One crisp January morning, I found myself desperately trying to shoehorn my car into a postage-stamp-sized parking spot on a busy street in Athens. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw an unidentifiable, gigantic brown object behind my car. Initially, I mistook it for a misplaced cardboard box, but then I noticed that its shape was somewhat peculiar. It was a colossal brown dog, nonchalantly chilling a few inches away from my rear bumper. 

     Panic ensued. I revved the engine to make some noise and scare it away. I resorted to the automotive orchestra—frantic honking, a dazzling display of taillight Morse code that probably translated to “Dear Dog, you are kindly requested to vacate the premises,” and, in a last-ditch effort, deploying the infamous rear-window wiper screech. The big brown dog stood firm, panting and grinning, his long pink tongue hanging sideways like a flamboyant satin scarf. 

        I summoned the courage to exit the car, determined to shoo away the massive canine obstruction. Up close, the furry behemoth loomed larger than I expected. Having harbored a lifelong fear of large dogs—a form of cynophobia my therapist charmingly attributed to a latent phallophobia—I hesitated to get any closer in case it attacked me. Regardless of the alleged phallophobia, the pressing need to park my goddamn vehicle propelled me forward. The gargantuan dog remained still, gawping at me. 

      I couldn’t help but notice that this particular dog exuded an oddly familiar aura. It was golden brown with a Jackson Pollock–esque arrangement of white spots and a broad white face. Its saucer-sized hazel eyes locked onto mine, giving me the impression that a human entity was staring back at me—a furry thespian in doggy disguise. Suddenly, an irate symphony of horns jolted me back to reality. My unplanned roadblock had incited a convoy of road-rage enthusiasts yelling obscenities at me. I gesticulated wildly, attempting to convey that I had a legitimate reason for my vehicular standstill. Alas, the furious drivers remained untouched so I jumped back into my car and opted for a less eventful parking venture.

    Navigating the chaotic boulevards of Athens—a peculiar blend of LA gridlock and New Delhi’s traffic mayhem, a jungle where traffic is ceaseless and the laws are there to be broken—I found myself perilously late for an important meeting with my thesis advisor. As the minutes ticked away, I admitted defeat and decided to park in one of those gigantic, Metropolis-esque, multi-story garages that always manage to evoke an overwhelming sense of panic. My therapist had once claimed that my fear of towering structures, “altocelarophobia,” was simply another manifestation of my apparent phallophobia. That day had thus far proved to be a formidable challenge for my alleged phallophobia. Darting towards my professor’s lair, I breathlessly ascended the six flights of stairs of the ancient building, a relic from the 1930s with a lift that screamed Elevator to the Gallows. Having watched the movie eight times, I knew better than to tempt fate and step inside that lift.

       Panting and glistening, I rang the professor’s doorbell. A grouchy maestro of criticism, my thesis advisor was notoriously difficult to please. The mere thought of facing him induced a level of panic that, according to my therapist, stemmed from a twisted yet unresolved Electra complex. I, however, vehemently disagreed. I hadn’t even chosen that grumpy motherfucker myself; originally, I was to work on my thesis on “Representations of Femininity in Jane Campion’s The Piano” under the guidance of another professor. Nevertheless, in an unforeseen twist, she suddenly found God and went on a pilgrimage to Mount Ararat, so it was fate that had subsequently thrust this irritable curmudgeon upon me. But then again, as my therapist would sagely remind me, fate was simply an excuse I concocted for my life’s poor choices. Anyhow, a year laden with stress and self-doubt ensued from our initial meeting. I hadn’t conquered my anxiety but I had successfully quit smoking and drinking, hoping that my inner cleanse would sometime pave the way to a hitherto elusive mental clarity. 

      The meeting resembled a dumpster fire. The thesis advisor, clearly in a foul mood, kept pacing up and down the room, launching a blazing critique of my insufficient interpretation of Ada’s amputated finger. I desperately craved a comforting joint or a shot of bourbon, but my newfound sobriety vetoed succumbing to those enticing urges. Thus, I redirected my gaze from his enviable bookcase to the panoramic view of the Acropolis, nodding every ninety seconds to feign engagement. As the center of Athens sprawled in all its glory outside the window, I thought I spotted the big brown dog from earlier, walking down the street, peeing on every corner. 

        My therapist would gleefully label the whole debacle a “self-fulfilling prophecy,” a testament to my self-destructive prowess. He would assert that I had subconsciously orchestrated this meeting’s failure, as confirmed by my lackluster analysis of Ada’s unfortunate finger. When I was finally dismissed, I bolted outside, teetering on the brink of a panic attack. I hurtled down the six flights of stairs, only to stumble across the brown dog, a mammoth luxuriously stretched out on the entrance doormat, languidly wagging its tail. Its fur was lush and shiny, its teeth were pearly white and its eyes radiated warmth and honesty—an inexplicable and unexpected siren call tempting me to attempt a cautious head pat. 

        The big brown dog bore an uncanny resemblance to someone I couldn’t quite place. It was a mutt, possibly infused with a tiny dash of Labrador retriever flair in its DNA cocktail. As I bent down to tickle its soft and velvety fur, a familiar smell triggered déjà vu. Then it hit me—the dog smelled of Old Spice aftershave lotion. How could that be? Dogs were supposed to smell like earth or damp blankets. Perplexed by this olfactory paradox, I lavished it with forgotten dog-patting skills, murmuring sweet nothings. Terrified of dogs for as long as memory served and yet, there I was, willingly patting a Laelaps I had just met. Life never fails to amuse. 

        Feeling somewhat relaxed and elated, I decided to swing by my parents’ house for a quick cup of sanity-restoring tea. My parents lived in a small house with a well-tended garden, a feline utopia teeming with cats of all shapes and sizes. Despite countless cat-inflicted battle scars, I had always adored their independent and self-important glory. Unbelievable though it may seem, not a smidgen of fear has ever lurked in the depths of my cat-loving heart. Once, when I was in my mid-teens, I crossed paths with a bobcat during a mountain hike. Despite my usual arsenal of phobias, I had spent a good few minutes staring at its huge amber eyes, brawny body, sturdy legs, and majestic, fluffy tail. I was so close to the bobcat I could smell its wild and pungent odor, a blend of wet earth, dead leaves, and raw meat. The bobcat regarded me skeptically and slunk away, leaving me utterly astounded.

    As the door swung open, I was welcomed into an olfactory cocoon of nostalgia: powdery cologne, coffee, laundry detergent, and the unmistakable aroma of thick curry sauce simmering in a saucer. Perched on a rocking chair in the sacred realm of her study, her “room of one’s own,” my Mum sipped strong filter coffee while reorganizing her photo albums. 

     I nestled beside her, flipping through snapshots from the 1990s and early 2000s: Mum flaunting red teased hair, cradling a miniature version of me in her arms in front of the ruins of the Temple of Poseidon; me in dungarees atop my dad’s trustworthy Honda Accord, clutching a Cabbage Patch Kid; me rocking a Nirvana t-shirt and jeans so tattered and distressed you could see more of my leg and less of the fabric, flashing a grin at the camera showcasing the extensive metalwork of my dental braces; and then, there it was—the poignant shot with my grandpa in front of the Eiffel tower. The floodgates of nostalgia opened and my eyes immediately welled. 

       Grandpa passed away from a stroke when I was nineteen years old. His death shattered my world, leaving me desolate, adrift and heartbroken. He had been my absolute favorite person, my confidant, and my moral compass. His sudden death triggered a tidal wave of grief. Simple tasks such as going to work or studying for my university classes turned into epic odysseys. Following his death, I spiraled into chaos for a couple of years, diving into toxic relationships, abusing weed and prescription drugs and waltzing into the tumultuous embrace of an eating disorder. Yet, amidst the tempest, I managed to emerge from the madness. Two years later, here I am, sober, somewhat sane, and fully appreciative of life’s absurdities. 

       Mum handed me a box of photo chaos, a puzzle of duplicates or blurry shots defying her organizational prowess. With a spark of morbid enthusiasm, I declared my plan to craft a fridge collage—a visual pick-me-up for every time I felt suicidal. Mum beamed with encouragement at my peculiar coping mechanisms.

      Later that day, comfortably nestled on my sofa and thoroughly immersed in my seventh cup of coffee, I delved into the treasure trove of family photos from the 1990s and early 2000s. Lo and behold, there I was—a spectacle of unparalleled gracelessness: a bespectacled, rainbow-haired stick insect donning tie-dye dresses, gallantly worn over baggy pants and fashionable Nike basketball shoes. Had my parents possessed the foresight to intervene in my preteen stylistic escapades, the script of my life might have taken a dramatically different turn. I could have enjoyed a higher self-esteem and a more optimistic outlook on life, potentially sparing myself from all those cringe-worthy romances and dead-end jobs. This, in turn, would have allowed me to cling to a more resilient reservoir of self-worth and confidence. Even my dalliance with substances might have taken another, more graceful direction. Perhaps I would have been one of these erudite individuals delving into the Romantic Poets while high on magic mushrooms, unburdened by the fear of never recuperating from a bad trip or the prospect of being indefinitely stuck in William Blake–land. A tinge of regret crept in. Oh, the road not taken!

       Lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, I stumbled across some old passport photos of my grandpa. I scrutinized his round face, his big hazel eyes, and his soft golden hair. He had a broad, eye-reaching smile that emanated familiar, soothing warmth. Suddenly, like a celestial epiphany, it struck me—the dog. The dog I had seen that very morning bore an uncanny resemblance to Grandpa. Blinking at the cosmic coincidence, I heeded my therapist’s advice—when the mind ventures into impossible riddles and mazes, bedtime it is.

        Awakening late the next morning, I glanced at my watch—11 a.m. Panic swept in; the internal alarm of wasted daylight chimed in, an obsession my therapist insisted was the hallmark of my anal-retentive personality type. I failed to see how punctuality was deemed a negative personality trait. To me, it felt like a virtue. The early bird mantra played in my head, urging me to seize the day. Determined to focus on the proposed thesis revisions, I put my parka over my pajamas, slipped into my trusted sneakers, and bravely stepped out of the apartment in search of a cup of decent coffee. 

        A loud and clear yelp startled me. The colossal brown dog had materialized on my doorstep; it was sitting a few inches away from me, its eyes fixed on me, its long tongue dangling sideways from its half-cocked smile. It was my grandpa, beyond any doubt. I wondered if I had lost it completely. Maybe I was hallucinating. Perhaps the psychedelics I had done in my teens had triggered a late-onset psychosis and I was Syd Barrett–ing my way towards insanity. Hallucination or not, I approached the dog and patted it gently between the ears. There was no denying the olfactory evidence: the unmistakable smell of Old Spice aftershave lotion wafted through the air. In sheer resignation to the absurdity of the situation, I opened the door and led the dog back to my apartment. It jumped on the couch and made itself comfortable. Then, for a split second, I wondered what my parents or my therapist would make of my theory that this dog was the spectral embodiment of my deceased grandpa. It certainly was a far cry from my staunch atheist upbringing. 

     The doorbell rang, interrupting my morning musings. It was Mum. Had I invited her over the previous day? My memory was a blur. Regardless, I ushered her in, greeted by the combined aroma of the steaming latte and the heavenly croissants she had graciously brought along. Grandpa, unable to contain its excitement, let out an exuberant yelp and vigorously wagged its fluffy tail. Mum, clearly bewildered, stared at my gigantic canine company in terror. 

    “What is that? I thought you were terrified of dogs!” Mum exclaimed breathlessly.

         “I am,” I admitted hesitantly.

         “Then, how come you’ve adopted this Cerberus?”

        Contemplating whether to spill the Grandpa-reincarnation beans, I foresaw the impending parental intervention scene. My parents would think I was on crack, perhaps suspecting I had taken up other eccentric hobbies such as talking to trees or summoning ancient spirits. They would urge me to talk to my therapist. And oh, my therapist! My therapist would most likely blame it on latent Freudian issues and then refer me to the only psychiatrist my insurance would cover, Dr. Heller, a character straight out of a D. H. Lawrence novel. Dr. Heller always recommended finding a good and caring husband and having kids right away to cure my “hysteria.” 

         “Does that dog remind you of someone?” I prodded.

         My mum eyed the dog, skepticism painted all over her face. 

         “Yasser Arafat?” she suggested with a smirk.

         “Go on, Mum, give him a whiff and you’ll see,” I coaxed gently.

         Her gaze shifted from the dog to me, worry etched on her face.

     “Go on. Trust me. Give him a sniff. You’ll be able to tell immediately!” I encouraged, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

         “Sniff him? Are you serious?”

       “Absolutely. Now sniff away,” I insisted, immediately regretting it because I saw the worry on her face morph into agonizing concern.

         “Are you on drugs again?” Mum asked, tears already shimmering in her eyes.

         Of course I wasn’t on drugs. Although I had been a mess for years, I had never been a dope fiend. I dabbled in psychedelics and party drugs in my teens but my brain responded with grand anxiety attacks, prompting a graceful exit from the psychedelic scene. No new doors of perception for this particular brain. Then, following my grandpa’s death, I briefly flirted with Ritalin and other boosting amphetamines to bolster my focus and navigate my way through my university senior year, but they turned me into a jittery wreck. Weed had offered some ephemeral solace but, unfortunately, I abused it and, in the long run, it also aggravated my anxiety attacks. So, two years ago, in a feat of sheer determination, I went cold turkey on everything—drugs, booze, and smoking. I also embraced vegetarianism in a desperate attempt to curtail expenses and fix my karma. I found myself practically leading a cruelty-free, chaste, straight-edge lifestyle. Ian MacKaye would have been proud of me.

         “You know I’m sober, mum. Smell the goddamn dog and you’ll realize who it reminds you of,” I insisted stubbornly.

     Mum sniffed towards the dog but no spark of recognition seemed to illuminate her face.

         “What’s its name?” she asked nonchalantly. I knew she was worried about me and that the moment she stepped out of my house, she’d likely call my dad and organize a full-scale intervention.

         It’s now or never, I thought.

         “I call it Grandpa,” I blurted.

         Mum gazed at me, in a way I optimistically interpreted as encouragement, so I kept on blabbering.

         “I think it looks like Grandpa. Its eyes are hazel, almost golden, like Grandpa’s. And its face is broad like Grandpa’s and its lopsided smile reminds me of Grandpa’s mischievous grin. I’m thinking it could actually be a reincarnation of Grandpa.”

         Damn, I thought, I should have omitted the reincarnation bit.

       “A reincarnation of Grandpa? What on earth are you talking about?” Mum looked flushed, torrents of tears running down her face, streaking her pale cheeks with mascara. 

     “You know, Mum, reincarnation, as in Hinduism or Buddhism?  It’s the beginning of a new life for a deceased person’s soul or spirit only in a different physical form. This dog is like Grandpa 2.0,” I tried to explain, throwing in some spirituality for good measure.

         I shouldn’t have gone into such detail. Mum looked convinced I had relapsed into drug-induced Hare Krishna fandom. She immediately took refuge in my food pantry. Tidying up was my mum’s version of crisis control. I secretly wished she would channel her organizing energy into my bookcase or my wardrobe where things weren’t on the brink of chaos. My books were arranged in alphabetical order and my closet was carefully color-coordinated. Meanwhile, my food pantry was a chaotic reflection of my mind in times of crisis: cans of tuna, Campbell soup, and tomato sauce formed an unstable tower founded on biscuit boxes and numerous bags of coffee—my food pantry basically resembling a wild Jenga game. Attempting to remove a can of tuna from the precarious pile was like playing with destiny. Would the tower of cans and boxes collapse like a poorly constructed tower of wooden blocks? Would uttering a secret thought of mine in public lead to a nervous collapse or a mental breakdown? 

         “I’m going to take Grandpa to the vet today, get him checked, give him a few shots, and book an appointment to get him neutered and registered. You know, the whole responsible pet owner deal,” I added, trying to sound sane and adult.

       Mum’s green eyes widened like I had just announced I was running away to join the circus. “I don’t think you’re well, dear. Maybe this dissertation has pushed you over the edge. Take a break, won’t you? Take a few days off, come and stay with us for a while.”

       That sounded like a good idea. I could do with some relaxation. I envisaged myself lounging on my childhood bed, binge-watching The X-Files, sipping hot coffee, reading my old science fiction books and staring at my Jane’s Addiction and Soundgarden posters for hours on end. It pretty much summed up my teenage years, minus the acne, the drugs, the exams, and the teenage angst.

       “Cool!” I declared, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically. “Grandpa and I will pack up. I think we’ll be back in time for dinner.” 

        Mum smacked her lips and grabbed her coat, probably rethinking her offer already.

         “It’s a deal. We’ll take care of you. I’ll talk to Dad about your new friend.” She planted a kiss on my cheek and patted Grandpa’s head. “You take good care of yourself, right?” she asked. I could see she was worried about me but the mere thought of retreating to my childhood haven, even for a few days, sounded downright heavenly.

        “Yeah, Mum, don’t worry, I’m doing fine, I’m the epitome of virtuous living. No drugs, no booze, no casual sex, no existential dread. I’m just drowning in this thesis abyss. But hey, fear not, I’ve got my wingman now—Grandpa’s here to keep me company! I’m not alone!” I chirped in a pitch that made everything sound worse than intended.

       Mum left. Grandpa, sensing the drama at play, wagged its tail and nuzzled into my neck. Amidst the faint whiff of Old Spice and the rhythmic thump of its heartbeat against my arm, I realized, Grandpa reincarnated or not, I had finally made a new friend.