The Alabama Dream

Barder had spent many a nights dreaming of this day. The day that he could fly. The day he could leave this small south Alabama town forever. He spent most of his nights sleeping in the bayou, warding of mosquitos with his tail and keeping one eye open on the crocs. He would sit on the banks and watch the frogs leap into the sky, their webbed feet as parachutes. Barder was mesmerized by the frog's ability to effortlessly fly across the swamp, catching one fly after another. Now, about this time of year, the leaves start changing color and it just starts getting colder and colder. It was time for Barder to leave his bayou refuge, and move into the streets of town. There were hardly any dumpsters around town and so the competition for them was tough. Other feral dogs were much more aggressive than Barder was, so he hardly ever got a nice warm dumpster to sleep in. One night, just before the first snow, Barder decided that he needed a dumpster and was going to fight for it. A pack of dogs were lurking around, eyeing the potential beds and starting to growl at one another. Barder slowly approached, his neck low and a guttural growl came out, the pack immediately focused on him and started to encircle him. The fight for territory had begun and the animals were a cloud, biting and tearing each other. Barder got bit more than once and was bleeding all over, he noticed that his body felt strange and his mind was going places he couldn't stop it from going. His mouth started foaming uncontrollably, and he started barking crazily at the others. They sulked away and left the dumpster for Barder. 'Finally' thought Barder hazily, it was about time he got a bed. Stumbling around the ally he tried to jump in the dumpster but didn't have any strength to do it and at this point his mouth was a river of foam. Barder's vision started to tunnel and he passed out on the pavement.

The first snow had come. It gently laced everything with white dust, including Barder's unconscious body. Now, dogs were not the only homeless beings in this small town, there was some little children who wandered the streets day and night, looking for anything to help them out. There was one little boy who always had an orange scarf wrapped around him like a blanket, probably from his long dead mother. He was wondering the streets that morning of the first snow, relishing the beauty that surrounded him. The orange scarf had turned into a turban to keep his tiny head warm from the bitter cold. He came across Barder's blood-caked body, laying partially buried in the snow, and started to pet him. Barder awakened with a fright and bit the child's hand. The boy started weeping and slowly he started to foam. Barder lay back down, delirious and dying, only dreaming of those frogs way down in the bayou. The little boy sat down on Barder's back and then fell over into the snow, scarf still tightly wrapped around his head, uncontrollably foaming and convulsing. They both lie there dying, dreaming of flight, in the fresh white snow.

*Image taken from JanVonHolleben.com