Philophobia: A GerIta Story (Rewritten)

Chapter One (Ludwig)

I stared at the clock hanging on the living room wall, eyes burning as I try to process what the clock hands and number mean.

3:43, am or pm I don't know, but judging by the lack of sunlight peeking through under the blinds that are shut as tightly as possible so no one could see through, I'm pretty sure it's the very early hours of morning.

The bone crushing exhaustion should confirm it, but I can't remember the last time the universe wasn't baring down on my shoulders; it's daily, nightly, always.

My eyes scan the blindingly bright room, the most likely cause of my burning eyes. The only noise filling the house being the lowered tv, which has some game show playing that I've been watching but not processing.

I think it's a game show at least, I think I originally had something else playing when I first sat down but I...I don't really remember the last few hours, just a gentle haze of barely existing in this consciousness.

My hand has been compulsively petting Imelda's fur, but I don't think she minds the mindless and repetitive petting down her back as she sleeps in my lap.

My other hand holds another cup of coffee that has since gone ice cold, but still I take small sips.

Anything to stay awake.

Alaric lays at my feet, a gentle pressure to remind me that he's here.

The other six dogs have spread around the living room, asleep but unwilling to leave my presence to sleep in our room in the bed.

Not counting my monthly trip to pick up groceries and when Gilbert and Matthew visit me, my dogs are the only living beings I see.

It's a lonely life.

It's how I survive.

But each dog was different, allowing me at least a small sense of variety in my daily life.

Alaric is the oldest and the first dog I adopted. An Alaskan Malamute Gilbert and I adopted nearly 6 years ago when he was six months after being assessed for service dog work by the organization that helped train him. He was part owner trained and part organization trained in psychiatric work, and the main reason I'm still alive.

Blackie and Berlitz, who are curled up together on the floor, are both five years old and a German Shepherd and Kuvasz respectively. They are guard dogs who protect the house and land that Gilbert adopted for me.

Aster, asleep on the other side of the couch, is an energetic four-and-a-half-year-old Chow Chow that loves running outside with his brothers and sisters, and doesn't know how to take no for an answer so he often drags me outside to play fetch or another game with him.

Jäger, a three-year-old Shiba Inu, is a troublemaker who thrives on bothering Amara, my two-year-old Great Pyrenees. Case in point, he is currently laying on top of her, something she wouldn't have allowed if she was awake.

Schatzi, a two-year-old Keeshond, is curled up in front of the fireplace, twitching slightly, as not even in her sleep can she be still, always moving and doing something she deems fun, mostly involving running in circles.

Finally is the baby, my 9-month-old Tibetan Terrier Imelda, who is the sweetest thing to ever exist on this god forsaken earth, always giving kisses and desperate for pets and attention from me or anyone else.

"Gil and Mattie are visiting tomorrow afternoon for dinner, Ime...or I guess this afternoon now." I say it to myself quietly, but Imelda stirs in her sleep before waking up a bit, standing to stretch before laying back down in a more comfortable position.