The glow from a candle in the window was the only thing marking the cabin as occupied. Getting in this time of year had been by snowshoe and sled. The Gray Menace had been disgusted by the snow but thrilled at the mice that ran away in panic; their rustic retreat ruined.

 I got the fire going and put some of last night’s stew on the little wood stove that warmed the cabin. I lit the Alladin kerosene lamp and pulled the old manual typewriter out of its case. I had little intention of using the old manual for writing. It was my cover. I rolled a fresh sheet of paper in and typed a few sentences just in case the owner of the cabin showed interest in how my sabbatical week was going.

Away in the distance, I heard a coyote. The Gray Menace lept off the bed and onto the window sill. ” Give it up, Clancy. Not even you’re going to take down a coyote.” Looking over to the little bookcase, I scanned the titles. Of course, Jack London’s Call of the Wild. In the amber glow, I stretched out, cat on lap, for a glorious evening.

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