The end of his tether
He’d often wondered about his tether and the end of it. Until he picked up a dictionary only a week before he hadn’t known what a tether even was. Now he knew and now he thought he’d reached the end of it.
He was glad it was winter. He didn’t mind the cold and the snow and, in happier times, he’d always been an enthusiastic skier. In happier times. Yes, he thought, he didn’t mind the winter with its snowy peaks, white crystal frosted fields and the smell of mulled wine in the market square and steaming paper cups warming hands in the cold.
He looked out of a window to the outhouse. The cold. The cold was good. It killed off many of the pests that hung around in warmer climates or even down in the valley, although now other pests had found him and disturbed his peace. Footprints and a strange indent in the snow crossed the yard, as if a sack of firewood had been dragged. Yes, he’d reached the end of his tether, and the bodies mounted up in the outhouse.
My Words, My World 