The Wandering

A dog wanders through the forest. It is calm and neither the snapping of twigs nor the scampering of squirrels is enough to rouse any form of emotion. It’s a cold day. The cold seems to seep into the black fur as softly as the leaves take their seats on the diseased ground. It’s a cold day. The soft repetition of paws on muddied rocks fills the chilly air with sounds of life. Not warmth. Never warmth. Life. 

An hour floats past as the harsh sunlight beats down upon the treetops. Begging to be allowed a view of the forest floor below.  A dog wanders through the forest. There is no goal, no destination and no reason for this silent stroll. There is no command being followed nor a reward waiting at the other end to justify this freezing journey. As still and joyless as a newly created corpse. So did this dog’s tail remain limp and unfeeling behind it. There is no joy in the forest. 

A dog wanders though the forest. Never paying attention to the deep red paint smeared on grey tree trunks. Never paying attention to the silent gasps and screams of horror filling the air in abundance. No. This dog continues walking forward through the numbing stillness of painful experiences and long lost and forgotten faces. This dog still has a face.

A dog wanders out of the forest. As softly as the final breath leaves an unfortunate soul, so did the warmth return to this dog’s heart. The sticky red substance melts from the trees as the sunlight raises itself off its knees. Home. A connection formed during life to remain eternal in death. So did the air smile as this dog’s tail began to caress the folds of movement once again. It is cold behind them yet this dog and its owner shall never be cold again.