Common

It’s fucking cold.

Colder than any winter I can remember, harsher, cutting closer to the bone as if death himself is now responsible for the icy winds, hiding in the flurry of snow just waiting for his chance to scoop up my broken soul like a trophy. ’You won’t get me' I snarl inwardly, but as my thoughts form and fall away there is an undeniable aftertaste of fear.

I am old, and weak, and alone. And it’s fucking cold.

I push on, my stride made awkward and jerky by a lame hind leg. Even with the aid of the cold snow that is caked to my limbs, my near side cannon remains hot and completely swollen from my hock down to my scraggily, mud covered fetlock. Every move I make with it is painful and I must throw my old self into each step to take the weight off the injured limb. I continue this jerky, unsound walk, my bony neck barely able to hold my head up, unnaturally high as I anticipate the pain of another step.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

My once strong back now dips dramatically, as if I carry an invisible yet incredibly heavy weight. Perhaps it is the weight of my bitterness that rides me, or just as likely my regrets. My ribcage juts outwards as if my bones themselves can’t bear to be close to me. Even my steely-grey pelt that I once wore with so much pride couldn’t stand to stay. Now my hide resemble the snow- but not the nice, white, virgin snow that instils feelings of tranquillity, no, I look more like the slush that runs the edges of my muddy path. Like melting snow and mud. How fitting.

Mumbling bitterly under my breath about the injustices of old age, I scornfully check around me, daring the cold hand of death to finally come out of the foggy morning. I have not left the safety of the Crossing for quiet sometime, caught between my only home, the Lagoon, and my inability to earn a place among the bachelors. With an influx of lost souls to the islands, I no longer feel worthy enough to call myself a ‘goonie’. I cannot fight, I cannot raid. I can barely protect myself, so now I must chase the only position lowly enough to suit a broken bastard like me; a herd stallion.

I have no interest in attaining my own territory, or mares really, but I am willing to play second stallion in exchange for the illusion of safety. For warmth on cold mornings and company when the pain gets too much. I would not consider myself social, but my selfish need to be surrounded in my final years has made the idea of herd living tolerable, at least when compared to the alternative of a slow and lonely death in an unknown land.

FRIESIAN MUTT | SIXTEEN TWO HANDS | TWENTY THREE YEARS