Those Bygone Dog-Star Days - Chapter 1 of 37
~ Chapter 1 ~
It is 3:24 in the morning and I had just scared myself awake again. My dream, my nightmare for the past three months has always been the same. I never remember it when I wake up but when I fall asleep it is as vivid, as dark, as real, and as scary as the last time.
As the previous night.
Muddy headed, I groaned and swung my legs off the side of my bed, feeling the protest from my body and the bedsprings. My lower back popped like crushed snow as I tried to get up. I, myself, groaned in protest but feeling an ever-growing pressure in my bladder, I somehow found the strength to balance perilously on my feet. My bed is damp enough (and stinks enough, too) that I didn't need to add to that sweaty mire. Naked, with tail swaying limply, I walked to the bathroom to take care of at least one ache. It's been too hot lately; especially at night.
Life is funny. The Great Creator, whatever it may be, has a wicked sense of humor. This is especially true as I turned on the TV to catch red-eyed infomercials. Juicers, cookware, fad diets, get-rich-quick schemes, all things catering to singles and lonely scraps of life with nothing else to do with their life shone under spotlights in their bubbly facade. Heh, lonely scraps. Kind of like me.
Humans are especially weird. Most are born naked and die naked unlike the other species that have evolved from animal ancestors. Hair toxins to grow hair, hair defoliators to remove hair, for a species that for a long time prided its self in being superior because they were relatively hairless, they've certainly come a long way. But that was long ago - before my grandpa's time for that matter.
Four a.m. and it was an hour before I usually get up. An hour to wake up, an hour to get ready for work, and two hours to get to work by train, that was my schedule. It seemed like I never really got back on schedule from a week's vacation I took three months ago. I just needed time to get some fresh air for a while.
Speaking of fresh air...
I grabbed a near-empty pack of smokes and a red lighter from my makeshift coffee table and headed to the sliding glass doors of my deck.
"Shit!" I jumped back from the doors that looked out onto 92nd street. Past that street was a small park but off to my left was another apartment complex. I didn't quite want anyone wandering the streets to look up and see me in all my faded glory. A dark blue towel was still lying on the back of my couch where I threw it yesterday morning as I was hurrying to work seemingly always ten minutes late. With one hand holding the towel together above my tail, I stuffed my lighter and cigs into my mouth and opened the door onto a sultry morning.
I never used to smoke before, but it seemed like something new to do. I had gotten quite a response from my coworkers when I showed up with a pack rolled up under my left sleeve feeling like a James Dean wannabe. Of course most of the responses were jests and laughs at how ridiculous I looked. Eventually I agreed and graduated to a pack in my bag. My taste and wallet searched around for a compromise, not that my taste had really wanted to go on that ride anyway, but it was my hostage. Lucky Strikes, Pall Malls, and soon Marlboros found their way to the forefront of my maw after three months. There's just something about a cowboy that's irresistible.
The sky above the deck soon began to lighten up. What stars shone through the street lamps and billboards that polluted the air with their greasy glow gave way to bluer pastures. Inside my alarm droned ever louder and three stories down birds rose to start their morning songs amongst joggers and bikers and other early morning risers.
Fuck the morning and these early birds. This wolf needs sleep.