Cabin Fever
without painting supplies is completely contrary to the meeting of my goals. Damn, I done have goal s , plural. I only have one goal: to paint. I have to do what I can to keep that dream alive, even if it means I freeze my buns off in the meantime. There’s always tomorrow for heat, right?
    “What to do, what to do, what to do…,” I say, walking towards the front door. I don’t even have a clear picture in my head about my next steps, but I do know one thing: Jaws is going to be my friend whether he likes it or not. Time to convince him I’m not the enemy. That’ll keep my mind off the fact that I’m stuck in a snowstorm without any heat, or at least I hope it will.

Chapter Eleven

    HE GROWLS THE ENTIRE WAY, but I drag his blanket and his fuzzy little butt into the house anyway. The sense of triumph I feel as I shut out the cold, with him and me inside the cabin, is probably way out of proportion to what I’ve actually accomplished, but I don’t care. This is cause for celebration.
    Jaws sits just inside the doorway eyeing me with suspicion as I take the bottle of wine I brought with me out of the fridge and pour myself a glass of it. There are exactly two wine glasses that survived the parties the squatters had in here, and I’m going to use the hell out of one of them.
    My first sip goes down really well. “Nice,” I say, nodding as I look around the room. Things are looking up. I have a somewhat clean-ish cabin, wine, and a temporary pet dog. Now all I need to do is not freeze to death and I’ll be fine.
    The entire time I prepare dinner, I talk to Jaws about what I’m doing, hoping it’ll help him warm up to me. I also continue to drink wine. By the time I’m ready to eat, half the bottle is gone. It’s helping warm the room up, at least.
    “Here you go, Jaws,” I say, putting a plate of dog food down in front of his blankets. He growls, of course. “Bon appetit.”
    I eat my dinner on the couch, wearing half of what I own on my body, gloves on my hands, and a blanket from the bed over my back keeping me warm as I choke down my formerly frozen and now over-cooked hamburger. At least the baked potato turned out okay. Glancing over my shoulder, I’m surprised to find Jaws still in his bed but his food gone. He’s a sly dog, that one. I giggle at my thoughts as I lean over to pour myself some more vino. More wine is gooooood .
    At some point I put my plate down on the table and lie down on the couch, but I don’t exactly recall the details. All I do remember is stretching my legs out in sleep and hearing a horrible noise coming from the far end of the couch.
    I crack an eye open and try to figure out what’s going on. Did I break the couch? Are those rusty springs below the cushions complaining because I’m moving? Geez, maybe I need to go on a diet.
    But no. It’s not the couch, and it’s not my butt; it’s the dog. He’s sleeping on my legs.
    “What the hell?” I push my upper body up to get a better view.
    He looks at me, rests his head on my leg, and lets out a half-burp, half-growl.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I shake my head at this pitiful mess. The two of us are perfect companions. We both need a bath and a clue. “Come over here, you little beast.” I reach over with my gloved hands and grab him, ignoring his growling bluster. “If you want to be friends, you don’t need to play hard to get.” I have so many layers of clothing on, I’m not worried about him biting me. He could go on a piranha attack and it would probably just feel like a massage. “I’m easy like that. Just snuggle up to me and we’ll be friends. See?”
    He doesn’t bite me. He just vibrates with fake anger, even when I settle him down on the couch near my chest. The copious amounts of wine I drank tell me it’s okay to have the dog near my face, even though he’s threatening to grab my jugular. I imagine this guy has survived as long as he has by acting mad even when he isn’t. Maybe he

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