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“Snowed In” by Metassus

You want to do something wild, but that wildness might end up with you going just that little bit too far ... and what if you do? Where's your knight in silver armour? Could he be in white fur instead?

Today's story is “Snowed In” by friend-of-the-fireplace Metassus. Based in the wild west of Ireland, Metassus started writing some time back as part of the "Thursday Prompt" group on Fur Affinity. His work has appeared in the Anthrocon magazine, in Fang Vol. 4, and occasionally on his printer by mistake. He is particularly keen on word-limited micro-fiction, calling them "365 Word Tales". At some point he'll have 365 of them and consider his work on earth done. You can read his writings and view his photography on furaffinity.net, or on metassus.com.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

Transcript
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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

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I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and today’s story is

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“Snowed In” by Metassus.

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Based in the wild west of Ireland, Metassus started writing some time back

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as part of the "Thursday Prompt" group on Fur Affinity.

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His work has appeared in the Anthrocon magazine,

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in Fang Vol. 4, and occasionally on his printer by mistake.

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He is particularly keen on word-limited micro-fiction,

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calling them "365 Word Tales".

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At some point he'll have 365 of them

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and consider his work on earth done.

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You can read his writings

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and view his photography on furaffinity.net,

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or on metassus.com.

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“Snowed In”

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by Metassus You know the feeling —

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pins and needles vibrate through your limbs to make you squirm and stomp,

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gritting your teeth, until the blood flows back, the pain fades,

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and you relax with an eager shudder.

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You know the reaction —

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you tell everyone with a wide grin:

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they laugh and you laugh,

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while you wonder if you can do whatever it was that made your flesh go like that,

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just to get that same dead feeling again for fun.

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It doesn't always go to plan.

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Cold. You're sitting in a snowdrift,

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blinded by white-on-white;

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suffocating in the cotton-puff frigidity of it all;

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your muzzle and your paws numb,

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your ears like lumps of clay stuck onto the top of your head;

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your feet have been cold for so long you wonder if they still exist or whether you just have a pair of unfeeling pegs at the ends of your legs;

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all the while the cold grows so intense that you begin to think of it as warmth ...

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and you allow it to reach into your core like your dearest friend.

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That backward stumble you just took dropped you on to bare rock covered in a light powder of snow.

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Though the hard surface broke your fall, the crack from your tail-base sounded a lot like a breaking bone.

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Your precious tail, however, is as insensitive as your poor fingers,

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greyish under their pointless covering of fur.

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Fur? What use is a fashionably short pelt in this horrid place?

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Then comes delirium.

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It enraptures you with eye-popping intensity,

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like those CinemaPanoramaScopic Three Dee High-Res Super-Duper Virtual Everything movies at the cineplex.

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You can see the gang just out of reach of your paws,

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laughing with you

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as the party grows wilder in the cabin.

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You’re the very life and soul of every party, aren't you?

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You remember the cabin?

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Wonderful place, the cabin, with its sauna and its stimulating hot-tub:

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a thrilling mix of crisp,

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ice-cold air and hot, foamy water.

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Hot bodies too, and lots of thrilling contact.

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Yep, you remember it.

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Even though your body is freezing to death in this bleak white-out, one small part of your being grows hot and proud as lewd images drift briefly through your mind

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before the pictures bleach into nothingness.

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They laughed and jeered in sport when you ran out of the sauna buck naked, didn't they?

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You were panting like a loco and steam gushed from your pelt.

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You felt you could run forever!

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So you tried, heading in through the snowy trees for mischief,

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instead of using the trail.

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Remember? Your friends — full of wine, spirits and recreational products

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'for personal use of course' —

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didn't follow your wobbly, bubbly path.

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They shouted and laughed for you to come back.

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Naturally, you being you,

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you didn't respond.

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You wouldn't have them better you.

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You dared them to follow your lead: your rawness: your devil-may-care-ness.

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You're the perfect one.

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Not perfect now, are you?

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Huddled shivering in the cold

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in just your pelt. Shivering?

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No, you seem to have stopped all that shuddering stuff.

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In fact, you're just a little drowsy.

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Do you recall if that's a good thing or a bad thing?

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Probably doesn't matter.

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They're not going to find you anyway,

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off the trail, among the pines, deep in a little ravine in the wilds.

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Your fur is pale —

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you won’t provide too much contrast for a search party.

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And you were always so proud of your coloration!

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Couldn't wait to show your shading and the impressive beauty of your short coat

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to any prospective lover or admirer.

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Never could wait to display yourself in the pool, either.

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Poser. Pride goes before a fall, you know.

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The delirium is back.

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It's toying with you,

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just like you toyed with everyone you met.

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You stare dully at your fingers.

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The skin of your pads and palms is a delicate blue.

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Blue is a pretty colour.

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Like spring flowers and clear sky.

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Your toes are blue too,

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just behind your claws.

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Your muzzle and ears are probably blue too.

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Blue. Blue is sad.

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Tears. It's the colour of pretty tears from sad spring flowers in the sky ...

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Doze. You open your eyes with a start.

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Must have just dropped off for a moment.

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Doze. It's not cold anymore. It's —

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it's nothing. It’s light and calm and

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hushed. Peaceful. Soft.

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Doze. Something red comes closer and closer.

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The brightness fades as sleep takes you away without a fight. Dreams. Strange dreams. You don't try to make sense of them because — well, you know. Dreams

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don't have to make sense.

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He's huge: towering above you.

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Gigantic. Powerful.

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At ease too. Comforting.

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Sweet. White as snow.

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When you return home to the city, you will never, ever want to see snow again, will you?

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He's white, like a solid ghost made of ice.

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A snow beast. He's lovely.

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Try to tell him he's lovely.

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Your smile is so brittle.

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Just trying it makes your face shatter into a million icy fragments that blow out into the wind

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and are lost forever to the dark black of the night.

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You cry a tiny icicle in your self

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-pity and drift, and drift.

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What will you do without a face?

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Touch. A lover's caress

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and stroke to rouse you from your rest.

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It's a beautiful thing.

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A gentle paw runs through your fur to caress your skin.

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Some lovers do it instinctively.

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Some have to be taught.

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There's no need for this roughness, though.

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He’ll damage the satin sheets.

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You try to guide him, to explain carefully that he should be more gentle and loving;

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to tone down the aggression.

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Perhaps you just think you said it,

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as you don't hear your own voice, just the thoughts within your head.

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He speaks to you gruffly

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as he pummels your body, forcing a squeak-like moan from your lips.

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You don't really know what he said, but his voice is rich

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and deep. Maybe he's into rougher sport,

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you smile, as you fade away again.

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Wind. It sounds so cruel, blowing the feathers from the bird in which you live.

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But — you live in an apartment, not inside a bird.

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Or do you? Buildings don't flap, do they?

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Perhaps the building blew away in the wind

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and the foundations are catching the wind.

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It’s frigid, but ... Is that not peculiar?

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The cold is only in front of you.

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Are you in bed with someone?

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You must be. He's snoring softly behind you, arms cradling you,

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pulling you into his chest.

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It's hard to think clearly.

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What was his name again?

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Did you meet him in the cabin, perhaps?

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Must have brought him home.

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You do that sometimes.

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Strays. He must like you.

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You can feel him down there.

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Turn around and face him

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so you can respond when he wakes ...

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turn ... around ... tired ...

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Awake. Your eyes blink twice.

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You're alert. The surroundings slowly resolve into fabric and yellowness.

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Slowly, you reach out your free paw and touch canvas.

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Canvas? Where the hell—?

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There's a big check shirt,

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all red and black boxes, pillowing your head.

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Your eyes widen. There's an arm over your belly,

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and another underneath you, cuddling you.

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It's warm, but uncomfortable,

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bending your spine in a way that makes you ache a little.

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You stir gently to move to a more comfortable position.

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You're in a tent.

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How on earth did you find your way into a tent?

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Ohhh … Whoever-he-is snores deeply, snapping your mind back to the here and now.

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You carefully lift the top of the sleeping bag to get a better look at the arm.

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It's big and powerful, covered in dense white fur.

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The claws on the end of the fingers are jet black.

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You blanch, as none of your close friends look anything like this.

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As you move a little more, you feel the blood of the morning pulsing in his loins,

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pressing into your thigh.

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He's like a furnace —

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warm and plush — putting your miserably light pelt to shame.

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Yet your pride tells you that you have the perfect pelt for the rush and tumble of the city and the sauna and the office …

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He feels you stir and yawns noisily,

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snorting and stretching his limbs.

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He rolls you carefully to your back and — you don't know why, but you do —

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you close your eyes,

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open your muzzle and feign sleep.

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His paw roams over your nakedness:

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from your ear-tips to your cheek;

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your arms and fingers;

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back to your chest and over your belly;

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between your legs, making contact with everything that is dear to you en route,

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and back almost to your tail-base,

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electing a small involuntary sigh and a half-stretch from you;

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then down each leg to the toes on your feet,

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where he checks each one thoroughly.

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Somehow you realise he's not being lewd,

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but professional.

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Cautious. Caring. Tender.

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His paw comes all the way back to your face.

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He gently rubs your cheek,

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an insistent action that would certainly wake you,

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had you not being awake all along. You flitter

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your eyes open dramatically,

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moving your arm over your forehead,

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then slowly look up to the face of your rescuer,

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and gasp. The polar bear grins,

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coal black eyes twinkling in a sea of white fur.

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"Welcome back," he rumbles.

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You smile as warmth bursts within you like a desert sun.

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You just might have fallen in love.

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This was “Snowed In”

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by Metassus, read for you by Khaki,

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your faithful fireside companion.

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Thank you for listening to The Voice of Dog

About the Podcast

Show artwork for The Voice of Dog
The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

About your host

Profile picture for Khaki

Khaki