I like to believe Ilyas' love for dogs goes way beyond Chiron and eventually, Anya, and this is what makes the most sense to me.
The Rozanov household adopted, no, bought, a dog when Ilya was a child.
The prospect of a family pet had appealed greatly to Ilya, as it would to any elementary schooler in a tense home. Maybe she would be the missing piece, something to connect them all, but even at that age, Ilya realized it was wishful thinking on his part.
After a few weeks of back and forth between a rather sketchy breeder, Grigori, shadowed by Alexi, met a large and grimy man in the middle of their driveway one winter's night. Even through the flurries and obstructive winds, while Ilya and his mother stood in the doorframe, the off-putting smiles of both his brother and father while trading a handheld crate for a wad of bills were not missed by either of them.
Through the fireplace's backlight, Irina gave Ilya a small smile and ruffled his curls before Grigori called out for her to open the back gate.
Turning on her heel, she gave Ilyas's shoulder a squeeze as if to assure him everything was okay, or at least, push him not to question his father. At this age, the message had not gotten through.
"Why can't she just come inside? It's too cold out here, won't she get hurt?" he pleaded, stepping down from the porch barefoot to follow the group and the yipping dog he could not yet see, but already felt inclined to protect.
His father did not answer immediately, opting to show his standing on the matter with a glare colder than the ground Ilya was sinking into, the cuff of his pajama pants now threatening to freeze with every trudge.
"She can stay in my room! I can make space!" he yelled, realizing it was too loud when he began, but couldn't think of anything else to do.
"Are you crazy? You think I would let a dirty mutt in my home?" he barked, a humorless laugh cutting through. "She stays out here, and you will be with her if you keep it up. Behave."
Nobody knew if the last word was intended for Ilya or the puppy, though Alexi snorted, seemingly finding humor in it either way.
Reaching the backyard, a small, dilapidated area made even more dreary by the chain fence along the perimeter, the gate swung open with a shriek that made Ilyas' breath hitch in his throat.
He had become accustomed to sounds, reading them to brace for impossible situations. A vodka glass against a trophy case, a singing kettle swiped off the stove, footsteps on the hardwood coming too quickly or too slowly, shoulder blades being pressed against drywall-
Not once had he heard a chain.
Alexi had a grip on the crates' opening hinges, preparing to release the dog alongside their father, untangling a rusted, heavy metal chain that Ilya soon realized would be a leash. Her leash.
Irina already had her head hung in one of her hands, as if not seeing what was happening would make it untrue. Her frame shivered, and Ilya knew all too well that it wasn't from the biting cold.
Between Grigori's extensive work with the police and military alike and his brief school curriculum in animal science, he recognized the puppy tiptoeing out of her enclosure as an East European Shepherd.
It was here, Ilya truly realized, that she was never formulated, born, or bought to be loved. She was created to protect an already broken household, beyond repair. Her efforts would be entirely futile, and the worst part is, she would never know any better.
When adult Ilya saw Anya on the Drover's farm, he never imagined he would be faced with a second chance so soon. Really, it had been well over 15 years, but it did not seem long enough to repent for what his family had done to their own sweet girl, who never got to prove herself to anyone but the 8-year-old who would sleep outside with her on nights well below freezing and share his stew with her when people were too preoccupied with hurting each other.
Really, some nights he truly felt safer out there with her in contrast to his own family, and not because of her prospect as a guard dog. They had a mutual understanding that they would never hurt each other.
Selfishly, Ilya held on to that friendship for far too long.
It took one night for Alexi to lay his hands on her more violently than he ever had before, seemingly upset with something other than the young dog at his mercy. After Ilya treated her wounds the best he could with First-Aid skills reserved almost exclusively for her and his mama, he decided the kindest thing to do was to let her free.
With wire cutters in the dead of night, he made a hole large enough for her to slip through, and finally, he took the tool to her chain.
In the morning, he did his best to search for her with Alexi without giving himself away, though they both knew, adding it to the never-ending list of the rifts between them.
Ilya never saw her again.
With Anya pawing at his jeans with giant, loving eyes, he heard himself ask Harris how anyone could ever abandon a dog and leave them to die. The words sounded wrong in his mouth, shame spilling out of his pores, but his conscience knew that sometimes, death was a kinder option than a life you had no control over.
But here was Harris, trusting him with a puppy who had clearly been mistreated before, without a second thought. This would be both of their second chances, healing something in them simultaneously.
He immediately named her Anya, the name he was never brave enough to give his best friend, for fear of his father scolding him for treating her like family. That dog was family to Ilya and didn't even know it. Anya, the one in his passenger seat on the way to the fanciest pet store in Canada to buy her the entire doggy aisle, would know it.
