Dog Out The Window

TW’s: Graphic depictions of abuse, cosmic horror, blood, references to alcohol abuse.

Chapter 1- “All you are going to want to do is get back there.”

“There was a doggie out my window.”

She kicks her feet, sitting on a pleather couch. She was perched like a small chick in a nest, dangling over a raging stream. Her hair is tied into low pigtails that bob with her movements. It's the most active she's been in the last few sessions, though she would never notice herself. The watchful eye of a professional would catch it- if that was what they were worried about.

The person across from her, however, has no interest in dogs or dreams that would never come to be. Instead, they sit preoccupied in their own swirling thoughts. It had not been the first time this client- their client, Miss Volkov had mentioned a dog. No, in fact, it was the entire reason she had been here in the first place. Her parents could not understand nor comprehend her obsession with small details, or her volatile temper. Such emotional outbursts had become particularly bothersome in accordance with her schooling. Miss Volkov had only been in the fifth grade, but her disciplinary reports tended to speak for themselves. An absent daydreamer, a child who stared out of the windows and would not answer questions. At recess, she would often wait by the door to come back inside, stating that the playground was often too loud for her liking. She had no desire to interact with other students or any of the content she was given. It wasn't for a lack of trying- the school counselor’s notes read as much.

They had referred Miss Volkov to the plum-wearing psychologist for the same reason they continued to be befuddled by her ramblings. A dog. 

There had been no reason to suspect autism, they had concluded. Miss Volkov- who insisted that she be called Katrina, not Miss- was like solving a jigsaw with nothing but the center pieces. There was no corner to begin from, because she simply had not cared to give all the pieces.  Perhaps she did not have them herself, or they were lost within a panopticon mentality in a youthful mind. There had been some concerning behaviors from her parents, but nothing worth risking an assumption. The psychologist was only paid to dissect, not to confront. There was only so much they could prod at with Katrina, for the Volkov name did not come without a chill down the spine alongside it. 

A misdiagnosed daughter to a lawyer whose finger hovered over his paperwork would mean the end of their practice entirely. They knew that fact well. So once again, the conversation circulated in a steady flow between the two, the psychologist taking a listening role. Originally, they had the Volkov's accompany their daughter, but those sessions were uneventful and wasted the time and money of both parties. The psychologist did not redirect themselves to active listening until a sound caught their attention, the squeak of fabric on pleather.

“Katrina, tell me more about the dog.” They pry, trying to play at what Katrina seemed to care about the most.

“No.” She said firmly, standing up and lingering near the couch. A threat, that she might just leave this place all together.

“Why not? I was listening.”

“..You don't care about it. You care about other things.” She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes glued to the ground. Her affinity for getting discouraged quickly had been something new; usually, her parents reported her being more combative. 

“What would I care about, other than what you have to say, Katrina?” They decided on an inkling of pressure to test how reactive she would be. They held their hands in their lap, pen held like a vice in between their fingers. They crave a cigarette quietly, but do not even consider acting on such a matter.

“All you do is write. All you do is ask, and you don't listen. You want to use me.”

“Use you?” They crack a smile, but it's something that comes out of a purely dumbfounded domain. There could be a corner piece sitting right in front of them that they had not yet even considered.

Katrina studies their face intently. She was intelligent, that had not been a lie. Her instincts were on point, and she had constantly been in a state of defense. Perhaps traumatically so. She had not made a breakthrough in this particular office yet, and she was dancing gracefully along the edge of it. She had learned at an early age how to juggle her own emotions, and what to look for in others. She would not come to this realization until she was much, much older.

All she could think about was the dog. It had appeared out her window just last night, yet nobody had experienced it except her. She can remember the way its ruff had bristled in the moonlight, how the face had been obscured by shadow. The gleam of its eyes mirrored that of a billiard ball, one that clacked around in her father's study every night. The smell of cigarette smoke and heavy liquor had come along with it, but not this dog. This dog smelled like the Earth, dust settling and sweltering cold. It had never approached Katrina directly, only lingering out of her window or in the distance at night. At first, she had thought the thing itself was prowling for a meal, preying on Katrina's small defenseless form as an easy filling. But it never lunged, it never bowed down to pounce.. it simply stared. Its teeth glinted in the low moonlight, a pearl white sheen with sharp and gnashing jaws. 

“My ma keeps changing doctors. None of them believe me.” She finishes her sentence after her counterpart clears their throat. She notes the way they're tilted forward, as if hanging off every word she had to say. They were interested in the dog. She was, too.

“Maybe the other doctors weren't what you needed.” They sit back in their chair, tilting their head and killing the smile that had invaded their face.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some doctors help with your physical health.” 

Katrina raised an eyebrow, her eyes already settling into canyons in her face. Her skin had not yet seen pubescent blemishes or the sun’s scorching rays. If it had not been for her attitude, one would think she was a preserved porcelain doll. It was something that aged her by thirty years, this expression alone. Distrust. She says nothing more.

“Like when you scrape your knee, or get your eyes checked.”

“Oh. They check your eyes?” She held a hand up to her face, fingertips brushing against her eyelashes. Katrina’s eye twitched against the action, and she found herself recoiling from her own actions.

“Have you gotten that yet? An.. eye doctor appointment.” They watch her explore her face just as though she had never regarded its existence before.

“No. Only ones that talk.”

“Not even your vaccines?” 

“Oh, yeah. The needles?”

“The needles.”

“Yeah.”  She went quiet after that, looking at the ground next to her. Her brief moment of clarity relapsed into stark silence within seconds. They had lost her to the fog that surrounded her- engulfed her wholeheartedly and would not relent.

It had been a rule- and not one that had been unspoken. ‘Do not talk about the dog.’  Instructions from the parent, ones that were heeded graciously. It was common knowledge that if a patient had delusions, it was unwise to feed into them. But perhaps, maybe- there was something to uncover here. There was something more to the dog than just a delusion; there was a corner piece in a puzzle. They had no clue as to why the parents were so avoidant of a topic such as this, something menial and unassuming such as a dog. Little beings that had no higher intelligence. Perhaps it was the blind loyalty of a dog, the self-sacrificing nature in servitude to their masters. Moreover, it was a probability that Katrina longed for the protection from a being like that, the protection from what had been the question. The notion began bouncing around in the confidant’s head, not unlike a pinball machine. So, betraying the wishes of her parents and absolving their own curiosity, they continue.

“What did the dog look like, Katrina?” They pick up their pen, putting the felt tip down onto the paper to begin transcribing.

A long silence out of the girl, her lip sucking in as she determines if she wants to relay this information. She too, was told to never speak about the dog. Yet here she was in a seat that was all too sizeable for her, making her resemble something rather diminutive.

“..You'll think it's silly.” She finally sits down, abandoning the idea to flee.

“It's not silly to me. That's why I asked, what you say matters here.”

“You won't tell my ma or pa?” 

“No.”

She curls in onto herself, hands clasping together as if she was preparing to purge a great worth of pain and knowledge onto the person in front of her.

“It was dark. But the doggie was dark too. It had a big puff of fur around his head, and he looked fluffy.”

They smile.. Katrina seems to bristle at the positive attention. How curious. They lean back, lifting the pen from their page. It had made a blot of ink that seeped through the paper and stained the clipboard below. They laugh at themselves, putting a cap on their pen.

“Why are you.. laughing?” She watches them carefully, eyes darting between their hands and face.

“You said all I do is write. I suppose you weren't wrong. Tell me more, Katrina. It was fluffy, but what about the rest of it?” 

“It had eyes like.. like a button. Like your button.” She points to their coat, which had not gone heavily unscrutinized. The pantsuit that lay beneath the faded white- now cream colored coat glimmered through to Katrina, and she had never noted how odd they appeared. The crows' feet by their eyes wrinkled as they continued to smile at her, but she did not fear it as much as she had sessions before. For once, she concluded that she could speak her mind.  Maybe this one was different.

“It came close last night, very close. I wanted to reach my hand out, but it didn't want to be pet. Plus, father would be mad if he knew my window was open.”

“He doesn't let you open your window?” 

“Not unless there's a fire. Because he says if the windows are open, dirty things get inside. Like bugs, and rats, and little girls who don't listen.” She cuts out, skipping over that fact with a quick redirection. “But I always open the window for the dog. It isn't dirty, it wouldn't be.”

“Why not? It was outside.”

“I'd give it a bath. A nice bath. I'd use ma’s good shampoo, the one in the purple bottle.” She insists, a smile flickering across her face. A glimmer of hope.

“I'm sure it would like that.” A soft smile comes across their face. There’s a kindness there that makes Katrina relax more, and they acutely note how her fidgeting dulls. Like a fire being dampened by a sweet summer storm, they had found a corner piece to their puzzle.

“Yeah. I’d make sure its all scrubbed up. Maybe then it could come inside.” Katrina pauses, leaving the room silent before she continues. “You ask a lot of questions.” 
“It’s my job, Katrina. Remember, you never have to answer anything you don’t want to. But I ask to understand. If I understand, then maybe we can make your parents understand.”

“They think I’m crazy.” 

She spits with a sudden hatred, balling her fists in her lap and scrunching the dress she had adorned. Usually she had always tugged it lower to prevent it from bunching- now that was just a forgotten notion in the wake of onset anger. Their eyes widen. A stunning amount of  self consciousness from someone of her age. She was intelligent, that was assured upon initial observation. But to repeat something so inflammatory, paranoid-? That was something to note, even if they did not have their clipboard. 

“I don’t.” 

“Is that why you ask questions? To tell them?”

“No, not everything.”

“But you tell them.”

“..I have to tell them, some, yes. But if you don’t want me to tell them, then I won’t. It can stay between us.” They speak softly, trying to discourage her from closing up again. They had gotten this close, gotten progress in their pocket. 

“Would you tell them about the dog?”

“No.” 

“..Why not?”

“I.. assume you wouldn't want me to.” They know better. They know what would ruin all that they've worked for, the entire puzzle and every piece involved.

“I don't. They don't believe me. They say there's no dog, but that's not true. I see it.”

“Do you believe everything you see?”

“No.” She says quickly, in such a way that the question itself bothered her. “But this is real, I- I don't know how. But I get this funny feeling in my stomach when I see it. That's how I know. I know it's real.”

They purse their lips, looking down at the girl. She matches their gaze, just as apprehensive as they are.

“You don't believe me, do you?”

“I do.” They grin, dispelling all of the tension in the room. “Do you know what the word intuition means? Have you heard it before?”

The girl shakes her head, conscious of her own ineptitude. Her body prepares herself for a scathing comment, but nothing comes. The person across from her simply lays passive, no hand being raised nor harsh tone. There is simply a quiet observation that is mutually shared between the two.

“It's that feeling you get within your stomach. A feeling when you know something without knowing. You don't think about how it might be right, you just know it is. You have great intuition, Katrina.”

“That means..?”

“You listen to what your heart tells you. You're smart, and you don't doubt what you feel. That's very good. It's valid.”

“Valid?”

“Justifiable.” They pause, seeing no reaction. They hesitate, putting a finger to their chin as they scratch while thinking. “Logical- er.. Supported by facts. The way you judge your surroundings, it's okay. It's not wrong.”

“Then I know what I-”

The two's conversation is interrupted by an egg timer, something the two both know well. Their time together was over, and they wouldn't meet for another week. Usually, Katrina would spring out of her chair and go flying to the door, but today's mentality continues to be different. Today, she cries. Katrina remains a static corner piece in the puzzle that had yet to be completed. 

“Katrina?”

“Why can't I stay here? Why can't I just have more time?  I just want more time.” The tears slip out easily.

“We can see each other next week.” Their tone is even and measured, despite the small pang within their heart, that they could not comprehend at the current juncture.

“NO! No, I want to stay. I don’t want to go back. Don’t make me go back.”

“I can’t, Katrina.” They sigh, standing up. The girl in front of them jolts to life, scrambling to cling to their pants. Her small hands thread through the fabric, as if trying to ground the two to this moment. It was the first moment she had accepted an embrace, or even initiated it on her own. This had been a turn, one for the betterment of her health- but at what cost?

“Please don’t tell them.” She chokes out, terrified. They can understand what she means- because this is more about the dog, this was about trust.

“I won’t.”  They conclude, assured in their choice from the moment she had started opening up. Something like this was too precious to let slip through their hands. Like a flame threatened by a billowing wind, or a deserter's fickle alliances, this moment was something more than a cry for help. The worst part was that they couldn’t help, not yet. They had to wait, pile evidence. They were a mandated reporter, that was the job of all therapists and licensed professionals, but to report something on the child of a well known lawyer.. That was a different story altogether.

“Thank you.” She sucks the tears that had leaked out of her eyes back in, as she had done so many times before- and would continue to do until it hardened her heart into black stone.

“You’re most welcome. Remember, I will always be here. I’m not going anywhere.” They smile, and for once, Katrina smiled back. 

It felt like a sin to put a hand on her shoulder and lead her out of the room and back into the arms of a mother who was too busy reading the latest news on a two-week-old crumpled newspaper. She seemed to be hiding within a place that felt oddly alien to her, despite the layout of the buffering room. The room was cozy, harboring warm colored lights that were not hanging from above, but rather from the visage of candlelight. A Himalayan salt lamp sat on a coffee table in the middle of a rather quaint nook of couches and plush chairs. Books piled in the recesses of the room, abstract paintings with plentiful colors adorning the walls. A brass cross resides on a wall, overlooking all the weary souls that walked past it. The small form of a man nailed to it oversaw those who tread this footpath, bringing quiet blessings to those who chose to give it a wordless thanks. In the corner, a middle-aged man who was greying all too early sat looking out the window. His hand rests on his chin, while another rests in his lap- finger tapping quietly in such a way that appeared to be counting the seconds itself. He looks outside at a tree whose leaves had fallen much earlier in the season. It was the dead of winter, and snow coated the ground like heaven itself had come crashing into Earth.

“Nothing new.” The therapist informs, retracting their hand and leaving Katrina stranded there. She resembled a bridge stuck between two pillars- one of them crumbling at the seams.

“God, great. Just great. Thank you for trying, anyhow. I just don’t see why they have us do this.” Her mother scoffs, putting the paper down with a harsh thud on the table. She seemed to have held it up to her face, hiding from the gaze of the other soul in the lobby. She looked guilty, without even acting upon any heinous impulses. The woman just seemed to have that aura about her- that she was privy to something terribly wrong, but would not utter a word to a single soul.

“Sometimes extra support can encourage development. Ease the mind, create a safe space to share thoughts and self-reflect.” The woman’s face skewed into an insulted look. They clear their throat, continuing on.

“Not that she doesn’t have it already. But the pressure of presenting that to a parent is different than an unbiased party. It allows them to- regain confidence in herself, yes? A school resource officer is a start, but they don’t have the.. tools.” They move their hand in circles, as if dismissing the thought as soon as it leaves their mouth. The mother relaxes, standing up and clutching her purse close to her waist.

“I suppose so. Then it is worth the cost, despite it all. Come on, Katrina, or we’ll be late to the fitting.”

She turns sharply, walking off with clacking heels that felt like judgment bells to the young girl following behind her. She gives a final glance back before her vision traces to the floor, following along like a dog on a leash. The two of them disappear into the blizzard outside, not before the mother reaches down and fits an all too petite parka over her daughter. It barely does enough, her wrists and hands still being exposed to the cold. Their silhouettes blend into that quiet afternoon with a somber dread weighing heavily on the therapist’s mind. There is a silence that falls in this purgatory, as they adjust their coat and look to the man in the corner.

“Do you really think-?” He starts, eyes trailing to a two-wheeled car that struggles to get out of the snow. A woman who throws her hands up in agitation, the glitter of her jewelry catching the fleeting glimpses of sun behind cloudy skies.

“I do. Absolutely.” The therapist nods, turning and folding their hands at their waist.

“..Not my business.” The man scoffs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in accordance to the mayhem outside. “But they might need a sandbag in their trunk, if they keep driving around like that.”

“Quaint.” The therapist strides over to the window, smile wrenched onto their features. 

“..You know, you look awfully uncanny when you do that.” The man stands, a grunt as his knees pop. He is aging faster than he would like, though the knowledge that he has gathered over the years serves him well.

“Am I not allowed to be excited?” The therapist regards the man, their acquaintance, the one who owns this office building and many more. A man who adjusts his cardigan over himself, as though trying to keep the chill off of his weary bones.

“You are. I just haven’t seen it in a long time. What’s gotten you so excited then?”

“...A new development is all. I think I’ve got it figured out.”

“And how long has that taken?” Another short, breathy laugh.

“Not long.” They tilt their head, watching the car outside dig a hole into the snow with its tires, a tireless- haha- attempt to meet a deadline.

“You know, that lady’s wretched. Can smell it on her. Fake, artificial perfume.” The man wipes his nose, sighing and looking back to the office. “Can I use it, now?”

“Yes, it’s all free. I’m going to go.” The therapist states, watching the car unlodge itself from the snow, and quickly take off. Reckless driving, at the very least.

“Where?”

“I feel like doing a jigsaw puzzle.” They state pleasantly, a smile never dropping from their face. They take off their coat, hanging it up on the coat rack. Their dress shoes, entirely unfit for the weather, pad down the hallway as they push open the door, a gust of chilled wind filling the room. Evidently the very presence of cold itself had filled the empty spaces and left nothing but the need to return to warmth.