Woke up this morning to the rumble of logs,
An engine revving,
Men in oily dungarees, check shirts
(or, so I imagined)
Shouting;
The whole cabin, shuddering
Sheet glass in the single pane windows,
Shaking.
‘What’s going on?’
My wife asked, drowsily,
Her bare back to me,
The eiderdown half covering
Her head of
Tousled black hair.
I swung my legs out of bed,
Put both feet on the splintered wooden floorboards,
Rubbed the sleep
From my eyes,
‘It’s the loggers’,
I replied.
‘Louie won’t like it’,
My wife said again.
Louie is our Labrador .
He’s not up to much.
‘Louie won’t like it’,
I repeated.
Knowing what was coming next.
‘Are you going to go on check on him?’
- My wife, once more.
‘He’ll be whining’, she said.
Oh heck, I
thought.
‘He will’, I said.
‘Go on then’, she said.
‘Alright’, I said.
A chainsaw screamed into life outside the cabin.
I hated the loggers then.
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