The Bog A novel about the legend of man's best friend

It was about two weeks ag0.  I had a delivery to make in the south-east part of town.  It was bitter cold.  Winds blew my cap off and I slipped on the ice trying to retrieve it.  Down I went…on my bad elbow.  The pain shot straight to my mouth which in turn shouted some pretty bad stuff.  Slowly, begrudgingly, I stood, both in pain and embarrassed.  My cap had blown into the frigged  creek, I had torn my coat sleeve, and two motorists sat in their cars amused.  I don’t know where ‘mad’ comes from, but it found me, and I was pissed.  I don’t know what I was mad at, the ice, the wind, my clumsiness, whatever, mad had me and I need to vent.

I made my delivery and upon returning to my car found a scrawny cat sitting by the door, meowing like I was his savior.  Still mad, I pushed passed him, and drove away.

Now friends, you don’t know me.  Animals have been a significant part of my life for all my life.  On any other day, I would have scooped that cat into my arms and taken him to my home, it would have been his kitty heaven.  But for some stupid reason, because I was still ‘mad’ for falling and making a general fool of myself, I drove home empty handed.

I couldn’t sleep that night.  And I could barely wait for daybreak.  As soon as the sun brightened, I headed for south-east hills.  I spent most of the morning calling for him, but he wasn’t to be found.

I still worry about him, wondering if he found a home, or if he is still wandering about.

There’s always a price to pay for ‘mad.’  I should have known better.