postcards from Padfoot-1

As I try to make sense out of this absolutely insensible existence, staring down the barrels of my great-grandpa's old Winchester, trying to count the coiling twists inside the cold-gunmetal barrel and loosing track every time... as the world around me fades in and out of existence as I grapple with some eluding thought... as the mind tries to handle the myriads of realizations that keep popping up and bursting into nothingness like insects around the diwali lights... as the consciousness struggles to prevent an absolute overwhelming of the senses and sensibilities... amidst all these chaos in my room, an enormous black grizzly dog sits quietly and stares out into the night, over the moors, and beyond the horizon dotted with the city lights. Every muscle in its body static, the eyes unblinking, its hind limbs coiled and front stretched vertical, it sits still, its breathing controlled,it is quietly watching the moors beyond the housing colony boundaries. As if expecting a silvery doe to float from behind it, almost rhythmic in its movements, a smile on it's face... again... Padfoot is blue tonight. It doesn't show in his eyes, and his tail is still as the night. He sheldom bares his fangs, and never barks. But you could tell it, just by looking at his large black figure outlined in the dark like a giant silhouetted against the night sky... he is agitated. The world is about to change, for him. He can feel it in the air. He sniffs the night air, and casts another glance back at the flight of stairs leading down from the room, just for a second. Then he goes back to gazing at the moors, oblivious to the sounds of dinner table chatters and evening news broadcasts floating from the neighboring houses. He sniffs the air again, as if trying to find some cue of the coming of the doe. Nothing. All he hears is the sound of dinner chatter. Too faint for the human ears, but well within a hound's range. He barely spares any thought to the mindless frolicking of the bipeds, so engrossed in their mass-produced life of 'joy' and 'sorrow'. Some infant is screaming itself hoarse next door. Parents engrossed in soap operas or News Hour debates, no doubt. Or perhaps trying to catch a quickie before dinner. Thoughts flash through his head in an instant. For a moment there, he turns his enormous snout right and glares into the window next door. He could see the baby thrashing around in its cot. For a second he imagines his strong jaws closing around the father's carotid artery. A muscle twitches around his snout, for just a fraction of a second. He snorts, almost contemptably, and turns back towards the moors. Barely noticing the human now typing on a computer in the room. He almost likes this one. He feels a strange affinity towards this particular biped. He has often spied this one staring out towards the same moors. He vaguely tries to think, "What could that one be looking for there? But then... that's where real life is... beyond those moors, where real loneliness is." As the human types on, the enormous black dog sits as still as ever, staring out into the night...