Harold Werner sat in his office, his face virtually expressionless in an attempt to avoid the issue of mixed signals, and did nothing but listen. He listened; and as he listened he watched his patient, specifically, he watched the way that the eyes never seemed to look in the same place twice, or that the whistling tooth, in part due to poor dental planning, was almost constant. He could see that on the face were wrinkles that did not exist three days before, caused no doubt by stress, and that whenever the subject of bad weather, particularly rain, was brought into discussion, a rare but not uncommon topic, that the right eye developed a twitch, a nervous tick.

"And that's why I feel that I have these dreams doc" the patient, a man called George, exclaimed, "I mean, there's no other explanation right?"

Harold leaned in, his investment with George and his dream a recurring theme with each subsequent visit. On a personal level, Harold was getting tired of giving the same diagnosis to George, who was a paranoid obsessive compulsive with the additional fear of small mammals, and was just about to give in to whatever whimsical thing his mind could think of that would even remotely be considered useful when he was presented with an idea.

"George have you ever been to Santa Fe?" Harold began, breaking the silence he had held for the past several minutes, "Or anywhere outside of Quahog?"

George shook his head; to him, leaving the comforts of his ordered life was against the very Law of Nature itself, and to go against such a thing would surely mean his intimate death. This was exactly the answer that Harold had expected, for he had asked similar questions before, during George's initial visits; whereas then they were more aligned to judge George's personality as well as list any past experiences, now it was a means to a different end- to cure George of his condition.

"You really should go George" Harold continued as he pulled out a bus ticket, which he purposefully obtained to make the trip as long as possible, "It'll be great. Besides, it's nice to shake things up a bit, experience something new. Break the monotony of your life."

These words had no real effect on George, for he was too involved with the meaning of his dream, which involved an aardvark and a moose for some unexplained reason, to think of anything of any serious or important nature; in his head counting prime numbers to maintain at least some level of sanity. At seeing that George was not interested, as well as that the session was officially over, Harold sighed and gently showed George out, promising to continue the discussion next week. George, for his part, nodded, said his goodbyes, picked up his medication, and continued obsessing over his dream and his numbers.

This was the weekday pattern of Harold Werner's life: every day at 5 am, he would wake up for a morning run, during which he would pass Francine Jenkins house, Ernie the Giant Chicken's house, and the Swifts- Johnathan, his wife Margaret, and their twin sons Johnathan Jr. and Robert. All of them were on some level on good terms with Harold, Francine, the local cat lady, sold him Mr. Pibbs, his loyal orange tabby; Ernie, a former patient, now a loving husband and father was the closest thing that Harold had to a best friend; the Swift family, a typical American family with hearts of gold, in many ways the antithesis of the Griffins, two streets over, were always volunteering at community service events and participating in sports of all kinds. After he passed these houses he turned onto Jefferson Street, that ill-fated lane on which many lessons were learned, and came to a single apartment complex; now run-down and dilapidated. The complex had a only one occupant, Feathers, a parrot, who only remained because he had promised his master that he would do so until he returned from errands. Coincidentally, Feathers' master had not been seen for close to five years and so Harold often made a habit of visiting Feathers, even going so far as to offer him a place at his home, for Mr. Pibbs was generally gentle when it came to such things; but each time he brought it up the bird would decline, his loyalty to his master undying and borderline delusional. Harold pitied him.

Reaching the end of Jefferson Street Harold eventually made his way to 4th Avenue and the Pawtucket Brewery. Harold had long since given up drinking, for he liked the idea of living until he was 82, and then he supposed that he would allow himself to die, for 82 years was more than enough time as far as he was concerned, especially given the current state of the world. Harold would then take a right up 4th and then another right, circling around to Rutgers' Lane and the small business district that existed there, ultimately coming to the intersection where Rutgers' turned into Cherry, his home street, on the other side, just after crossing Oyster Road, which lead to the city proper and the park, where the main business district was located, including his office, the Drunken Clam, and The Quahog Examiner, the new name for the local newspaper.

After his morning run, Harold would sit on his porch and reflect on his patients and the ways in which he could help them. Mostly, he thought of George, for he was his only regular at the moment; but he also thought about patients he had helped, such as Ernie, his greatest success story. He often wondered how much of a hand he had played in Ernie's transformation- before, hard and bitter against the world; before, often depressed, unable to find joy or solace in anything or anyone. Now, it was safe to say that Ernie was, if not happy, content with the life he now led, for he had friends, a stable job, a loving wife and son. Harold's only wished that more ended up like Ernie, for more often than not, his patients left him worse than they had come.

Pulling out a recorder, Harold sighed and began to log his daily thoughts for the day, long ago deciding that an audio recording was better, and easier, than having hundreds of journals filled with the scribblings and ramblings of a doctor. While he recorded his thoughts, he stared out into the day, paying no mind to the old red sedan that made its turn onto the street. The car, which had its right mirror missing, having been in a collision a few days before and thus barely serviceable, was moving at the slowest pace imaginable as if it were carrying a load that was double its carry capacity. If Harold had paid attention to this sedan, instead of making updates on Ernie and some of his other patients, he might have noticed the driver, Montgomery Montgomery, one of the many locals who lived in the flats downtown, a downtrodden area of the city and that his passenger was Nancy Chase, a newly hired journalist at Channel 5 News; both of whom were instrumental in his success, Montgomery himself being his first patient, and while still riddled with his own problems, they were nothing that he could not handle on his own; especially with Nancy. The only thing that Harold would have had to say about Montgomery was that he had recovered from his separation anxiety and was currently working on overcoming his acute OCD. No prescriptions necessary, just a different routine each day; on this particular day, that routine involved driving, albeit dangerously, on Cherry Street. But because Harold did not notice Montgomery's car, for the doctor was too engrossed in his notes to pay attention to anything else, especially Mr. Pibbs, who by this point was gently rubbing up against his master's leg, begging for attention, he did nothing save for make his observations and stretch.

Observations and exercise concluded, Harold, just as he did every morning, moved inside and headed for the kitchen, in which he made a quick breakfast and watched TV- for he was fortunate enough, or perhaps lazy enough, to possess a small television set in the kitchen, which he placed in a nook next to the sink-switching channels for twenty minutes before finally settling on a re-run of his favorite sitcom from his youth, All in the Family. As he sat and ate his breakfast, which consisted of two eggs, a single piece of bacon, and a biscuit, Harold immediately turned his thoughts to Clark Pierce, a former colleague, specifically his philosophy on breakfast and its overrated stature in the American diet. He claimed that breakfast was the leading cause of most mental illnesses; the reality being that Clark Pierce was incredibly insane and had a terrible grudge against morning food on account of his wife, who was an equally terrible cook. Harold laughed to himself as he pictured Clark, pestering him about the dangers of eggs and their ability to grow chickens inside of the human stomach. It may not have been science and grounds for expulsion from the scientific community- it was, for Clark was eventually sent to the local mental institution- but it was at the very least entertaining.

In his office much later, after several hours of listening to the woes and worries of his patients, Harold sighed as he sat back in his chair, resigning himself to the fact that George was not making any real progress. He was beginning to think of sending him to Morris, another local psychiatrist but of less success than his own, if only to be rid of the headaches he had caused him in the last several weeks; he decided against it, the feeling of guilt and an overwhelming sense of responsibility overtaking his greater desire of taking an early vacation to Cancun. It was at the end of his decision to stick to his obligations did Stacy Morgan, his secretary, appear from the small waiting room just outside the door, in her hands, a sheet of paper and a manila folder.

"What is it Stacy?" Harold exclaimed as he gingerly massaged his forehead, for he was tired and incredibly bored.

"Your 3 o'clock is here sir" Stacy answered calmly, "Here's his information."

Stacy handed him the paper and the folder, looking at the paper first, Harold noticed that it was a court order which as far as Harold knew was not to begin until after his vacation, which began in three days-time. The court order was not for Harold but for the patient in question, who was assigned to the psychiatrist for reasons that were explained in the folder, which contained his past medical history and all of the relevant records relating to his life that pertained to the order. Opening the folder and examining the records, Harold nodded silently to himself, as he often did when presented with new information, and with an annoyed but purposeful expression stared at his secretary.

"Let's hope this isn't a waste of time" he declared, "Send him in. Hold my calls and tell Maggie that I'll be a little late getting home tonight, I have a feeling this is going to be a long session."

"Yes sir" Stacy replied as she exited the room, leaving the open door behind her, allowing Harold an exclusive view of the waiting room, which possessed a series of small uncomfortable chairs, an aquarium on the back wall and little else in the way of furniture, preferring to keep things as simple as possible. The client in question sat, rather casually, as if he were in his own living room instead of a doctor's office, which suggested, as least to Harold, a certain air of arrogance and self-entitlement. This, he knew, he would have to break if he was to have any hope of succeeding; an almost impossible task if the records were to be believed. In addition, the client seemed to be much more interested in his phone than he was in obeying the court order and entering Harold's office. This too, Harold would have to break, for if it was one rule he maintained it was the confidentiality agreement, which included the strict absence of cell phones during sessions.

"Please come in" Harold declared, projecting his voice slightly in order to get the client's attention.

The client, recognizing that he had been addressed, straightened himself out and retired his phone, two things that Harold was already grateful for, and casually made his way over to the office door. It was a slightly awkward move for him to be sure, for the chair was unusually high and the door heavier than normal as far as he concerned, which was a lot considering that he was a canine, and thus, an oddity among most members of the community.

"Did you know that your aquarium costs $5,000 easy?" the client returned, completely disregarding Harold entirely, "Did you buy it yourself or did my tax dollars go to making your office look pretty?"

Harold rolled his eyes and shook his head, already he was beginning to wish that he had taken his lunch early, if only to avoid this less than wanted confrontation.

"I didn't buy anything" Harold defended, "The architects who made this building, and the interior decorators who were commissioned by them bought that aquarium. I had nothing to do with it and frankly, neither did you."

The client huffed and folded his arms, shaking his head in disgust, as if he were appalled by the idea of something not involving him in some general capacity. Harold continued, refusing to allow the client to gain anything in the way of conversational leverage until introductions had been properly carried out.

"If you came in here to question the design of my building than I'm afraid you're in the wrong place. Go to California, talk to the company that commissioned it. If, however, you came here to get treated then please, take a seat."

Harold's response prompted an unusual response, that is to say, that it was not returned with a question or a rebuttal of any sort; rather, it was the production of a piece of paper and a pen. The psychiatrist, if nothing else due to curiosity, indulged himself and examined the parchment discovering it to be a contract.

"What is this?" Harold asked, being blunt, "This isn't a business deal Mr. Griffin it's a psychiatry session."

The client shrugged and nonchalantly sat down, leaning backwards as if he somehow was granted a degree of stature that allowed for such behavior.

"It's just a standard confidentiality agreement" he replied candidly, seeing no reason to lie, "The things that stay in this room are to only be discussed between you, as the doctor, and myself. No one else needs to be involved in this."

It was completely rational, Harold thought, for such terms to be given if the roles had been reversed. But since it was not the case and Harold considered himself mentally competent to maintain confidentiality, it was terms that, legally, he could not accept.

"You do realize that as a doctor I have to follow the Hippocratic Oath?" Harold exclaimed, building up his defense, "And that part of that oath dictates the privacy between doctor and patient; meaning that nothing outside of this room will ever be discussed without your consent."

Mr. Griffin, or Brian as he preferred to call himself, for Harold, always the professional with the first few meetings and thus never using first names, casually gestured towards the contract and pen, his eyebrows raised in silent anticipation. Harold did not oblige and threw the contract, which was unusually long, rolled it up and put it in a folder in his desk.

"Aren't you going to sign it?" Brian asked, his tone on the verge of being over-insulted, "You realize that I don't have to say anything to you if that document is not signed."

"Then we shall sit here in silence until our session has concluded" Harold declared, growing tired of this constant deliberation, "I cannot help you if I start the conversation. By doing so I am projecting my own opinions onto you, which as a psychiatrist would be counterproductive. My job is to observe, to listen, and ultimately cure your mental cognitive function that you might leave this room at the end of our tenure a restored functioning productive member of society."

Brian laughed and waved him off, refusing to allow Harold to use reverse psychology, a technique that he knew that all doctors, at one point or another, used in order to get uncompliant subjects to admit to something that they did want to admit. It was an old tactic and a useful one, but it would not work on Brian, for he was too smart, so he believed, to fall for such tricks. Harold however, already knew this; the open display of defiance confirming his suspicions. It was obvious that in order to begin the process of treatment, humility first needed to be achieved.

After a brief moment of reflection, thinking about his next twelve moves in regards to Brian, Harold Werner, renowned psychiatrist, began his magnum opus.

"Do you believe in God Mr. Griffin?"

Brian, put off by the question, rose to his feet and began pacing around the room. Harold, examining Brian's file, taking particular note of Brian's various methods of avoiding certain topics of conversation- constant movement; speaking in languages he barely understood such as Latin, German, and Spanish; complaining about the weather; mitigating the accomplishments of others, especially those he deemed beneath him; and smoking, among other tactics- reiterated himself. Brian, in response, pulled out a half empty pack of cigarettes, Lucky Strike, his favorite brand, and haphazardly reached for his lighter.

"You can't smoke in here" Harold continued, urging him, "It's against regulation; plus, I'm allergic."

Brian, who had enough decency to understand allergies, put the cigarettes away, only to continue to pace around the room. He stopped at a bookshelf and looked at the various books- The Holy Bible NIV, The Imitation Game, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Oedipus Rex, The Freud/Jung Letters: The Correspondence Between Sigmund Freud and C. G. Jung, Watership Down, Aesop's Fables, and The Translated Epic of Gilgamesh. It was an impressive collection, even if most of the books, at least to Brian, were trivial, both in nature and in message, and provided no real insight or purpose into the life of Harold Werner other than he, like so many other doctors he had been to, was nothing more than a manipulated toady.

"Have you read all of these books?" Brian began, guessing at his answer, for in his experience doctors, and most professionals who had such bookshelves, rarely read any of the material.

"I had to" Harold replied, "Each one for different reasons. The Bible for religious context and personal preference; The Imitation Game for its exploration into the research of Alan Turning; Norte Dame for its humanistic viewpoint, its views on Catholicism, and the social order of things; Oedipus Rex for its sexual connotations and its connections with Freud, which is transferred in his letters with Jung; Gilgamesh, the first classic epic poem of its time-"

Brian, undeterred by Harold's answer, annoyed that the doctor was unable to read the sarcasm that was laden in his voice, moved on and made his way behind the desk. On the back wall was a clock, pictures of Oscar Wilde, Carl Jung, W. B. Yeats, and Victor Hugo. Brian, resisting the urge to comment on the presence of the photographs, for he assumed that Harold had a good reason, most likely to allude to their work during the course of the sessions, sighed and resigned himself back to his chair. Harold, who had long since ceased in favor of observation, clasped his hands firmly and started once again.

"Do you believe in God?"

The fact that he was answered with silence was more than an answer, it was a declaration. Harold, immediately regretting himself, pressed further. Brian, on the contrary, had constituted himself a stony disposition, one that he was not accustomed to, and so, looked as if he had been constipated for the past six hours.

"When did you become an atheist?"

At this Brian broke his rouse and blinked, for he had never been asked so bluntly about the issue, not even by his own family, who asked very little in the way of questions beyond the half-assed reasons that he provided to everyone else. It was, in its own way, refreshing, to find someone interested, or at least pretending to be interested, about the matter. Still, if only to keep his opinions to himself and maintain disdain, for he had come too far to switch sympathies, Brian feigned idiocy.

"What?" he declared as he wiped out his ear, "I'm a little stuffy in this ear, can you repeat?"

Harold scoffed, knowing perfectly well that Brian's hearing was perfect for a dog of his age, and folded his arms. He had half a mind to throw him out and be halfway to Cancun, for if there was one thing that he could not stand for it was blatant disrespect; however, something, perhaps curiosity, or his innate desire to help people, urged him to press forward.

"No one is born an atheist Mr. Griffin" Harold explained, "That is a learned behavior, all knowledge of religion, as far we are concerned, is that way. So- when did you become an atheist?"

Brian straightened himself out, one of his major personality quirks, and began to think; and as he thought Harold Werner observed and took down notes. He noted that whenever Brian had entered into deep thought his right ear developed a nervous twitch, which was complimented by the slight wiggling of his nose, barely noticeable. He also noticed that his tail, which presumably had a mind of its own, became incredibly stiff, as if it concentrating just as hard as Brian's brain. In regards to the dog's eyes, Harold made an inquiry about a prescription for eye-drops and the possibility of glasses, for the pupils were unusually dilated and dry. All of this Harold inscribed in his notebook, after which he began making personal observations about Brian unrelated to his current condition; he wrote: arrogant intelligence, incredibly self-observed, possible mental abuser, a clear disrespect for authority suggest troubled home life—consult with patient. Question biological family ties and current standard of living. Make house calls if necessary.

"Any time now" Harold said as he finished the last of his notes, "You're paying for this time."

Brian nodded in obvious understanding and promptly leaned forward; his visual quirks- the nervous ticks, the dry eyes, and his tail- correcting themselves and returning to normal. After a moment, Brian indulged Harold to the best of his ability.

"It was the summer of 1997. We, my cousin and I, had just entered Harrisburg, Virginia, looking for work. We settled in nicely; found ourselves staying with the Mayor's family- good people. They had a Golden Retriever, Victoria, named after the Queen of England; anyway, I took a liking to her, we had ourselves a litter of eight-"

Brian stopped, his breathing became shallow and short; as his mind retreated back into the recesses of his mind, his face bore the weight of a sadness that could be attributed to loss and deeply rooted unresolved pain. It was no secret what had befallen them, at least not to Harold, who remained attentive , watching for any wavering, comparing Brian's story to his personal records. Brian, done collecting himself, continued, his voice hoarse and croaked, as if he had eaten something raw. It was not however, sad, nor was his face riddled with tears; in this regard Brian maintained a stern, unnatural composure, which by itself raised Harold's suspicions.

"Life was good for a while. Then, that winter, the litter got sick, by spring only the runt would survive."

Harold pulled out Brian's file and examined it, leafing through the pages and relevant documents. When he came to the spring of 1998, he came across a document, a letter, written by Brian to Victoria, explaining why he could no longer remain in Harrisburg, the mention of his kids was not among them, instead, it was his own "personal conflicts", apparently with his own existence. This, along with no actual records of any sort of litter existing in the Mayor's household, save for the fall of 1994, three years before Brian's arrival, led Harold to conclude that Brian was lying, and lying convincingly. Still, if only because he was curious to know the answer to his question and knowing full well that Brian would never openly disclose such information, Harold resorted to drastic measures.

Now normally speaking, Harold Werner, as a doctor, made it a point never to involve family members in sessions, unless of course it was a specific family therapy session; but given that Brian was being unreasonable, and that Judge Brown had ordered Brian to attend therapy or face considerable prison time for his offence, it was deemed a necessary action.

Picking up the telephone Harold made the only call he could make. Brian, confused and generally disheartened, for he was finally opening up about issues he had harbored for years, could not help but wonder who it was that he could be talking to, if he was referring to a colleague or perhaps making reservations for a dinner, he was uncertain. The only thing that Brian knew was that technically, Harold was in strict violation of his code, which was perfect grounds for leaving.

"Look Dr. Werner" Brian said as he rose, his voice slowly returning to normal, "If you're not going to take this seriously I'll just leave and take the jail time."

Harold laughed and shook his head, removing himself from the phone, he turned to Brian.

"You can't afford it" he declared, "You got at least five years of hard labor in there; you'll be lucky if you make it past the first. Not to mention you're already leaning towards your breed's maximum age limit. Time is not on your side Mr. Griffin."

Gesturing towards him, with the calm intensity fitting of a doctor, Harold extended the curtesy of the phone and waited for Brian's response. The other end, a mystery, known only to Harold and Judge Brown, doing likewise and keeping its silence. Brian, hesitant, but also recognizing his position, sighed and for a second time resigned himself back in his chair, after which he took the phone.

"Hello?" Brian began, his voice weary and full of discomfort.

"You always were a terrible liar Brian" the voice replied, taking the cue, "Why don't you just tell Mr. Werner the truth?"

Brian swallowed hard and adjusted his collar as sweat ran down his face, nervousness and slight embarrassment overtaking him; the voice unmistakable, for it could only be one person who spoke with such honesty and who possessed knowledge of the current situation- Jasper.

"Jasper" Brian exclaimed, his tone changing, in the back of his head, he could see Jasper, sitting in his apartment on the east side of town, engrossed in the newest episode of The Young and the Restless, "How've you been? It's been awhile."

"Don't give me that shit Brian" Jasper retorted, less than pleased, "Tell him what actually happened, tell him why you became an atheist and go home."

Harold, who was back to taking notes, jotting down Brian's other nervous tick involving his collar, as well as his reaction to Jasper; in addition, making some addendums to his previous observations. Harold noted that Jasper was worth visiting, especially if there was any hope of continued treatment and understanding of Brian's condition. At the moment, the only thing that Harold had recorded in terms of diagnosis was "pathological liar"; whether or not this was accurate was, at least for the moment, invalid, for it was the first meeting and such questions would come with the natural progression of time. His notes concluded, Harold focused his attention on cleaning his nails, patiently waiting for Brian to comply with the request.

Placing the phone on the desk and promptly hanging it up, Brian, who did not bother to say goodbye, for he was too stressed to bother with basic manners, swallowed hard and casually wiped the sweat that had gathered on his brow. He cleared his throat and scooted his chair closer to Harold's desk, in order to increase his proximity to the doctor and prevent any potential outside party from listening in.

"This isn't exactly easy for me Dr. Werner" Brain began, "My story is long and not altogether proud."

Harold nodded as a small smile creeped on his face, satisfied with Brian's response. The doctor glanced at his watch and, upon seeing the time, promptly closed it.

"Then we shall have to hear it next week Mr. Griffin" Harold said as he reached for his bag, "Your time's up. I already scheduled an appointment with you, next Thursday at 2 o'clock sharp."

Brian, now more confused than ever before, stood and graciously tugged at Harold's leg as he passed, his brain unable to process what it was that was going around him, his body completely separated from his conscious.

"Wait that's it?" Brian rebuked, "You mean I don't even get to tell you my story? You don't want to hear any of it?"

Harold shook his head and looked down, the only thing he saw was a sad and troubled figure, a desperate plea for help and a need for security; both of which he was unable to provide in any permanent form. The only thing that he could do was treat, to the best of his ability, Brian's psychosis, which from his professional standpoint, was the worst case of narcissistic personality disorder he had ever since in an individual. It was depressing; more depressing than Feathers the parrot living alone in a dirty apartment building ever could be. Harold, feeling nothing but pity, sighed and wrenched Brian from him, at the same time ushering him out of the room.

"Tomorrow, Mr. Griffin; worry about it tomorrow" Harold said, trying his best to be reassuring, "Go home. Spend time with your family; and read Oscar Wilde. You'll enjoy it."

Brian, for the first time since he stood in the presence of Harold Werner, smiled, as he resolved to take the advice to heart. Walking past with all the speed in the world, the dog, paying no mind to the secretary or to the other patients in the room, raced down to his car and headed for home. Werner, for his part, looked about the room and cleared his throat. To the room, he cracked a joke, which no one laughed at, after which he called in the next patient, deciding against his better judgment to skip lunch.