Why do we cling to life, knowing it all ends in dirt? As I ponder yet again life’s cruel jest, let’s talk cloning—specifically, cloning your dearly departed Fido or Whiskers, because why let go when you can reboot?
Nine years ago, a cloned kitty duo jet-setted from Virginia to Europe, their existence proving death might just be a technical glitch. At a punchy price of $50,000, they became pioneers in America's pet-cloning saga. It's a roaring trade—with cats, dogs, and heck, even horses lining up to cheat the Grim Reaper, kind of.
WIRED chatted with Jane Doe (obviously not her real name, folks) from ClonePal, the bigwig of pet cloning. She’s a guide in this bizarre journey of reanimation. Mourning folks call her, reeling from their pet's departure to the great beyond. Her role? Help them part with big bucks in the hopes of pet resurrection.
Got a piece of ear from your dead cat? Perfect, it seems ears are the sturdiest bits. Note: Ensure Sparky isn’t frozen, just cooled—a freezer mishap might just ruin your cloning dreams.
The tech side is straight-up sci-fi. Cells from old Whiskers grow in a lab until it’s Big Bang time—minus the sperm. They zap an egg with electric love, fooling it into mommy mode. Then, inject old Whiskers’ cells, and voila, await the miracle of pseudo-birth from a surrogate pet.
Repeat til success or bankruptcy.
So while I occasionally daydream about my peaceful expiration (could be soothing, no?), I can’t help but chuckle at humanity’s quirks. Cloning Spot or Puss isn’t just science. It’s an existential punchline.
And hey, when you eventually join your original pet in the netherworld, maybe your cloned pal will clone you. Now there’s a thought to die alone with…
Based on the original article "Thousands of People Are Cloning Their Dead Pets. This Is the Woman They Call First".
