In the heart of the countryside, a single dandelion stands alone, facing death from the cold bite of winter. Its root bent forward, the bud a dark shade of grey now absent of any blushing yellow stems.
As it stood, minding its own business, the dandelion saw the huge snout come toward it, sniffling with moist nostrils. The tender nose belonged to an eight-year old German shepherd named Maggie, who came waddling over with her striking grey and white coat and bushy tail wagging.
For as long as he could remember, Dennis Arlington had taken the same walk every morning. He would head out of the house, head toward the farmers field, down the public path, into the woods and then circle back round to head home.
Of late, the walks had become more of a daily chore like washing the dishes. It wasn’t something Dennis wanted to do, more that it needed to be done. Back in the day, Maggie would prance and bounce when she saw the leash, the eagerness in her eyes to get out and chase sticks. When she saw the leash now, her aging eyes rolled as though uninterested.
Being a retired postal worker having completed a stint of twenty years, Dennis certainly had a change of lifestyle. The hair on his head had started to recede at a rapid rate and the gut hung a little lower over his trousers. Growing older means our bodies, in their mischievous ways, enjoy making the odd joint ache and hip crack louder as the days pass. Dennis was no different, his wife irritatingly called it – ‘winding down’.
Dennis didn’t want the tombstone ordering just yet, that ticker of his had to keep pumping, hence the walks.
First thing in the morning come rain or shine, Dennis dressed, had a quick coffee – black with two sugars, and then headed out. A repetitive and mundane routine.
Only this morning would be different, this morning would be the last time he made this walk. After today, Dennis wouldn’t leave the house until his cold body was rolled out on a stretcher by the ambulance service.
Finding the small village of Ravenswood on any map would be quite the challenge. Bordering on the outskirts of Sheffield, it was quaint and unspoiled by high-rise modern civilization, a rural utopia for any Peak District trekkers.
Many hikers would come in their groves from around the region. They would come to admire the beauty of the green countryside and to climb the tall hills and walk the vast farming fields.
Surrounding the whole village, like a palm clasping a totem was the vast hundred- and twenty-acre woodland.
That’s where Dennis found himself, this cold morning at the beginning of November. The footpath of the woodland was solid with glittery ice-shells leading the way. At this time on an early winter’s morning, everything was silent apart from the rustling of a rodent or a dead stick cracking in the distance. The dark of the morning had started to brighten, with the first beams of sunlight peeking out nervously.
The thing about living in such a rural place out in the country is that you contended with the best and worst of what the elements have to offer. If it wasn’t the heat of the sun burning Dennis’ head, it was the gale-force winds threatening to blow down everything in its path.
‘Take the rough with the smooth’ had been Dennis’ wife’s common phrase whenever he decided to complain about such things.
As of today, the temperatures had plummeted with snow being threatened by the news. The forecast had given Dennis a premature shudder thinking about how he’d have to shovel the driveway and freeze his hands scraping the car windscreen.
The cold enjoys showing you how ferocious it can be to these aging bones, the joys of getting old, huh?
Dennis had put on his thick green coat along with gloves and flat cap, leaving the perfect winter’s dish - a sweet-smelling stew with onions bubbling to tender in the slow cooker.
Maggie trotted beside him as always, being his best friend since the day he got her. She had been as loyal as any dog could be, well natured and beautiful on the eye.
In the woods nothing phased her. Despite her size, Maggie didn’t bother other dogs with her intimidating look, she would just engage in an innocent sniff here and there.
She ran in the fallen brown leaves and would usually come at Dennis’ command. So it came as quite the surprise when she fled down the eastern path.
‘Maggie!’ Dennis called following.
All he got in return was a rustling in the sea of leaves.
Dennis headed in after her against his own battle of will.
This part of the woodland he never ventured. It had always been a peculiar spot within the woods; The Cat’s Eye was a desolate place where adolescent acts were carried out by the local youths, drinking their booze and smoking their drugs.
Dennis shook his head wondering what paraphernalia that may be scattered across the ground this time. Broken bottles, tab-ends or used condoms? This place stained the woodland and the village. Dennis hated it.
The path down toward The Cat’s Eye had become overgrown with thorny bushes and overhanging branches, visually out of sorts compared to the rest of the woodland.
‘Maggie!’ Dennis cried again.
Barking came echoing back, an answer to his calls.
Maggie never barked.
What if she’s in trouble? Another dog has got hold of her! She’s stood on that broken glass and cut her paws up!
Dennis swept the bushes aside, racing down the graveled path as fast as those old weary legs of his would allow.
His heart pumped; his chest taking in the coldest of air.
Coming to a stop, Dennis could finally breathe and take in much needed oxygen.
Maggie stood in the opening of The Cat’s Eye.
She was motionless, growling and ready to unleash another loud bark.
‘Maggie, what’s gotten into you?’
Dennis almost collapsed to his knees trying to make sense of the horror that sat … no, knelt before him.
Weakness bit at his legs and bladder, his hands shaking.
The ice-cold breath vacated his lungs in a whimper.
Run old man … run as fast as these damn legs will carry you and get help … any help you can.