Today's writing

We named her Midnight. Her fur was tucked tightly around her body, her tail twitching as a warning. We brought her home in a box and the minute she was sprung loose she made for the door. We slammed it shut and she hid behind the stove instead.

Our dog’s name was Sunny. I’m not sure if that matters, but I thought you’d like to know. Sunny was hanging out in our backyard when Midnight descended. Then again, Midnight didn’t so much descend as stumble in. She was disoriented and we weren’t far behind. Just so you know, Midnight was not black. She was, in fact, orange. Orange and white. The white nights of St. Petersburg. Metaphors like that.

Midnight was not our first, but you perhaps already guessed that. Our first left us six weeks ago, a shade drawing across his eyes as he died. I cried but inside I felt cold. That’s how I knew I was really mourning.

I pulled Midnight out from behind the stove. It couldn’t be good to have her in there. She hissed and made for underneath the bed. We sighed and let the dog in. Draw your own metaphors from all this.