At Least They're Committed

My warm breath has melted the snow around where my nose rests. My muzzle is on the ground, my front and rear legs curled beneath me. I can feel the dusting of snow on my flanks, on my withers but I can’t see what has awoken me yet. There’s something flopped in front of my eyes, something fleshy and pink; covered with course gray-brown fur. My ears. I lift them from my eyes, one by one, like a child peeking through fingers, to see what, no who, has awakened me.

Silly me. I knew who. Today he looks like Danny Aiello, charcoal leather boots and a thick wool coat standing above me. Gray, thinning hair blowing just slightly in the winter breeze. He asks me again: “Why are you here.”

I pull my hind quarters up, so my butt is in the air, then stiffly work toward standing in the front. Mud clots my marble hooves as I stare at them, not wanting to look at him. I try to talk. “Heeeeeee -aaaaaa!” I can’t.

“Try again,” he says. I look him straight in his beady eyes and say. “Aw, c’mon! It was just fun is all, a little distraction, you know how stupid they are and it’s just too fucking easy!” And then I try to laugh, but I can feel my chords restrict, tighten and can only choke out a bray.

“Try again,” he says, and I feel my throat relax again and I’m looking at my hooves again and I feel foolish and a little like crying.

“It just seemed nice; nice and harmless and, well, like I meant something,” my voice doesn’t cut this time. “And I know I was stupid, but for a few days I felt happy . . . I hadn’t felt like that in so very long.”

He nods, my body crumples to the ground and I’m human and hairless save for the long mats hanging around my face and it’s very cold in the snow and my flesh is turning pink. The trail beneath the snow is hard, rocky and pinches my knees and the flesh on my palms.

“And I’m sorry about the scene in front of the bar,” I say. “It’s just, well, it’s just like he’s fucking Jiminy Cricket!”

Now DA is laughing and I laugh a little, too. “Well, I can tell you with some certainty he doesn’t want to be your conscience,” he chuckles.

“Did I creep him out?” a weight seems to be lifted off my soul and I stand in deference to the cold and in spite of being fully bare, I’m smiling, blushing, giggling.

“Little bit!” he holds up his index finger and thumb in DeNiro-esque fashion and we laugh harder.

“I’m sorry,” I’m sincere, I really am. “I don’t think I was this fucked up at this time last year.”

The laughter stops and he become serious, stern: “Your last year wasn’t this fucked up.” I see the last 12 months, desperation, death, loss, sickness, tests, humiliation, turmoil, angst flash before me.

“Yeah, it’s not the decomposing that’s killing me, it’s the ‘posing’ part of it,” I say. On his cue, I put my arms up in the air and he pulls a thick cotton shirt over my head, gently moving my hair out from under the collar.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, holding open thick leggings for me to step into like a child. I put my hands on his shoulders for balance and obey.

“You’re not this; not usually,” he’s stern. “You don’t belong here, little girl. Go home.”