birds guzzled the bright rowan berries that had been inedible before the frosts.
The cold came in from the north as never before. The rainless days were cruelly cold. The sky stilled to a solid disc and Romochka felt the air leaving his body and freezing. The city seemed to be stiffening in the too-early winter chill. The birch leaves tinkled faintly as they fell.
Then the snow began early and didn’t stop. Every living thing was caught too soon. Still-green leaves in the undergrowth were coated in white. Snow fell from overweighted branches, and yellow leaves followed to make a discoloured carpet on the white beneath. The waning daylight on the mountain saw people and dogs eddying, noses and eyes turned upwards, northwards. The bulldozers and trucks that puttered ceaselessly through summer on the southern slopes of the mountain disappeared to wherever it was they hibernated. The cigarette smell of the backhoe drivers was a memory.
Romochka’s family paced the lair, uneasy, and yet more the chill deepened. Snow would normally have made the lair cosier as it was sealed in, but this time they could only tell it was warmer inside when they emerged to a world colder each day than the night before. Romochka could barely struggle through the deep snowfall. Nothing was right.
In the gloom of the lair Mamochka stood over her three newborn pups, ignoring their mewling, listening. Romochka could tell she was worried and that she knew something that he did not. Then she blinked slowly, bent her head to the puppies and killed them. One by one, biting once through each of their soft heads. Then she lay down and, one by one, ate them. Bellies first, grinding through tiny cartilaginous bones until there was nothing left, growling even at Romochka if he made a move towards her. Then she slept a long while. Through the night he heard her slow-licking herself. She ignored him and didn’t move to hunt. He slept fitfully, shivering cold even with the four cuddling him, even with all his clothes on.
With the weak dawn, which they heard and smelled rather than saw, Romochka found that they were completely snowed in. He crept to Mamochka’s side, scared. She licked his face, then pinned his big head down with her paw and cleaned his ears. He let her. She growled when he moved towards her dugs, but he waited and begged until she gave in.
Black Dog and Golden Bitch burrowed in from the outside. They had been out all night and found nothing. They greeted everyone, carrying the cold in with them on their shaggy shoulders. They smelled the empty nest in deep snuffs. Then they waited with the younger dogs for twilight. Everyone would have to hunt.
Even in winter the mountain gave off enough heat to melt the heavy snowfall; and, with its cold heat, to send a steady beacon of faint chemical disturbance into the frozen forest and out to the tenements and apartment blocks. In its updraught, ragged birds—seagulls and grey ravens—wheeled and cried, looking like bits of windblown rubbish themselves. Snowstorms held everyone pinned in their holes or huts. In between storms, the earth was fluffy and evanescent; the sky solid as metal. Everyone hunted in the lulls. The hunting was variable for the dogs but hard for people. At winter’s twilight, stooped figures trailed up and down the mountain or along the river, poking for scrap metal or wood, or digging for food. The mountain was ringed day and night with fires.
Close-up, everything around the mountain was movement. Snowflakes danced and drifted in the smoke that rose from the fires. People stamped and jiggled in their bulky clothing; dogs trotted continuously. The birds swooped and beat the falling snow in troubled eddies with their wings.
Romochka knew little of this. Denbound by the cold, he depended on the food the others brought in and the milk he drank. He waited for the first plunge in temperature to end and the snow to shell. That first fortnight of storms took its toll on
The cold came in from the north as never before. The rainless days were cruelly cold. The sky stilled to a solid disc and Romochka felt the air leaving his body and freezing. The city seemed to be stiffening in the too-early winter chill. The birch leaves tinkled faintly as they fell.
Then the snow began early and didn’t stop. Every living thing was caught too soon. Still-green leaves in the undergrowth were coated in white. Snow fell from overweighted branches, and yellow leaves followed to make a discoloured carpet on the white beneath. The waning daylight on the mountain saw people and dogs eddying, noses and eyes turned upwards, northwards. The bulldozers and trucks that puttered ceaselessly through summer on the southern slopes of the mountain disappeared to wherever it was they hibernated. The cigarette smell of the backhoe drivers was a memory.
Romochka’s family paced the lair, uneasy, and yet more the chill deepened. Snow would normally have made the lair cosier as it was sealed in, but this time they could only tell it was warmer inside when they emerged to a world colder each day than the night before. Romochka could barely struggle through the deep snowfall. Nothing was right.
In the gloom of the lair Mamochka stood over her three newborn pups, ignoring their mewling, listening. Romochka could tell she was worried and that she knew something that he did not. Then she blinked slowly, bent her head to the puppies and killed them. One by one, biting once through each of their soft heads. Then she lay down and, one by one, ate them. Bellies first, grinding through tiny cartilaginous bones until there was nothing left, growling even at Romochka if he made a move towards her. Then she slept a long while. Through the night he heard her slow-licking herself. She ignored him and didn’t move to hunt. He slept fitfully, shivering cold even with the four cuddling him, even with all his clothes on.
With the weak dawn, which they heard and smelled rather than saw, Romochka found that they were completely snowed in. He crept to Mamochka’s side, scared. She licked his face, then pinned his big head down with her paw and cleaned his ears. He let her. She growled when he moved towards her dugs, but he waited and begged until she gave in.
Black Dog and Golden Bitch burrowed in from the outside. They had been out all night and found nothing. They greeted everyone, carrying the cold in with them on their shaggy shoulders. They smelled the empty nest in deep snuffs. Then they waited with the younger dogs for twilight. Everyone would have to hunt.
Even in winter the mountain gave off enough heat to melt the heavy snowfall; and, with its cold heat, to send a steady beacon of faint chemical disturbance into the frozen forest and out to the tenements and apartment blocks. In its updraught, ragged birds—seagulls and grey ravens—wheeled and cried, looking like bits of windblown rubbish themselves. Snowstorms held everyone pinned in their holes or huts. In between storms, the earth was fluffy and evanescent; the sky solid as metal. Everyone hunted in the lulls. The hunting was variable for the dogs but hard for people. At winter’s twilight, stooped figures trailed up and down the mountain or along the river, poking for scrap metal or wood, or digging for food. The mountain was ringed day and night with fires.
Close-up, everything around the mountain was movement. Snowflakes danced and drifted in the smoke that rose from the fires. People stamped and jiggled in their bulky clothing; dogs trotted continuously. The birds swooped and beat the falling snow in troubled eddies with their wings.
Romochka knew little of this. Denbound by the cold, he depended on the food the others brought in and the milk he drank. He waited for the first plunge in temperature to end and the snow to shell. That first fortnight of storms took its toll on
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