October
Ever so carefully, he works his paw in around the edge of the old wooden door and, ever so slowly, pulls it open. With a long, low creak, it moves aside to reveal the midnight landscape. The big white dog peers out with no small amount of trepidation. He sniffs the air, looks up to see an ebony shadow pass over the low-hanging moon. The owls are out tonight. He listens. Yes, he hears them now, calling to each other out there in the mist in that ethereal language he cannot understand, ancient words that make him shiver. They are celebrating tonight, he knows, for this is the dawn of their favourite month.
For in just a few moments it will be October.
The big dog has heard the stories. Of ghosts that drift through the woods, barely seen - of witches on broomsticks in a sky with no stars. He has heard of the voices that ride on the gust of a wind, conveying their warnings with a shriek or a sigh. Of spectres that wait behind oak trees in shadow, singing strange songs in a minor key, reaching out bony fingers to touch his fur as he passes by.
Vigorously, he shakes his head to clear his thoughts, white fur dancing in the moonlit night. He should not let his mind run away with him. After all, he thinks, he has never actually seen a ghost, and October is really quite nice in his house.
There are always delicious smells that come from the kitchen, he loves to nap there when the lady is cooking. The windows are always open, letting in lots of cool fresh air...perfect for his naps. There are fires in the fireplace at night and he just loves fires in the fireplace; he can nap on the lady’s feet as she knits. There is always music playing, always laughter, always long afternoon walks in the brisk windy weather followed by extra long afternoon naps in his favourite red chair. Always hugs. And more naps. Yes it’s true, he loves October.
There is nothing whatsoever to fear.
He cocks his head. Was that the owl again?
In a flash, the big white dog disappears back inside.
Ever so carefully, he works his paw in around the edge of the old wooden door and, ever so slowly, pulls it open. With a long, low creak, it moves aside to reveal the midnight landscape. The big white dog peers out with no small amount of trepidation. He sniffs the air, looks up to see an ebony shadow pass over the low-hanging moon. The owls are out tonight. He listens. Yes, he hears them now, calling to each other out there in the mist in that ethereal language he cannot understand, ancient words that make him shiver. They are celebrating tonight, he knows, for this is the dawn of their favourite month.
For in just a few moments it will be October.
The big dog has heard the stories. Of ghosts that drift through the woods, barely seen - of witches on broomsticks in a sky with no stars. He has heard of the voices that ride on the gust of a wind, conveying their warnings with a shriek or a sigh. Of spectres that wait behind oak trees in shadow, singing strange songs in a minor key, reaching out bony fingers to touch his fur as he passes by.
Vigorously, he shakes his head to clear his thoughts, white fur dancing in the moonlit night. He should not let his mind run away with him. After all, he thinks, he has never actually seen a ghost, and October is really quite nice in his house.
There are always delicious smells that come from the kitchen, he loves to nap there when the lady is cooking. The windows are always open, letting in lots of cool fresh air...perfect for his naps. There are fires in the fireplace at night and he just loves fires in the fireplace; he can nap on the lady’s feet as she knits. There is always music playing, always laughter, always long afternoon walks in the brisk windy weather followed by extra long afternoon naps in his favourite red chair. Always hugs. And more naps. Yes it’s true, he loves October.
There is nothing whatsoever to fear.
He cocks his head. Was that the owl again?
In a flash, the big white dog disappears back inside.
