The White Dog
Sarah Rakel Orton
I dreamed about the dog before I saw it.
This was an old dream; one I’d had since I was a child.
The setting was never fully realized. Only the drum-like sound of a steadily beating heart, the flightless feeling of running too long and fast, and the breathing of an animal, closing behind me. I woke up in a start each time, covered in a sheen of icy sweat, sheets tangled in a ball of mimed running. After my nerves cooled, I’d forget everything, until the dream sporadically returned every few months. Somewhere in my mind, an indistinct image of a racing animal existed, indestructible.
The first time I saw the dog, I was just a child.
In the early afternoon, I played in the backyard alone, my lackadaisical father asleep inside. Our yard was sprawling and unkempt, with tangled, sprouting tree shoots, seasons of rotting, greyed leaves, dozens of spotted vagrant kittens, and a ditch snaking across the edge of our property. After a rainstorm, the ditch would fill with muddy, rushing water, broken twigs and stray leaves rocking maniacally on the surface.
The empty ditch held no interest for me; a water-filled ditch was irresistible.
I would throw sticks and pebbles into the water, amazed at how fast they would rush away. Lazily I’d dangle my fingers into the water until the cold became too intense. I’d wait for a school of rainbow fish to appear, or maybe a tiny mermaid, or a herd of curled-up seahorses.
That day, languishing in the dirt-edge of the ditch, I sang softly to myself and played my usual games. A shrill cry stole my attention, and I looked up to see a tiny calico kitten incessantly meowing, looking into the water with a look of panicked distress. Beaming, I called out to her. She looked at me and meowed again, higher still. I stood up, brushed my knees of half-imbedded grass.
“Stay!” I commanded her. She paced and meowed, tiny spiked teeth shining.
I sprinted to the back of the house, where dad kept his tools. Quickly I spotted a two-by -four and awkwardly hefted it back to the ditch. The kitten sat, primly licking her front paw. I grunted and dropped the two-by-four across the ditch. Startled, the kitten shot away, and a cloud of dirt surfaced at my feet.
I softly called to her, tapping the makeshift bridge. She poked her mottled head from behind a pile of debris. Eyeing my hand, she calmed, her hair smoothing over her arched back. I excitedly cooed with each step she took forward, leaning further over the wood. The board protested, and the kitten stepped back in alarm. With a thud and splash, the two-by-four slammed into the water, the end striking me on the chin. I clutched at the ground but in agonizingly slow speed, my body tilted forward; I hit the icy water without a splash. I heard fading meowing, then nothing.
When I raised my head, eyes blinking slowly into the sun, confusion pounded against my skull. I awkwardly sat up, my clothes and hair heavy with water. I heard panting beside me.
Sharply, I turned. On the grass, gazing at me with calm, steady eyes, sat an enormous white dog. Terrified, I attempted to stand, but my knees collapsed. The dog cocked his head, then stepped forward on long, muscular legs. I couldn’t look away. He made a low cooing noise and gingerly licked the tip of my nose. A smile escaped me and I ran my fingers through his thick fur—his damp fur. The dog lay down beside me, droplets in his white fur catching the sunlight. Somehow, he seemed familiar to me. I lowered my head beside him and fell asleep with my fingers tangled in his coat.
When I woke up, I was in my own bed, mom looking down at me. She gasped as I opened my eyes. She held a cold washcloth against my forehead. I winced.
“You’re very sunburned,” she whispered. My skin felt itchy and raw.
“Why were you sleeping outside?” she admonished.
“Where’s the dog?”
Mom handed me a glass of water and raised her eyebrows.
“What dog?”
“The white dog! The one that…” I paused. I wasn’t supposed to be near the ditch. “Nevermind,” I finished. I took a long gulp of water.
“You’ve just had too much sun,” she said, gently kissing my tender forehead.
She turned off my lamp and closed the door.
The dream returned that night.
Mom never again asked me about the dog, and I slowly convinced myself that the experience was just sunstroke-induced delirium.
Years later, I tried to detangle myself from the constant torment of mom and dad’s screaming fights. I spent most of my time in my room, the door locked and the music loud. Still, the thud of slamming doors echoed against the walls and ceilings. Dad was drunk each time I saw him, his face red, his clothes sagging and unwashed. Every afternoon I delayed leaving school, reading in the library until the lights dimmed, watching my few friends practice plays in the vacant auditorium, or simply walking home as deliberately as possible—touching each tree trunk, smelling flowers, stopping to say hello to neighborhood children. If I got home late enough, I’d be there when mom arrived, and she’d detract my dad’s constant anger for me.
That day the library was closed for testing; my friends’ play practice was cancelled, and the fall afternoon darkened quickly into an aubergine dusk—too dark to linger on the walk home. As I unlocked the back door, I noticed two empty bottles on the table. I closed the door quietly behind me. I heard his voice before I could even turn around.
“You need to clean up this place before your mother gets home.”
I glanced at the mess surrounding him—half-eaten pot of macaroni and cheese, newspapers scattered on the floor, sticky puddle pooling beneath the fridge, garbage can overflowing with beer cans and more bottles. My shoulders sagged with the weight of my backpack and the chore he’d assigned me. I could feel my temper bubbling before I even spoke.
“I’m not cleaning up the mess you made,” I sneered.
He lunged at me.
His rough hands encircled my neck, pinning me against the wall. His face was inches from mine—alcohol oozed from his pores, rushing into my nose and mouth. Spit clustered at the edge of his lips.
“You don’t talk to me like that,” he hissed. “I’m your father and you will respect me.”
I refused to struggle. My common sense urged me to stop glaring but the heat in my eyes was unwavering. I could feel the pressure of each finger against my skin, his anger deepening by the second. I knew mom wouldn’t be home for two hours.
“You’re an ungrateful child.”
I forced my eyes to close.
“I never disciplined you enough. Now look at you.”
I could barely hear him. I focused on imagining I wasn’t there. I was walking outside in the orange autumn air, breathing in the smell of leaves and firewood.
The howling began at the backdoor. It started low, ascending to a protracted cry, sharp against the tile.
Dad stepped back in alarm, releasing my neck. He peered through the kitchen blinds.
“What the hell was that?”
I backed into the hallway. Howling deepened into growling. Dad swore and opened the door a crack. I turned and darted down the stairs, ducking into my bedroom and locking the door. I collapsed onto my bed. I’d remembered how to breathe again.
I never told mom about that day. She was busy enough with her own problems. Her fights with dad were worse than ever. He started to sleep in the garage, in an old sleeping bag stacked with faded winter blankets. With dad’s DUI ticket, the end was reachable; the divorce was final just as spring began. As dad’s belongings disappeared, I began to emerge from my room again. Mom’s mood brightened. She hummed while making dinner, returned attention to the front flower garden, and spent more time at home.
When I left for college, two states away, she helped pack up my belongings and made me promise to be safe. I dismissed her concern with a quick kiss to her cheek.
With a single parent, mom couldn’t afford to pay for everything so I got a job off-campus at a small consignment shop. I was able to complete assignments as stout women browsed and clucked at price tags. My coworker, Cynthia, worked the same hours as I did, but her boyfriend picked her up each evening. He sometimes offered me a ride halfheartedly, though I lived in the opposite direction. I usually declined his forced offer. I’d rather be surrounded by silent winter than silent awkwardness. At least winter didn’t expect me to make banal conversation.
I could observe in silence: the unashamed naked limbs of stripped trees, roads frosted in glittering ice, the mute comforter of snow blanketing all that was verdant. Cyndi and I didn’t have much in common; she talked only of her boyfriend, Ed, and tried endlessly to set me up with Ed’s equally unappealing friends. Only once I’d accepted a date—a date so drenched in uncomfortable conversation, delayed eye contact, and a total lack of similar interests, that I vowed never to experience another again. So, to further avoid more dating pressure, I walked home alone, the full two miles, in mostly contented silence.
That night, the winter sky dimmed quickly into navy, cold increasing with each encroaching pulse of darkness. I wrapped my scarf tightly around me—I’d made the scarf one Christmas for my mother, my first successfully completed project, mistakes visible amidst the dull grey yarn. Mother never wore it, surely because of the errors, so ownership slipped silently back to me. It kept me warm despite its ugliness, so I held no resentment toward my mother’s rejection of a poorly constructed gift.
My shoes clipped raucously against the cold pavement, echoing into the empty streets. Winter always seemed to evacuate life from the city; once spring began, people emerged from their homes like eager little buds, hopeful for a chance at life again. My clicking heels and fogged breath kept me company. My mind wandered to essay deadlines and the tasks I needed to complete: my supply of clean laundry was dwindling, the fridge was nearly barren, and a stack of library books was overdue. Thankfully, I didn’t have a shift the next day. I crunched through a sheet of ice, freeing a layer of frozen leaves, only to see them shatter into dry, dead confetti.
Against the blackening sky, heavy footsteps pierced my focus, shattering the quiet. I slowed my steps and turned my head slightly; I could see a hazy form twenty yards behind me, growing taller with each stride. I pulled my coat tighter about my waist and increased my speed, thinking of home, now only six blocks away.
I kept pace, steadying my gaze homeward. I tried to block the cadence of steps behind me. But with each meeting of unidentified shoe against cold cement, a crack of panic volleyed my brain. I buried my hands in my coat pockets, clenching and unclenching my fists, nails piercing my skin with pink half-moons.
Then his hands were on me.
His hand coiled around my arm, cold leather gripping my flesh like a serpent. His voice was hot in my ear, whispering so quickly I couldn’t discern the meaning of one word.
Straining to see his face, I turned my head, but quickly, his other hand outmaneuvered my attempt, and his gloved fingers held my jaw fast. His body expelled aching heat onto my back, despite the chilling temperatures the setting sun had emancipated. Slack with fear, I let him pull me away from the sidewalk, into the adjacent field, overpopulated with dead, ominous tress. Just as I began to struggle, I was flat on the hard-packed snow, the shock of the cold bleeding through my coat and scarf. His limbs pinned me quickly; I was as immovable as a lifeless butterfly encased in glass. His gloves fumbled at my clothing, jerking open my coat. I watched buttons boomerang, quickly lost to the dark. I felt leather on my flesh just as snow began to fall, swollen flakes melting into my eyelashes.
The growling began then. I assumed it was him, but when he loosened his grip, I realized it was something else.
The growling was low, deep, and closer now. The snow imparted a small light, but even as I squinted into the field, I saw nothing—only black. Then, a glint of silver flashed amidst the flakes, a noise of steel.
The man was speaking now, a threat, a death warning to whomever lurked unseen. I didn’t know who to fear more—the man with the knife, or the stranger with the growl of a beast?
But no, it wasn’t a growl anymore. It was a roar, a snarl of spit and rage. I scrambled into a sitting position, gathering my coat around me. My attacker was now shouting, grunting…crying out. A struggle?
I clambered upward, searching the field. I saw two black shapes diving at each other. I took several slippery steps backward, hoping my feet could find the sidewalk. Hoping they’d both forget I’d been there.
I froze at the sound—I’d never heard a man scream before. Then gasping, heavy breathing. A wet cough. And nothing.
I knew I had to run.
I twirled around, studying the houses and street signs ahead of me. If I ran, maybe I could make it.
I started at a jog, but just as I began to cross to the next block, I collided with something heavy. And white. And covered in thick fur. It raised its eyes, highlighted ghostlike by snowflakes.
I stared down in stunned silence. The thing extended his head closer to me, and I knew I was going to die in the same way the horrible man had. My throat constricted in preparation, and my knees buckled beneath me. Collapsed on the ice-slicked road, I met its eyes, and waited.
It made its way to me on soundless paws. Gently, it pressed a furred paw on my chest and licked my cheek. I blinked, my brow furrowing. Now only inches away from me, I could see it. A large white dog, thick furred and sweet-faced as it gazed at me with round, concerned eyes. I leaned on my elbows and brought a cold hand to his head. Rubbing the fur behind his ears, the dog seemed to smile in return.
I remembered then—the wet dog lying beside me in the sun. The warning growls disrupting my dad in his drunken stupor.
His long pink tongue lolled and his long tail fiercely wagged. I smiled and caressed the dog. He tenderly pushed his head against me, licking my cold hands. If he had been a cat, he would have purred loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.
It was late then. Reluctantly, I stood, and patted the dog on the head one last time. My eyes scanned the area, ready to run at any motion or sound. Maybe the man was still there…maybe he could see me now? I swallowed, my stomach creasing with nausea. The thought mushroomed, until I felt a light nudge on the back of my knee.
I scratched his head. He nudged me again, then padded to my side. He began walking ahead of me, then turned and emitted a low bark at me. Puzzled, I walked forward. He kept pace with me, his dense body close to mine. I let my hand slide to his neck, and with one look behind me, I walked with the white dog, in undisturbed silence, until I saw the gleam of lights from home. I headed up the walkway, giddy at the sight of the door I never thought I’d see again. The white dog watched from the sidewalk, almost invisible against the night.
I gestured to him with a crooked finger. He obediently trotted forward. I bent and rubbed his neck and chest, moving my fingers along his jaw and behind his ears. He licked my nose appreciatively. I kissed the top of his head. He pushed his wet nose against the curve of my neck. I turned back, climbing the stairs two at a time. With the key grasped in my hand, I paused. I looked behind me.
He was gone.
I skipped back down the steps and walked toward the sidewalk, squinting.
I gazed behind me, but there was nothing. A pang of sadness sunk against my ribs.
It was early June and warm, the neighborhoods full of playing children, before I dared to walk home again. In the naked sunlight I strolled, until I reached the field, now blooming with a pastiche of flowered weeds.
I carefully walked into the field, looking up at the green-boughed trees, now fully resurrected. I stopped, searching the expanse of weeds. A few feet away, a dull glint moved in the sunlight. I stepped closer and looked down at a scattering of my coat buttons, now thick with grime and sun-faded. I picked one up, carefully rubbing away the months of dirt. The button dimly blinked back at me. I tossed it back and gave the field one more searching gaze. I sighed and walked back to the sidewalk.
In between the light tapping of my summer flats, I heard it, low and distinctly him. I turned slowly.
The white dog stood, tail frenetically wagging, tongue pink and panting. He bayed, excited. Warmth coursed through my limbs as he trotted to my arms. I laughed as he licked my face. Beneath the sun, I could see scars surrounding his nose; his fur was thinned and yellowing. I held him to my chest.
Something I couldn’t see or hear seized his attention; he stood erect, his eyes wide and vigilant. He sniffed the air, his head held to the sky.
He turned back to me and gave me one last lick to the chin. I watched him race away across the field, his white tail bouncing among the weeds. At the edge he paused and looked back at me. I heard a muted, sad howl.
That night, I dreamed of him again. There was no running or panting or sweating. Instead, I dreamed of him walking beside me, his tongue lolling happily, my hand perched on his head. We walked from a pale blue morning into a moonlit night, past strange scenes of menacing, dull-faced people, dark woods, and otherworldly sounds. I held my head high and unafraid, my fingers constantly swathed in his fur.
After that dream, I never saw him again.
This was an old dream; one I’d had since I was a child.
The setting was never fully realized. Only the drum-like sound of a steadily beating heart, the flightless feeling of running too long and fast, and the breathing of an animal, closing behind me. I woke up in a start each time, covered in a sheen of icy sweat, sheets tangled in a ball of mimed running. After my nerves cooled, I’d forget everything, until the dream sporadically returned every few months. Somewhere in my mind, an indistinct image of a racing animal existed, indestructible.
The first time I saw the dog, I was just a child.
In the early afternoon, I played in the backyard alone, my lackadaisical father asleep inside. Our yard was sprawling and unkempt, with tangled, sprouting tree shoots, seasons of rotting, greyed leaves, dozens of spotted vagrant kittens, and a ditch snaking across the edge of our property. After a rainstorm, the ditch would fill with muddy, rushing water, broken twigs and stray leaves rocking maniacally on the surface.
The empty ditch held no interest for me; a water-filled ditch was irresistible.
I would throw sticks and pebbles into the water, amazed at how fast they would rush away. Lazily I’d dangle my fingers into the water until the cold became too intense. I’d wait for a school of rainbow fish to appear, or maybe a tiny mermaid, or a herd of curled-up seahorses.
That day, languishing in the dirt-edge of the ditch, I sang softly to myself and played my usual games. A shrill cry stole my attention, and I looked up to see a tiny calico kitten incessantly meowing, looking into the water with a look of panicked distress. Beaming, I called out to her. She looked at me and meowed again, higher still. I stood up, brushed my knees of half-imbedded grass.
“Stay!” I commanded her. She paced and meowed, tiny spiked teeth shining.
I sprinted to the back of the house, where dad kept his tools. Quickly I spotted a two-by -four and awkwardly hefted it back to the ditch. The kitten sat, primly licking her front paw. I grunted and dropped the two-by-four across the ditch. Startled, the kitten shot away, and a cloud of dirt surfaced at my feet.
I softly called to her, tapping the makeshift bridge. She poked her mottled head from behind a pile of debris. Eyeing my hand, she calmed, her hair smoothing over her arched back. I excitedly cooed with each step she took forward, leaning further over the wood. The board protested, and the kitten stepped back in alarm. With a thud and splash, the two-by-four slammed into the water, the end striking me on the chin. I clutched at the ground but in agonizingly slow speed, my body tilted forward; I hit the icy water without a splash. I heard fading meowing, then nothing.
When I raised my head, eyes blinking slowly into the sun, confusion pounded against my skull. I awkwardly sat up, my clothes and hair heavy with water. I heard panting beside me.
Sharply, I turned. On the grass, gazing at me with calm, steady eyes, sat an enormous white dog. Terrified, I attempted to stand, but my knees collapsed. The dog cocked his head, then stepped forward on long, muscular legs. I couldn’t look away. He made a low cooing noise and gingerly licked the tip of my nose. A smile escaped me and I ran my fingers through his thick fur—his damp fur. The dog lay down beside me, droplets in his white fur catching the sunlight. Somehow, he seemed familiar to me. I lowered my head beside him and fell asleep with my fingers tangled in his coat.
When I woke up, I was in my own bed, mom looking down at me. She gasped as I opened my eyes. She held a cold washcloth against my forehead. I winced.
“You’re very sunburned,” she whispered. My skin felt itchy and raw.
“Why were you sleeping outside?” she admonished.
“Where’s the dog?”
Mom handed me a glass of water and raised her eyebrows.
“What dog?”
“The white dog! The one that…” I paused. I wasn’t supposed to be near the ditch. “Nevermind,” I finished. I took a long gulp of water.
“You’ve just had too much sun,” she said, gently kissing my tender forehead.
She turned off my lamp and closed the door.
The dream returned that night.
Mom never again asked me about the dog, and I slowly convinced myself that the experience was just sunstroke-induced delirium.
Years later, I tried to detangle myself from the constant torment of mom and dad’s screaming fights. I spent most of my time in my room, the door locked and the music loud. Still, the thud of slamming doors echoed against the walls and ceilings. Dad was drunk each time I saw him, his face red, his clothes sagging and unwashed. Every afternoon I delayed leaving school, reading in the library until the lights dimmed, watching my few friends practice plays in the vacant auditorium, or simply walking home as deliberately as possible—touching each tree trunk, smelling flowers, stopping to say hello to neighborhood children. If I got home late enough, I’d be there when mom arrived, and she’d detract my dad’s constant anger for me.
That day the library was closed for testing; my friends’ play practice was cancelled, and the fall afternoon darkened quickly into an aubergine dusk—too dark to linger on the walk home. As I unlocked the back door, I noticed two empty bottles on the table. I closed the door quietly behind me. I heard his voice before I could even turn around.
“You need to clean up this place before your mother gets home.”
I glanced at the mess surrounding him—half-eaten pot of macaroni and cheese, newspapers scattered on the floor, sticky puddle pooling beneath the fridge, garbage can overflowing with beer cans and more bottles. My shoulders sagged with the weight of my backpack and the chore he’d assigned me. I could feel my temper bubbling before I even spoke.
“I’m not cleaning up the mess you made,” I sneered.
He lunged at me.
His rough hands encircled my neck, pinning me against the wall. His face was inches from mine—alcohol oozed from his pores, rushing into my nose and mouth. Spit clustered at the edge of his lips.
“You don’t talk to me like that,” he hissed. “I’m your father and you will respect me.”
I refused to struggle. My common sense urged me to stop glaring but the heat in my eyes was unwavering. I could feel the pressure of each finger against my skin, his anger deepening by the second. I knew mom wouldn’t be home for two hours.
“You’re an ungrateful child.”
I forced my eyes to close.
“I never disciplined you enough. Now look at you.”
I could barely hear him. I focused on imagining I wasn’t there. I was walking outside in the orange autumn air, breathing in the smell of leaves and firewood.
The howling began at the backdoor. It started low, ascending to a protracted cry, sharp against the tile.
Dad stepped back in alarm, releasing my neck. He peered through the kitchen blinds.
“What the hell was that?”
I backed into the hallway. Howling deepened into growling. Dad swore and opened the door a crack. I turned and darted down the stairs, ducking into my bedroom and locking the door. I collapsed onto my bed. I’d remembered how to breathe again.
I never told mom about that day. She was busy enough with her own problems. Her fights with dad were worse than ever. He started to sleep in the garage, in an old sleeping bag stacked with faded winter blankets. With dad’s DUI ticket, the end was reachable; the divorce was final just as spring began. As dad’s belongings disappeared, I began to emerge from my room again. Mom’s mood brightened. She hummed while making dinner, returned attention to the front flower garden, and spent more time at home.
When I left for college, two states away, she helped pack up my belongings and made me promise to be safe. I dismissed her concern with a quick kiss to her cheek.
With a single parent, mom couldn’t afford to pay for everything so I got a job off-campus at a small consignment shop. I was able to complete assignments as stout women browsed and clucked at price tags. My coworker, Cynthia, worked the same hours as I did, but her boyfriend picked her up each evening. He sometimes offered me a ride halfheartedly, though I lived in the opposite direction. I usually declined his forced offer. I’d rather be surrounded by silent winter than silent awkwardness. At least winter didn’t expect me to make banal conversation.
I could observe in silence: the unashamed naked limbs of stripped trees, roads frosted in glittering ice, the mute comforter of snow blanketing all that was verdant. Cyndi and I didn’t have much in common; she talked only of her boyfriend, Ed, and tried endlessly to set me up with Ed’s equally unappealing friends. Only once I’d accepted a date—a date so drenched in uncomfortable conversation, delayed eye contact, and a total lack of similar interests, that I vowed never to experience another again. So, to further avoid more dating pressure, I walked home alone, the full two miles, in mostly contented silence.
That night, the winter sky dimmed quickly into navy, cold increasing with each encroaching pulse of darkness. I wrapped my scarf tightly around me—I’d made the scarf one Christmas for my mother, my first successfully completed project, mistakes visible amidst the dull grey yarn. Mother never wore it, surely because of the errors, so ownership slipped silently back to me. It kept me warm despite its ugliness, so I held no resentment toward my mother’s rejection of a poorly constructed gift.
My shoes clipped raucously against the cold pavement, echoing into the empty streets. Winter always seemed to evacuate life from the city; once spring began, people emerged from their homes like eager little buds, hopeful for a chance at life again. My clicking heels and fogged breath kept me company. My mind wandered to essay deadlines and the tasks I needed to complete: my supply of clean laundry was dwindling, the fridge was nearly barren, and a stack of library books was overdue. Thankfully, I didn’t have a shift the next day. I crunched through a sheet of ice, freeing a layer of frozen leaves, only to see them shatter into dry, dead confetti.
Against the blackening sky, heavy footsteps pierced my focus, shattering the quiet. I slowed my steps and turned my head slightly; I could see a hazy form twenty yards behind me, growing taller with each stride. I pulled my coat tighter about my waist and increased my speed, thinking of home, now only six blocks away.
I kept pace, steadying my gaze homeward. I tried to block the cadence of steps behind me. But with each meeting of unidentified shoe against cold cement, a crack of panic volleyed my brain. I buried my hands in my coat pockets, clenching and unclenching my fists, nails piercing my skin with pink half-moons.
Then his hands were on me.
His hand coiled around my arm, cold leather gripping my flesh like a serpent. His voice was hot in my ear, whispering so quickly I couldn’t discern the meaning of one word.
Straining to see his face, I turned my head, but quickly, his other hand outmaneuvered my attempt, and his gloved fingers held my jaw fast. His body expelled aching heat onto my back, despite the chilling temperatures the setting sun had emancipated. Slack with fear, I let him pull me away from the sidewalk, into the adjacent field, overpopulated with dead, ominous tress. Just as I began to struggle, I was flat on the hard-packed snow, the shock of the cold bleeding through my coat and scarf. His limbs pinned me quickly; I was as immovable as a lifeless butterfly encased in glass. His gloves fumbled at my clothing, jerking open my coat. I watched buttons boomerang, quickly lost to the dark. I felt leather on my flesh just as snow began to fall, swollen flakes melting into my eyelashes.
The growling began then. I assumed it was him, but when he loosened his grip, I realized it was something else.
The growling was low, deep, and closer now. The snow imparted a small light, but even as I squinted into the field, I saw nothing—only black. Then, a glint of silver flashed amidst the flakes, a noise of steel.
The man was speaking now, a threat, a death warning to whomever lurked unseen. I didn’t know who to fear more—the man with the knife, or the stranger with the growl of a beast?
But no, it wasn’t a growl anymore. It was a roar, a snarl of spit and rage. I scrambled into a sitting position, gathering my coat around me. My attacker was now shouting, grunting…crying out. A struggle?
I clambered upward, searching the field. I saw two black shapes diving at each other. I took several slippery steps backward, hoping my feet could find the sidewalk. Hoping they’d both forget I’d been there.
I froze at the sound—I’d never heard a man scream before. Then gasping, heavy breathing. A wet cough. And nothing.
I knew I had to run.
I twirled around, studying the houses and street signs ahead of me. If I ran, maybe I could make it.
I started at a jog, but just as I began to cross to the next block, I collided with something heavy. And white. And covered in thick fur. It raised its eyes, highlighted ghostlike by snowflakes.
I stared down in stunned silence. The thing extended his head closer to me, and I knew I was going to die in the same way the horrible man had. My throat constricted in preparation, and my knees buckled beneath me. Collapsed on the ice-slicked road, I met its eyes, and waited.
It made its way to me on soundless paws. Gently, it pressed a furred paw on my chest and licked my cheek. I blinked, my brow furrowing. Now only inches away from me, I could see it. A large white dog, thick furred and sweet-faced as it gazed at me with round, concerned eyes. I leaned on my elbows and brought a cold hand to his head. Rubbing the fur behind his ears, the dog seemed to smile in return.
I remembered then—the wet dog lying beside me in the sun. The warning growls disrupting my dad in his drunken stupor.
His long pink tongue lolled and his long tail fiercely wagged. I smiled and caressed the dog. He tenderly pushed his head against me, licking my cold hands. If he had been a cat, he would have purred loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.
It was late then. Reluctantly, I stood, and patted the dog on the head one last time. My eyes scanned the area, ready to run at any motion or sound. Maybe the man was still there…maybe he could see me now? I swallowed, my stomach creasing with nausea. The thought mushroomed, until I felt a light nudge on the back of my knee.
I scratched his head. He nudged me again, then padded to my side. He began walking ahead of me, then turned and emitted a low bark at me. Puzzled, I walked forward. He kept pace with me, his dense body close to mine. I let my hand slide to his neck, and with one look behind me, I walked with the white dog, in undisturbed silence, until I saw the gleam of lights from home. I headed up the walkway, giddy at the sight of the door I never thought I’d see again. The white dog watched from the sidewalk, almost invisible against the night.
I gestured to him with a crooked finger. He obediently trotted forward. I bent and rubbed his neck and chest, moving my fingers along his jaw and behind his ears. He licked my nose appreciatively. I kissed the top of his head. He pushed his wet nose against the curve of my neck. I turned back, climbing the stairs two at a time. With the key grasped in my hand, I paused. I looked behind me.
He was gone.
I skipped back down the steps and walked toward the sidewalk, squinting.
I gazed behind me, but there was nothing. A pang of sadness sunk against my ribs.
It was early June and warm, the neighborhoods full of playing children, before I dared to walk home again. In the naked sunlight I strolled, until I reached the field, now blooming with a pastiche of flowered weeds.
I carefully walked into the field, looking up at the green-boughed trees, now fully resurrected. I stopped, searching the expanse of weeds. A few feet away, a dull glint moved in the sunlight. I stepped closer and looked down at a scattering of my coat buttons, now thick with grime and sun-faded. I picked one up, carefully rubbing away the months of dirt. The button dimly blinked back at me. I tossed it back and gave the field one more searching gaze. I sighed and walked back to the sidewalk.
In between the light tapping of my summer flats, I heard it, low and distinctly him. I turned slowly.
The white dog stood, tail frenetically wagging, tongue pink and panting. He bayed, excited. Warmth coursed through my limbs as he trotted to my arms. I laughed as he licked my face. Beneath the sun, I could see scars surrounding his nose; his fur was thinned and yellowing. I held him to my chest.
Something I couldn’t see or hear seized his attention; he stood erect, his eyes wide and vigilant. He sniffed the air, his head held to the sky.
He turned back to me and gave me one last lick to the chin. I watched him race away across the field, his white tail bouncing among the weeds. At the edge he paused and looked back at me. I heard a muted, sad howl.
That night, I dreamed of him again. There was no running or panting or sweating. Instead, I dreamed of him walking beside me, his tongue lolling happily, my hand perched on his head. We walked from a pale blue morning into a moonlit night, past strange scenes of menacing, dull-faced people, dark woods, and otherworldly sounds. I held my head high and unafraid, my fingers constantly swathed in his fur.
After that dream, I never saw him again.
Working notes
"The White Dog" is inspired by events from my childhood and a lifelong fascination for animals and dreams. Animals have a preternatural sense for understanding human emotion, and are far more sophisticated at communicating than most people assume.
About the author
Sarah Rakel Orton, a native of Salt Lake City, Utah, is a graduate of the University of Utah’s Creative Writing MFA program.
Her thesis, “Black as Blood, Red as Apples," contains a collection of stories inspired by the Grimm tales of Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, and Goldilocks, exploring the feminist perspective of each tale.
Her thesis, “Black as Blood, Red as Apples," contains a collection of stories inspired by the Grimm tales of Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, and Goldilocks, exploring the feminist perspective of each tale.