An Irish Maelstrom

An Irish Maelstrom

The wind rages, spitting wet snow against the house.  Pelting sleet carrying plumes dance in Arabesque symphony while inside my fire rages and burns, all but distracting me from winters show all around me.  I long for some cooling relief.  My flush face grimaces as sharp pains thrust through my belly. Alarmed, I consider my options.  Here alone in the midst of this frigid maelstrom, I have not the means to seek care.  My whole family has left for a school function in town while I remain as sentry, keeping trustworthy vigil at my post.  Only now, I am in need and there is no one to assist or even comfort me.  I must bear this inflammatory burden, scorching and churning my insides. I try hoping this pain will pass. But it battles on.   I pray that I will find some relief soon.  Still, the fires rage as violently as the storms outside the house. I do understand that it is my station to endure. To “deal.”  For me, there is no respite.  I know if this passes I will be blamed.

 Of course, I could have prevented this whole happenstance not to have shredded all that sofa cushion foam, and then, in a moment of unmitigated frenzied greed, devoured every last morsel . So now I suffer.  “Why did I do such a stupid thing ,” you ask?  Because I’m the dog here and it’s what we do.  You thought the life of an Irish Setter was easy ?  

-Jerry Wendt 250 words