Blood mixed with snow truly does make an enchanting shade of pink. And as you stare down at it your mind contemplates a delightfully colorful sno cone on a sultry day. But that thought bubble is rudely popped by the throbbing, and your mind now contemplates the big angry dog that just chomped your hand like a cartoon steak, in a violent flash of teeth and snarl. Jeezus, that was… unexpected. And now you’re watching it drip in the snow, winter-cracked fingers already turning an interesting shade of purple.
On this early February Monday afternoon the world appears dismal & bleak, submissive to Ol’ Man Winter’s frigid grip. If the day had a soundtrack it would surely be that Police song Invisible Sun. The TV weather prognosticator proclaims no thaw in sight, and she would never lead you astray. Indeed, you would roam to the very shores of Hell to hear her forecast the highs & lows… though one suspects the weather there would remain pretty consistent.
Right here right now this dreary neighborhood conjures feelings of a Cold Hell. Certainly the Fool’s errand you’re on and concern for your chomped hand aint helping, but you can’t help but think that when the gray snow does melt, it’ll reveal a landscape of garbage, dog shit and resignation. And if you ventured back here on a sun-soaked early spring day- when the daffodils were poppin and children’s gleeful shouts filled the balmy air- it would still appear dingy & hopeless, it’s grimy secrets obscured by the glare.
What can be taking them so long in the house…? Your mad middle finger- packed in snow- is much fatter now than when you got here, and you wrap it in glove compartment Subway napkins. Big Angry Dog is behind the fence, whimpering softly. He seems… contrite. No hard feelings chum, you’re a creature of impulse. You consider the dreams- the animal attack dreams- and then you visit a star-crossed lunch with a pretty girl a few years past, full of forbidden promise. She was from another planet, the same one as you. Over chicken salad you told her about the recurring dreams- jungle cats, snakes, bears, crocodiles, big angry dogs- always on edge and poised to attack. At some point she asked if you were happy. Well… yes. Such a simple question.
Later that day she sent you a message: animal attack dreams represent indecision; a struggling to come to some conclusion. Huh. Interesting and… sadly unrevelatory. That evening you stared at nothing out the kitchen window, drying dishes real slow in the twilight. Are you happy? Christ. It’s like she made you look in a closet you weren’t supposed to. Such a simple question, and one that would catapult you down a brambly path with many consequences, trajectory unknown. You’re still picking the damn cockleburs off your coat…
Driving back to town with rubbing alcohol and whisky on your mind, your wily passenger asks what happened to your hand, and you ask him if that fella back in Cold Hell seemed the sort who’d be mindful of procuring rabies shots for his pet. “Probably.” Well, another scar it is…