On black dog days, the door remained closed.
We crept about the house, ducking beneath the shadows festering outside the study.
Mother said that for him, when the black dog came, there was no difference between day and night. He couldn’t help it, she said.
As we grew, we began resenting that gaping hole in the family where he used to exist, and we challenged him.
“C’mon Dad, get a grip, man…”
“Take a pill or something…”
Finally he did.
I sit at his desk. The shape in the corner rises, tongue lolling, waiting to play.
I get up and close the door.
It’s been a sad week and I expect lots of us will have recent events on our minds as we buckle down to Friday Fictioneers this week. I found this link whilst googling around, which says it better than I can really. The graphics on this clip are so apt.