They Say a Lot of Things

They say you shouldn’t swim within an hour of eating. They say it’s always darkest before dawn. The say the best offense is a strong defense. They say whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They say you should dance like no one’s watching, and love like you’ve never been hurt. They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. They say a lot of things. And they always sound authoritative. Like they’re quoting scripture or the Constitution or something Ghandi said. They also said that there wouldn’t be wolves out here. And that wolves won’t bother people. But my best friend was just dismembered and consumed by a pack of wolves. I scurried up a tree just in time to see them play tug of war with his large intestine. I could even make out the remains of our lunch (summer sausage on Ritz crackers with cheese) lying on the snow partially digested, having been ripped from his lacerated stomach. I shut my eyes to block out the gruesome scene, but I could still hear them gnawing on his bones and chewing on his ample love handles. When the bastards had finished every edible part of him they encircled my tree, sat looking up with puppy-dog eyes, like dogs begging for scraps: blood still fresh on their snouts.