Hare Of The Dog

Hare Of The Dog : Kaleb Rothwell

Hare of the Dog: Can’t feel my fingers anymore. Cold took them best part of an hour ago. Gets like that up here in winter, but you get used to it, sort of. Haven’t seen a soul all morning, no surprise really given the fog. Do get these little apparitions though, flying out and floating across the snow covered peat. I say little, they’re always bigger than I remember. Should give them more credit, specially given the conditions. Been getting better at stalking them, down to within a few feet at times. Not easy though. Takes patience, and a stubbornness against the cold. Never thought I’d touch one though, never thought I’d bury one. Bloody dog. Masters making his way back to the trail, across the frozen mud and would-be mire. He’s moving at a quicker than leisurely pace with his lupine executioner in loyal pursuit. Wonder if he saw me. Wonder if that’s why he’s got a pace on. The fog takes them. Bleeds out right there in the snow. Nothing I can do but watch. The eyes are like nothing I’ve seen before, black ink blots preserved in amber. Wasn’t there more than a few seconds before it was gone, carried away in the haze, leaving its body behind for me to bury. Shame the dog didn’t know any better. Shame this is how its master gets his kicks. I take my glove off and feel its coat, trying to ignore the red patches. Still warm. Soft. Poor thing. I carry it down to a dip in the peat where there isn’t as much snow and the earth dribbles and the ground is softer. I dig a hole, lay it in and cover it over.