Chapter 3
The grayish light of dawn begins to seep through the cabin windows, revealing the absolute disaster that has become of my living room. The sharp, metallic scent of iron and the sterile sting of antiseptic hang heavy in the air, mingling with the lingering aroma of burnt wood. I wake with a jolt on the sofa, my neck stiff and my fingers still white-knuckled around the small air pistol pressed against my chest. My eyes immediately dart to the heap beneath the blankets in front of the fireplace. He's still there. The massive white dog hasn't moved, but his breathing is an erratic whistle that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"You're still alive," I whisper, releasing a breath I didn't realize I had been holding.
I stand up gingerly and approach with extreme caution to peel back the blanket just an inch. I see that the makeshift bandage is already soaked through with a yellowish-pink fluid. My amateur stitching served its purpose to stop the massive hemorrhage, but it isn't enough. The skin surrounding the diagonal tissue is hot—far too hot. Infection is already beginning its banquet. I scramble for my phone and check the time: it's nearly 5:00 a.m. I scroll through my contacts for the number of a rural veterinarian who once helped a neighbor with a horse—a man named Dr. Miller. I know he'll charge a fortune to drive out here in the middle of a snowstorm, and even more to treat an animal of this magnitude. I log into my online banking; the number staring back at me from the screen hurts more than the mountain cold. $850. That is everything I have. That is rent, electricity, and food for the next two months while I hunt for a new job.
"Either I eat, or you live," I muse aloud, feeling the knot in my throat tighten until it actually aches.
I look at the dog. In this state of utter vulnerability, he looks almost small despite his actual size. If I let him die, I keep my money, but I lose my soul. A dry sob escapes my lips; with my heart pounding from the onset of an anxiety attack, I dial the number.
"Hello?" a gravelly voice answers on the third ring.
"Dr. Miller, it's Cassandra Evans. I have an emergency at the cabin on Route 12. It's a very large dog, he has a deep wound. Please, come... I'll pay whatever it takes."
Two hours later, Dr. Miller enters my home, shaking the snow from his heavy boots. The moment he sees the animal lying before the fireplace, he stops dead in his tracks. His face, etched with wrinkles from years of rugged outdoor work, tenses slightly, as if he is evaluating something that doesn't quite fit the puzzle.
"Cassandra..." he murmurs, dropping his medical bag onto the floor with a dull thud. "This is an unusual animal. Massive."
"I know," I reply, struggling to keep my voice from shaking. "But I couldn't just leave him to die out there."
The doctor kneels and examines my handiwork. He grunts something unintelligible as he peels away the stained gauze.
"You did a decent job closing it up, but look at this," he says, pointing to the wound with a latex-gloved finger. "This isn't a bite from another animal. This is a clean cut made by something extraordinarily sharp and, judging by the reaction of the flesh, it seems to have been in contact with some kind of irritant. It's damaging the tissue from the inside out."
My first instinct is to look at him with pure irritation. Did he really think I was so stupid that I wouldn't realize that gash wasn't a bite? I inhale deeply to calm myself, which I manage quickly, and focus on the most important detail: Who would attack a dog with something like that in the twenty-first century? It felt like something ripped out of a fever dream.
"I have to debride the wound, administer high-spectrum antibiotics, and start an IV," the doctor declares. "It's going to be expensive, girl. Between the travel, the anesthesia, and the medicine: 600 dollars."
I close my eyes. 600 out of the 850. I feel the floor vanish beneath my feet; panic constricts my lungs. I am essentially signing my own eviction notice. I take one more deep breath.
"Do it," my voice is barely a whisper. "Please, save him."
Since we're already here, I might as well make the sacrifice count for something.
While the doctor works, I force myself to watch. I see him clean the diagonal wound that mars the animal's majesty. The dog, under the effects of local anesthesia and sheer exhaustion, does not open his eyes, but when the doctor applies a disinfecting liquid, he lets out a whimper that shatters my heart. I move closer without thinking and rest my hands on his massive head. His fur is coarse, yet strangely delicate.
"Shhh, it's almost over... Thor," I tell him, using the name I've given him in my head.
In that moment, something extraordinary happens. The dog, even in his semi-conscious state, tilts his head just a fraction of an inch, seeking the contact of my palm. His nostrils flare with force; he inhales my scent—the aroma of my cheap lavender soap, the trace of my fear, and the warmth of my skin. It is a deliberate movement, as if he is carving my essence into his deepest memory.
I just hope you're doing this to remember me later, and not so you can recognize me to eat me.
"It seems he recognizes you," Dr. Miller comments, observing the scene with genuine curiosity. "Not all of them react this way, especially when they're hurting."
"I suppose he knows I don't want to hurt him."
"Or perhaps he's decided that you belong to him now," the doctor lets out a dry chuckle as he finishes the bandaging. "Here are the instructions. You need to change the dressing every 12 hours and hide these meds in his food. If he survives the next 48 hours, he'll make it."
When the doctor departs, I am left alone with my new, charismatic guest. My bank account is practically at zero. I go to the kitchen and swing open the pantry: three cans of tuna, a box of pasta, and a bit of rice. That is all I have to survive for who knows how long.
The anxiety hits me again. I sink to the kitchen floor, hugging my knees, and begin to cry in silence. I cry for the job I lost, for the money I spent, and for the sheer madness of having a dying dog in my living room. Suddenly, I feel a gaze. I stand up and walk back to the living room. The dog has opened his eyes. Those electric blue eyes that captivated me in the snow are now staring at me with an intensity that seems far from ordinary. There is no trace of aggression, and I tell myself that's a good sign. In its place is a strange calm and something else... a profound, focused attention.
I approach and sit beside him, maintaining a prudent distance.
"You've left me penniless, Thor," I tell him with a sad smile as a tear tracks down my cheek. "I really hope you're worth it. As long as you don't eat me and you don't leave me, I think I'll be happy."
The dog does something incredible: he stretches his neck with evident effort and rests his snout right on my knee. It isn't an attack; it's a gesture. I feel his hot breath through the fabric of my pants. He begins to rub his cheek against my leg in a slow, almost rhythmic way, leaving his scent upon me.
I'm going to assume he's thanking me. I stay by his side for a while longer. Then I get up and find something to eat. I spend the rest of the day cleaning the house from top to bottom, disinfecting everything to ensure he doesn't catch another infection.