Abigail the dog did not like blizzards; she preferred bumpy, unapologetic tar and the smell of garbage to this bleak excursion. She felt the Catskills entering her insides, but had only been there once, when it was wintry and bitter and freezing. Now the roads weren't ploughed and a tumultuous and penetrating wind blew though her ears.

Abigail's owner, Arthur, a peculiarly inane creature with a red moustache, impatiently dragged her for a walk because he was late to a Debtors Anonymous meeting. It burned him up that this fucking dog would not go on the snow. Poontang got eaten up at meetings if you didn't get there early—so why won't this runt pee or shit?

The flakes were coming down heavy and Abigail felt millions of white wet dots on her back and red snout. It was below zero and Arthur had not purchased a coat for her and she was trembling. There were passersby who shook their heads as the skinny beast and the overweight owner meandered.

Arthur yelled at Abigail who refused to go. Not in this skittish weather with this ambitious asshole who wants to go to his fucking DA meeting, she thought. The dog, which was brown and had a blue collar, was shivering. Abigail couldn't defecate and was unclear how she could compensate. She thought maybe, maybe, when this prick leaves this evening, I could do it on his bed. He'd throw me out the window, but at least I would not have to endure his cow–like shouts.

Arthur occasionally hit the dog, particularly if she moved slowly. She reminded him of movie horses that were supposed to budge if you hit them. This time he reached for the leash, although other moments, if it was particularly dark out, he'd get his belt.

Abigail blinked and looked up sheepishly at him. She loved Arthur somewhat but he was being a total bastard. If she could, she'd have removed his arms so he couldn't hit her. Abigail recently bit Arthur when he tried to steal a rawhide. Abigail could also not comprehend why, if Arthur doesn't eat the rawhide, he steals it? Abigail had been on the couch, and Arthur hated when her saliva got on his pillow, so he reached for her bone. She then pierced his skin, so this must be why he's angry.

Abigail got uneasy when it snowed. She liked walking on the ice if there was no salt because salt made her paws bleed. This blizzard made her nervous. The dog could not urinate and Arthur was impatiently waiting to see yellow in the snow. Maybe Abigail couldn't think straight with this white mixing with slush where she normally walked over empty soda cans and nibbled on dirty French fries. She also couldn't see Chinese people who normally covered the streets in her neighborhood. Several times she noticed that Arthur, trying to get through the Asians, had ignited near riots. Also, some women, probably from Beijing or thereabouts, had spotted Abigail in front of the Italian supermarket and the dog sensed they might want to bring her home for dinner. It was a rare moment when she wanted Arthur to return quickly.

Arthur hit Abigail again with the leash while a neighbor looked.

The woman hollered that she was going to call the ASPCA—that she had seen him do that before.

Arthur told the bitch to mind your own fuckin' business. She was probably a liberal asshole. Indeed, Arthur was prepared to have Abby sick this cunt if she kept yelling—especially in the midst of the friggen snowstorm.

Abigail did not want to wound her potential dog rights activist and bent down. She scrunched her forehead, which looked like a wrinkled stuffed animal. She squatted, a whiz came through, and she relaxed.

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