Airlock

Even wearing multiple layers (shirt, hoodie, scarf, overcoat, hat, heavy boots), I still feel the frigid cold creeping in as I descend to the vestibule of our building with the doge in my arms like a sack of fur and bones. Her head lolls to one side like her neck is broken, her tongue hangs out, but as soon as I reach the bottom floor and make to set her down, she rights herself and slips out the inner door with only a slight lopside to her lope. 

Through the window, I see the empty New Year's street, asphalt dry and white with cold, void of cars and sidewalk scattered with salt. The doge and I stand at the glass, my breath shaping clouds of vapor in the air, and consider our lack of options, steeling ourselves for the stinging chill as I open the door to let us out into the night.

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One year ago: She Doesn't Have Pockets

Two years ago: Could Be Into More Than One Thing

Three years ago: Salty Teeth

Four years ago: I Believe You Have Something Of Mine

Six years ago: A New Kind of New Year

Seven years ago: We Ended Up Straightening Up a Little

Ten years ago: A Tiger, A Jacket