Anybody who knows me well knows how much I love the wintertime. By contrast, I find spring to be a damp, depressing season in Atlantic Canada. I hate the month of May the way some people hate February.
Today was such a crummy grey day that I decided to go down to the riverbank and let a beaver chew my leg off. I pulled up my pantleg and he went around and around my shin. He was able to pull my foot and ankle away with his little paws, leaving my shin-bone sharpened to a bone-marrow pencil-point.
The beaver paddled away, clutching my amputated foot between his teeth. Dark drops of rain fell into the river around him.
I found a tree-branch to use as a cane and hobbled back to the dirt road. I dragged my stump behind me to spell out giant letters on the ground. From the sky, a dirty crimson message would be visible in the roadway: “CURSE YOU…”
That’s as far as I got before I ran out of blood and passed out.
When I woke up it was raining quite a bit harder. The beaver had come back and chewed off my other foot as well. My pointy bleeding legs were of uneven length.
I flipped over onto my stomach and crawled back to the house, using my elbows to pull my body through the mud.
I think I’m just going to stay on the couch for the next few weeks.