Dog: III
The Overdog, and the Dream
Previously on DOG: Four intruders hit the apartment. Mick and Jenny fight them off until Dog’s smoking eyes erupt into lasers, gutting the attackers and saving the day. Minutes later, a masked cleanup crew bags the bodies and erases every trace, leaving the place impossibly clean. Dog is newly aware of what he can do. (Dog: I & Dog: II)
Dog plopped down in the apartment after Mick and Jenny shut the door behind them. The humans vanished into the corridor, swept away by the logic of mysterious errands only they understood.
For the first time since the incident, Dog was alone.
He hopped onto the couch, tail thumping like a metronome.
What did humans do all day, anyway? Where did they go when they weren’t here—into some fluorescent maze where they traded paper and worries?
“Psst,” hissed a voice.
Dog’s ears went full radar.
“Just gotta say, that was some serious hero stuff you pulled yesterday.” It was the coffee table piping up. “Laser eyes? The guts smacking the floor? You went full action, bro. The lamp won’t shut up about how you zapped that guy into smoking bacon bits.” The table sounded way too thrilled, standing tall under messy magazines.
Dog wagged his tail with an “Arf!” hoping it sounded like: Thanks, dude!
The table slid a small drawer in applause. Praise from a coffee table was new.
He wasn’t just a pet anymore, he thought, but a guardian of the domain.
But even superheroes need downtime. Dog gave the coffee table a grateful lick, then strutted off in search of fun.
He spotted a book under the coffee table: Nietzsche—Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
He nosed it open.
Once, this would be gibberish to him. But now… Dog tried to read. And to his surprise, he could.
The prophet Zarathustra spoke of the Overman.
What’s that to a dog? An overdog?
A dog that didn’t just sniff asses and chase balls, but chose bigger things—staring down the universe, unblinking. He read more, but got hungry, and decided Nietzsche was saying: become more than what made you.
Could that be for Dog?
He shut the book before it started putting wild ideas in his head. Philosophy was fine, but it had a way of crawling into your skull.
Dog had enough philosophy for one day.
Then, Dog spotted an abandoned cigarette in Jenny’s ashtray.
He picked the cigarette between his front teeth and sat upright as Jenny did. The filters tasted like ash plus death.
Yuck, he thought.
But could he… light it up?
Dog hopped off to the kitchen, pressed the cigarette tip to a burner and cranked the stove on. A curl of smoke tickled his nose.
This is it. Samurai-time.
He took a drag. The smoke hit his lungs like tear gas. “Hff—hack!” The cigarette shot out of his mouth like a missile, landing in the sink.
The kitchen faucet shook its head, unimpressed.
Dog wiped his streaming eyes and stumbled back to the living room.
He was ready to chill. He’d seen Mick lounge like a pro with a bathrobe, remote, and belly out. Emperor of nothing. Dog could do all that—minus the belly. He was, after all, in peak canine condition.
He spotted Jenny’s robe hanging on her door. Why not? Deep maroon, it looked like a cape on Dog.
Finally, Dog flopped back onto the couch. This was living. When he settled, under his ribs, a town of glowing worms was turning to the REM phase of sleep after a hard day.
He grabbed the TV remote in his teeth and lobbed it onto the couch. The remote yelled briefly, and then Dog pawed the ON button.
The TV flicked on. A cooking show was in full swing: some chef whisking like his life depended on it while the studio audience oohed and aahed.
Dog’s ears perked at the sight of “roast duck with orange glaze.” The sizzling image mesmerised him; his mouth watered.
Soon the chef moved on to chopping fennel (whatever that was), and Dog’s interest went downhill. He tried to fight it, but nope—sleep crept in.
The last thing Dog saw before he dozed was the chef’s knife thock-thock-thocking carrots like a lullaby…
At first, it’s simple: Dog finds himself sitting on the couch, just as he’d been, watching the show. Now, he’s wearing one of Mick’s flannel shirts and jeans. They fit well.
Confused, Dog looks down, and he sees hands—his hands. When he opens his mouth, a man’s voice comes out: “What the—?!”
Dog touches his own face: cheeks, nose, and chin. On the TV screen, a human face reflects back at him. It is the face of a thirty-something man with messy hair. The world has gone feverish—corners hazing, colours leaking.
The kitchen recedes into infinite darkness.
He tries to stand on two legs, balancing as if it were absurd. But now it’s easy. Tap, tap. He steps toward the hallway, like he’s walking inside something hollow.
The mirror lies in front of him. He approaches, and the glass groans, its surface rippling.
A shape stitches itself into view within the mirror-world.
Dog knows that shape; its memory crashes into his mind like icy water. The body is obscured by darkness, but the silhouette is there: countless small feet, two elongated arms. One long arm slithers out, ending in a cluster of twitching hands.
Dog’s stolen human heart hammers in his chest as he tries to bark in fear, but his throat only whimpers. He stumbles back from the mirror. Two red lights—the eyes—fix on him, and they remember him.
With a thundering howl, the being thrusts itself forward. Dog turns to run, but the multitude of hands clamps around the doorway, blocking it.
Run! Dog thinks, commanding his limbs, but his legs won’t obey.
A wet gurgling noise fills the air, reverberating inside Dog’s skull.
“Easy now, child.”
The first arm shoots forward, grabbing at Dog’s human shirt, at his arms, at his face.
Cold! The hands are slimy and cold like the bellies of dead fish.
Millions of little fingers probe his face, poking, pinching, cuddling, or... petting?
“It is I who made you like this.”
The hand hooks into Dog’s mouth, yanking his jaw open, pinching his cheeks, stretching the skin.
Two smaller fingers dig into his nostrils, pulling upward.
With a rip, the skin on Dog’s face tears at the corners of his mouth, and the fingers pull and pull. The tear spreads, peeling away skin from muscle.
Blood, hot and red, pours down.
The hands give a mighty yank, and the human face peels off like a wet mask.
Dog sees the truth in the mirror. Beneath that stolen human visage is his real face, the face of a German Shepherd, emerging out of the bloodied meat. His brown fur is matted with blood, his canine eyes wide and sharp, shining. He is himself under it all.
“Good boy, get ‘em,” says the voice.
Dog jerked awake with a strangled yelp. The bathrobe was twisted around him and damp with sweat.
No blood. No shredded flesh or any mirror demons. The apartment sat in daylight, unchanged.
The TV was still on, now playing some infomercial about a mop that could pick up bowling balls.
The coffee table was right there, clearly sleeping.
At that exact moment, keys jingled at the front door. Dog’s ears pricked. His humans were back.
He was still wearing Jenny’s robe. But it was too late to change that.
“Uh… what’s up with the dog?” Jenny said, storming in first.
Mick stepped in second, some paperwork in his arms. He locked the door.
Dog was there on the couch, having clearly been up to something.
“Like, who the hell put the TV on, and why’s he wearing that?” Jenny added.
“No idea, Jen,” Mick said, shrugging, “Some kinda coincidence we’re seeing here. I’m sure.”
Jenny looked suspicious, unconvinced.
Mick looked around and at Dog, “Hey boy, you haven’t been out for a while, let’s get you movin’! How about that?”
Dog jumped out of the robe, tail wagging, playful, ready to go out with his humans and laser some stuff to ash.
Third Eye Horror
© Maciej Sitko, 2026
All rights reserved.
Lol at the humans seeing the dog shoot out laser beams and then being like "why's the tv on?!?!" I'm glad I caught up on this.