Anya begins to howl as Ilya places the wig on her head, ignoring his sweet remarks that she can have as many treats as she can fit in her mouth if she will just stay still. Ilya lets out a triumphant “LOOK AT YOU” in a pitch reserved for birds.
“What am I looking at?” Yuna squints. “I don’t have my glasses on.”
“Ilya’s dressed Anya like Judge Judy,” explains Shane. There is a small pause on the other end of the phone, and before Yuna can say anything, Shane adds, “I’m already sending you pics. How do I prove she’s a dog?” he presses.
“Try the vet,” Yuna says, finally turning off the faucet and drying her hands. “I’m sure this kind of thing happens sometimes.” There is a moment of silence as Yuna grabs her phone. “I told David Anya would want a tye-dyed shirt,” she mutters.
🐶
“Ava, look at this!”
At Shane’s insistence, they show up at the vet’s office unannounced, hoping their combined star power is enough to butter up Salma, the main receptionist of the clinic, into complying with their request. By combined star power, Shane means Ilya’s star power, since Salma adores Ilya and tolerates Shane needing to breathe oxygen to survive.
Case in point, Ilya is leaning over the counter (ignoring a handwritten sign that says Do NOT Lean Over the Counter), showing Salma, Ava, and Colin pictures of Anya dressed like Judge Judy presiding over her court. Shane is sure he would lose his arm.
Ava playfully bats at Ilya’s arm and Shane breathes out of his nose and reminds himself his dog could be deciding the fate of a murderer if he doesn’t let Ilya unleash his full charm. “Ilya, how did you get her to keep the glasses on? Oh my god, I feel like she’s judging me.”
“Me? I can make her do anything,” Ilya boasts and the three receptionists laugh and laugh. “I call her a good girl and she listens,” he adds with a wink. Somehow, this earns Ilya another bout of laughter.
“Excuse me.” Shane steps forward and Ilya makes room for him. Predictably, Salma’s face slides into bland customer service perfection. “We need a medical exemption so our dog doesn’t have to do jury duty.”
“Mr. Hollander -”
Before Salma can tell Shane to go fuck himself, Ilya leans forward again, blocking Shane’s face. “It’s such a funny story, Lulu–” Lulu? Shane is not sure he is allowed to refer to Salma by her given name, let alone a nickname. “--Anya is summoned for jury duty. We tried to tell them she is a dog.”
Salma nodded sympathetically. She began to type on the computer, her fingers hitting each key hard. “Let me type something up for you real quick.”
“I bet this happens often,” Shane jokes, peeking his head around Ilya’s shoulder.
“Why would you think that, Mr. Hollander?” asks Salma politely. Shane wonders if maybe he should just go wait in the car. He won’t even need to crack a window.
“Corruption in Canada. You know, all over the news,” he tries again. “I bet pets accidentally get mistaken for all kinds of things. Like, you know, uhm, caregivers. Or, or… delivery… men…”
Ilya, bless him, leans back the other way, blocking Shane’s horrified face before Shane can open his mouth again.
“How’s this?” Salma asks, printing and handing Ilya the paper, who immediately hands it to Shane.
To Whom It May Concern,
This letter is to ascertain that Anya Hollander-Rozanov is unable to serve on a jury due to her dog-related limitations, including inability to speak, read, or comprehend legal proceedings.
Please reach out for any clarifying questions,
Dr. Stoddard
Clear and concise. Shane thinks someone at the Office of the Attorney General will frame the letter when they receive it, maybe even give him a call directly to thank him for the laugh. He can hear the sound of the Slack chat going off, laugh reacting to a picture of this letter already.
🐶
The third letter arrives promptly two days later. Shane is so sure that this time will be different, he only takes one work from home day to watch the mailbox from the window, which is better than walking over several times a day to check inside.
It makes sense, then, that it is Ilya who runs into the woman delivering their mail and walks back inside with an envelope and several flyers, which he tosses in the recycle bin immediately.
Ilya opens the envelope without any ceremony, scans it, and throws his head back and laughs. Shane feels his stomach drop.
“You’re fucking joking!” He stands up, so frazzled he lets his laptop slide off his lap desk and land in the crevice of the leather couch. Shane snatches the letter from Ilya and scans it. “‘Summons is mandatory?’ She’s a fucking dog.”
“What if they send her to jail for not showing up,” asks Ilya. He whistles, and Anya appears as if out of thin air, shuffling herself into the protective arms of her owner. “She won’t survive prison, Shane.”
Shane levels an annoyed look at Ilya. “Be serious, Ilya.”
Ilya’s eyes widen, and he holds onto his baby. “Who is joking? This country will make an example of her.” Then, Ilya’s face begins to shift. It is a look Shane knows well. Ilya’s eyes narrow, his mouth purses, and the cogs in his brain are moving so rapidly Shane can hear them. “We must bring her to court.”
Shane opens his mouth to argue, but, as if through an invisible string connecting their brains, the cogs in his mind begin to move as well. Of course. Shane had been going about this the wrong way all along. Phone calls? Letters? True facts? There is only one thing that forces the government to work in his favor in any capacity: malicious compliance.
“You’re right,” says Shane.
There is a moment of silence as both men contemplate their dog and the trouble she’s gotten herself into before Ilya stands up. “We should get her groomed. I’m sure Brandy has a bandana.”
🐶
When Monday morning arrives, Anya trots into the courthouse freshly groomed and wearing a bandana with the phrase “Juris Dogtor” on it. Ilya walks in next, wearing a pinstripe suit and holding her leash. Behind him is Shane, holding a slim folder with every piece of correspondence they’d received since the whole debacle started, as well as a photo of Anya, her birth and adoption records, her vaccine records, and a paw print, just in case there is a database of animal prints and also everyone in the place is blind.
The guard, starstruck by Shane and Ilya, does not so much as blink at Anya, but directs them down the hall and to the left to check in with the clerk.
“Name?” he asks, without looking up.
“Anya Hollander-Rozanov,” Ilya supplies.
“Hollan..der…. Roza..nov..,” the clerk mutters as he types, then blinks and looks up. “You’re… Ilya Rozanov.” He points at Ilya, all modicum of professionalism out the door as he is brought face to face with a hockey legend. Ilya nods patiently. The clerk looks around Ilya, presumably for Anya, and spots Shane. “And that’s… that’s Shane Hollander. My dad loves you.”
Shane smiles that camera ready smile and tries to move the conversation along. “We’re here for Anya Rozanov-Hollander.” Anya, bored of the new human place, helpfully barks once.
The clerk follows the sound, leaning forward to look at Anya. He stares for a long time. “That’s a dog.”
“She’s a dog,” Ilya corrects.
“Yes, we know,” Shane says.
“How is a dog going to communicate with the other jurors?”
“Through interpretive dance,” Shane says, pointing at the little shoes Ilya forces Anya to wear when it is hot outside.
“Why didn’t you file an exemption - er, Mr. Rozanov, Mr. Hollander, sir,” he adds quickly, at the glower both Shane and Ilya send his way.
“I did, multiple times actually. They were all rejected.” Shane sets the folder on the counter and slides it beneath the hole in the plexiglass. The clerk flips through the folder, his eyebrows raising up and up until they disappear into his hairline. Multiple times, he leans forward to stare at Anya.
“They rejected the letter from the vet?” he asks, holding up the rejection. “Barb! Barbara!” he calls. “You need to come over and see this.”
Barbara is a woman in her fifties who strides over to the clerk immediately, which is impressive because their office space allows for very little striding. She barely registers or cares that Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander are standing at the window. The clerk hands her Anya’s folder and she reads through only the first rejection before she looks back up at Shane and Ilya and then down at Anya.
“How did your dog register to vote?” She asks the question with the venom of someone so disgusted by incompetence that Shane wonders if she ever considered running for government office. Though Barbara should lob the question at Elections Canada, not two retired hockey players.
“You tell me.”
Barbara snaps out of her incompetence-induced fugue. She all but hip checks the clerk out of the way and begins typing furiously on his computer. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” she says. “Anya is dismissed.”
“Do you hear that, Anya girl?” Ilya says happily. “You’re free. They can’t shackle you any more!” Shane collects the folder and they turn away from the desk.
No, Shane thinks. I’m free. “But we’re not returning the costume,” he tells Ilya.
As they begin to walk away, Anya’s tail wagging, a pup cup in her future after this whole terrible ordeal, Shane and Ilya hear Barbara yell from behind them.
“But in the future, please remember pets are not allowed in the courthouse!”