Yadda, yadda, excuses, excuses...
Anyway, I did manage this cute scene, based on teh behavior of our new basset, Beaux. It's for "Shambling in a Winter Wonderland," which goes live Nov 19 to raise funds for Operation Homestead. (http://skizombies.karinafabian.com)
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| Cover by Frr Mallory |
Hambone bounded
through the snow, the wide pads of his stubby legs leaving heavy
footprints. He struggled up the
snowdrift, then paused, mouth open and panting, his breath making tiny
clouds. His ears dragged in the snow,
and he shook them, annoyed at the cold tips.
He could hear his owner calling his name, but he ignored it. There was a smell!
He raised his head, seeking the strongest scent. The cold air stung his nose. The cold air brought the best smells, and this
one was strong and new. What could it
be? It was kind of people and kind of
raw hamburger… Oh, he had to know!
He lowered his head.
It was close, maybe even under the snow, close. He moved further up the hill, sniffing,
ignoring the exasperated cries of his master.
He always came back, and usually with something new and interesting to
present. The Master would put it on the
Caroline’s desk and the laugh while she shrieked. The more she shrieked, the better Hambone’s
reward. He’d get something grand this
time, for sure!
He heard another sound, a kind of low moan. Busted!
He tilted his head back, baying, and was rewarded by a sharp, commanding
call of his name. He ignored the call
but galumphed toward the other sound.
The smell came from that direction.
The snow moved. He paused, head
tilted, then perked. Something blue was
under it. Blue and moving. Hooray—toy!
With scurrying legs, he dug up the prize and grasped it with
his teeth. It resisted at first. Tug-of-war!
Hambone loved tug-of-war. He
braced his legs and pulled. The toy’s
groaning turned to growls and he growled back.
Mine, mine!
A rip and a wafting of hamburger smell, and it was his! Just in time, too—the gentle snowfall had
started to get icy. Now that he had
solved the mystery of the smell, he wanted to curl up in front of the warm fire
and get belly rubs. He turned his back
on the groaning, spreadhis legs, and piddled so all the world would know of his
victorious presence!
He trotted back toward his master, his mouth full of his
prize—a partly rotted arm in a blue jacket sleeve, its blue-gloved fingers
curled with the middle one extended in a universal symbol of anger and
defiance.
Wouldn’t his master be proud?
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| This is Beaux, a 9-year-old basset we adopted a couple of weeks ago. He's a derpy dog and a cuddler, but I hope he never comes home with a zombie arm. |
