It was before dawn as we wandered out across the treacherous arctic
ice field that is my New Jersey neighborhood. The snow that fell over
the weekend has mutated into a crispy cold topping that collapses under
one’s weight to send your feet (in my case) or your belly (in Pepper’s
case) crashing through a wet compote of sleety sludge. At first we pretended we
were racing towards the
South Pole. I had eaten all my fellow travellers in the
first week and reinforced my rickety sled with their bones. I had also eaten
all of my darling sled team with the exception of lead dog Pepper. Wolves, or
worse, were howling and prowling around us their wicked eyes flashing from
behind the trees. I tapped into my inner Jack London as I contemplated disemboweling
Pepper to distract them while I made a mad but tragic rush for cover. Pepper’s long-suffering sigh as
she turned away from me to sniff a deer print brought me back to reality. Somewhere
in the distance a neighbors Jack Russell yipped to be let in and the arctic adventure became just another
suburban stroll.
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