Happy, the Genius Dog
The film Shin Yoo-young features one high school student and one golden retriever.
The protagonist, Do Yoo-young, has only just entered high school, and lives alone in a small village in the countryside.
Ah.
Well, strictly speaking, he isn't alone.
He has Shin.
Shin is the golden retriever Do Yoo-young raises. Around the time his grandmother passed away and left him on his own, Shin came trotting up, bright-eyed and guileless, and took up residence at his side.
True to a breed famous for adoring people, Shin was a remarkably lively little troublemaker. Do Yoo-young, by contrast, was quiet and even-keeled, seldom showing much emotion at all.
The film opens on a day one week before summer vacation. The moment the two of them swap bodies, the story proper begins.
There are two roles I have to play here.
First, Do Yoo-young with Shin's soul inside him. I had to play a dog who wakes up in his owner's body and panics — a dog thrown into confusion by a human body so utterly unlike an animal's, by a mind that races far too fast. He looks around blankly, then murmurs, "...A dream?" And then, startled by the words coming out of his own mouth, his eyes go round and he claps a hand over his lips.
The setup was that a soul trapped in a human body could use human speech, but the writer planned to limit the character to simple words, out of consideration for the intelligence gap. To the writer's proud declaration that this was all quite logical, I offered nothing but a quiet smile.
Where exactly is the logic in a story about a person and a dog swapping bodies? The question crossed my mind, but I kept it to myself. It wasn't as if I wanted to bark like a dog on screen instead.
And second.
I would also be playing Do Yoo-young trapped in Shin's body. The plan was to record my narration separately and layer it over Happy's filmed scenes — capturing just how flustered Do Yoo-young is upon waking as a dog, and the thoughts that run through his head.
You could fairly say the narration is what carries the story.
It was no easy performance. There was a great deal to consider. For one thing, the personalities of Do Yoo-young and Shin were polar opposites — which meant the speech of Do Yoo-young with Shin's soul inside him and the speech of Do Yoo-young in the narration had to be distinct. Same person, same voice, but the pitch, the articulation, the rises and falls, the tremor, the very breath of it — all of it had to come out differently. Only then would the audience be able to tell the two characters apart at a glance.
So much to practice.
Narration aside, there was a mountain of details to mind. I also had to rehearse the moments where the prankish Shin's soul poured into Do Yoo-young's dry, humorless body sent his expressions and movements swinging dramatically — the same face becoming an entirely different person.
...Hold on.
Wasn't this, in a sense, a double role?
It was.
A hollow laugh slipped out of me at the realization, so late in coming. What is it with me and playing two roles at once? Playing the twins Lee Jin-woo and Kang Tae-il in Twins had been hard enough, and this time one of them wasn't even human — how much harder would it be? Filming hadn't even begun, and already I felt adrift.
And yet the funniest part of all was this:
I was looking forward to it.
For all that I felt lost, I wasn't anxious. The pressure was still there, naturally, and so was the thought that I couldn't afford to be a burden to the production team. But even so, I was enjoying myself. I was thrilled. The scenes that felt hazily veiled now, as though behind fog, would grow clearer and sharper with every rehearsal. To be allowed to walk that road one more time —
I really am lucky.
I turned my head toward my manager. A kind man, he met my eyes the instant I looked over. Those gentle eyes sent my already-good mood drifting even higher.
"Yeonjae-ssi. Is there something you'd like to say?"
I answered his soft question with a smile.
"Jinbae-hyung."
"Yes. Go ahead."
"...Could you get this one off me?"
And I pointed a finger at my knee. Or rather, at the dog plastered against it with no intention whatsoever of letting go.
According to the writer, even before the script had been sent to me, the very first thing looked into was the animal actor who would play Shin. Since the blunt, unsmiling soul of Do Yoo-young would be inside the dog, the animal had to manage an expressionless face, even something like a sigh. In other words, they needed a dog with solid training and plenty of time in front of a camera.
Even so, the casting had apparently come together without much trouble. The agency that handled animal actors, the casting managers — everyone had pushed hard for this one dog, insisting nothing else fit the role. That dog was the one currently glued to my knee. His name was Happy.
Where the character Shin is four, Happy was a golden retriever who had just turned eight — an age past the puppy stage of boundless mischief and hopeless self-control. He had appeared in any number of films, dramas, and commercials over the years, a senior who had, in fact, debuted before I did.
Three days ago, the writer had told me:
"Golden retrievers are famous for loving people, right? I was worried whether he could be controlled at all, but it seems he's had good training. Honestly, seeing him in person, he was calmer than I was."
"Did you watch him act, too?"
"Of course. He obeys his owner beautifully. He'll be mid-smile one second and close his mouth the next. I was genuinely stunned."
That was exactly what the writer said. I remembered it word for word. And at this very moment, every shred of my trust in the writer was gone.
"Happy, get off the actor. Please..."
His exhausted owner pleaded — to my knee, no, to the Happy clinging to my knee. But Happy stood firm. He showed no sign whatsoever of intending to obey.
Pressed full-length against me, Happy looked up into my face.
This is a lot of pressure.
When those bright, shining eyes met mine, my face prickled. Fighting the urge to scratch my cheek, I spoke to the owner.
"I guess he's the affectionate type."
"No. He's trained not to approach strangers. Tackling you the second he laid eyes on you — that's the first time he's done that since he was a tiny puppy. He's always minded me... Why is he like this, honestly."
The owner's expression was pained. Mine, frankly, was too.
Which raises the question of how we're supposed to film.
Filming was always what mattered most. No matter how clever an animal was, if it couldn't be controlled, the shoot suffered.
"It'll be a problem if he's like this on set."
"Tell me about it. He's never once been like this. Haah. I'm losing my mind."
The owner looked close to tears. Oblivious — or indifferent — to his owner's despair, Happy busied himself rubbing his head against my knee. Then, without warning, he flipped his whole body over. Against the general gold of his coat, the startling whiteness of his belly caught my eye.
—Woof!
"...Are you hurt somewhere?"
When I asked, hesitating, Happy set about licking the hand I had resting on my knee, thoroughly and without restraint.
That startled me. For a moment I genuinely thought he meant to eat it. As I sat frozen with my suddenly sopping hand, Happy barked again, loud and clear.
—Woof!
What on earth did he want? I deliberated a moment, then carefully laid my hand on Happy's belly.
Is this right? They say you can only touch a dog's belly once a bond of trust has formed. Just to be safe, I rested my hand there lightly — and Happy's tail swept into a rapid wag. It looked for all the world like he was telling me I'd given the correct answer, so I began to stroke him, slowly.
He's so soft. Smooth as finely woven silk — a sensation entirely foreign to me. After a long while of stroking, Happy went boneless, every ounce of tension draining out of his body.
He's heavy. This was no lapdog; a large breed north of thirty kilograms clinging to me made his presence powerfully felt. And yet it didn't feel bad at all. It was warm and weighty, like being tucked under a thick winter blanket. I was moving my hand as if entranced when a mournful murmur drifted over from beside me.
"Traitor..."
It was the owner.
"Years I've spent feeding you, brushing you, spoiling you rotten. Huh? You little brat. So you're turning on me now, is that it? You don't even know what you owe me."
The look in his eyes as he stared at Happy was hollow beyond words. Feeling a touch guilty, I stopped stroking.
—Woof!
At once Happy barked with full force, as if demanding to know why I'd stopped. Then he went back to nuzzling his head against my hand and knee, every last gesture brimming with impish charm — which only made me feel guiltier.
Happy, look at your owner's face. You're making me feel bad for no reason. But Happy hurled himself at me as though his owner simply did not exist. At this point I honestly couldn't tell whether the dog had no read on the room or just didn't care.
"Is there any chance of another actor who could shoot this instead?"
When Jinbae-hyung asked, the owner answered with a troubled face.
"There is one more golden retriever, but he's up in years. It would be hard on him to move around much."
"What about breeds other than golden retrievers?"
"Among the dogs currently in training—"
Hm.
While the two of them talked on, I covered Happy's ears with both hands. Of course he wouldn't understand a word... but better safe than sorry. Happy, finding this apparently intolerable, squirmed and thrashed to work his ears free of my palms.
Hold still. Please.
Happy did not hold still. Who on earth had called this dog obedient? I resolved to seize the writer by the collar the moment I set foot back in Seoul. When I tightened my hands over his ears, his struggling only intensified, and a sharp remark escaped me before I could stop it.
"Happy. Stay still."
And then — astonishingly — Happy froze mid-motion. His growling cut off in the same instant, and the eyes of all three of us, myself included, swung to the dog.
"...What? What did you just do...?"
The owner asked, dazed.
I have absolutely no idea myself.
I answered him with a look, then turned my gaze on Happy, who stood rooted to the spot as though petrified.
No way.
Half hoping, I opened my mouth slowly.
"Happy, stand up."
Happy sprang to his feet.
"...Happy, sit."
Happy sat at once.
Half believing, half doubting, I gave the final command.
"Happy. Deadpan."
Happy, who had been panting away with his tongue lolling out, shut his mouth at once. Beside me came the sound of Jinbae-hyung swallowing hard.
"...What the hell."
Over the top of the owner's muttering, Happy held his grave, sober expression. The black eyes that had sparkled until moments ago lost their light and turned glassy. And in those lifeless, dead-fish eyes, a certain figure flashed through my mind — the character I had spent the past several days rehearsing, Do Yoo-young, vivid as could be.
You're a genius.
A dumbfounded laugh slipped out of me all on its own.
"Good boy."
I stroked Happy's forehead, slow and unhurried. Unlike a cat, which goes liquid and melts under your hand, a dog's forehead was far firmer than I'd imagined — solid bone beneath the soft fur.
"Good boy, Happy."
When I smoothed the corners of his eyes, Happy relaxed into a grin, then tipped his chin up as if asking for scratches there too, so I curled my fingertips and obliged.
"Such a good boy. One more bark for me? Woof?"
—Woof!
The instant the words left my mouth, a vigorous bark rang out, and the corners of my lips lifted without my permission. The round nose, the shining eyes, even the sharp little canines — I touched each in turn, gently, and only then belatedly noticed the two men staring blankly at Happy and me.
I really did lose myself there.
I apologized, sheepish, but the owner shook his head.
"It's fine. Honestly, seeing you two get along so well makes me happy..."
The owner's eyes, lifted toward the sky, were glassy and dim, as though he had taken some devastating blow.
I offered an awkward smile.
"Well, that's a relief, then. I'm guessing we won't have much trouble filming?"
"..."
Or was it just my imagination? The owner seemed, somehow, to be shooting me a glare of pure resentment.