Snow covers the city outside my window like a cotton pillow that has been ripped to shreds; it’s stuffing, flops over the valley in one cheap layer.  I would stop to admire the twinkling flakes were I not fuming over the loss of possessions actually ripped to shreds: my year books.  Their neat and carefully preserved bindings now curl from the top of each book.  Exposed cardboard sneers at me with gnawed edges.  The paper cover of a long lost elementary school yearbook has been ripped away.  The red bulldog mascot looks less than fierce where he now lays in a trampled heap of discarded plastic and magazines.

Roxy, the wonder dog, bows her head and curls her stubby tail as she dodges out the patio door.   She knows.  I know.  All this knowing doesn’t stop the rampage that is Roxy.  This is the second night in a row she has shredded my storage.  She tiptoes around me, sensing words that don’t transfer between our species.  I would have given this doe-eyed pup the boot the first month if I could have.

Roxy, Roxy, Roxy, you did not tarry long in my affections.