The Cabin

The log split with a loud crack and toppled to the ground. The man wielding the ax wiped his brow and sat down on an old stump. Beside him lay a stack of wood that he had structured ever so carefully. He admired his work, and then stood unsteadily. He picked up a bundle of the logs and hobbled back toward his cabin. The frost covered grass crunched under his feet.

As the man reached the front door of his cabin, he juggled the logs in his arms as he attempted to turn the doorknob. Stumbling through the entryway, he laid his cargo down by the fireplace. A little Yorkshire terrier lying on an intricate oval rug perked his ears but continued dozing.

“Outside, Reginald,” the man’s voice rumbled through the house, which had previously been a serene environment. The dog jumped up and trotted out the door, which remained ajar. The cool air blew through the house, rustling a few papers on the handmade kitchen table. One paper coasted across the room to land at the man’s feet. At the top it read, Dear Arthur,” but he read no further. It was something that he, Arthur, would concern himself with later.

After kneeling down in front of the fireplace to stack a few new logs on it, Arthur heard the pitter-patter of Reginald’s nails tapping across the hardwood floor. Arthur turned and greeted him with a treat.