It was a dark and stormy night

Few weeks ago, when it was a dark night, but without the northern November sea wind (like we had yesterday), I was walking outside with the dog. I passed familiar places and tried to think what to write about, but I felt bit down and forgotten, as I tend to do when autumn is nearly over and everything, even the nature, is desperately bare. I was thinking how lovely it was, just a month ago, to sit in shadow and enjoy cold Italian prosecco with the friends, playing the "which animal would you be" game.

Could that be a sensible topic, perhaps a new meme, I thought, but after a second thought I believed no-one would love to read this kind of dialogue:
Colleague 1: Let's play the "which animal would you be"-game.
T Fox: Ok. What animal would I be?
Collegues 1 & 2 & 3: A sebra.
T Fox: A sebra? What about if I'd be something not so scared and stripey. Some carnivore?
Collegues 1 & 2 & 3: A wolverine.
T Fox: Hmm...
Colleague 2: If you would be a car you'd be a really old Mercedes-Benz.
T Fox: Hey, that's not an animal!
Colleague 1: Would you be a cat or a dog?
T Fox: A cat.
Colleague 1: No, you would be a dog.
Colleagues 2 & 3: Definitely a dog.
T Fox: Ok, I admit. What kind of dog I'd be then? I'd like to be an Irish Setter.
Colleague 2: A pug.
Colleague 3: Are we ready to go now?

I was ready to go and plucked the dog back from the bush. Crappy idea, I thought and wondered how many ah-so-brilliant ideas I had had, but couldn't have written about them, because so much or nearly everything would have got lost in the translation.

Two about 12-year-old boys were standing on the top of the hill with their bikes.
We came closer.
Boy 1: "Noutaja" comes.
[Unauthorized translator: noutaja s 1 retriever kultainen noutaja golden retriever]
T Fox: [not aloud] Retriever? Don't they teach anything at school these days?
We come closer.
Boy 1: Didn't you hear? "Noutaja" comes.
T Fox: [not aloud] Yes, yes, I heard, are you stupid or something?
We come closer.
Boy 1: Now I'm starting to be scared. Do you want to have a taste of my knife?
T Fox: [not aloud] Shit!
[Unauthorized translator: noutaja s 2 Grim Reaper]

I think my dog looks too nice to be nearly a wolf. Should I get her a creepy outfit?

Jack Sparrow Dog Costume and many more here

Fear and Mumbling in Sledge Hill Park

I was walking with the husky in the park nearby, pondering should I wear my ski suit or swimming suit the next day. It was dark grey everywhere, the pale leafless trees waved in the mild wind. It was almost 11 pm and all the joggers and Nordic walkers had gone inside.
I was almost melting to the quietness when I saw it.

There was a dog hanging from the tree. It's body was stretched, the legs kicked slowly back and forth. I looked closer and saw a tall man standing under the tree. The dog was hanging really high, it's feet weren't even touching the man's shoulders. I stared at the dog feet, moving slower and slower. I wondered should I break the silence or just walk away. I walked away. I closed my eyes, saw the dead, swaying body in my mind and turned around.

T Fox: Excuse me, what are you doing? Why is that dog hanging from the tree?
Man: It's just hanging there.
T Fox: But why?
Man: It likes it.

I looked at the dog again. It wasn't moving. I couldn't see the face of the man, but suddenly he looked like one, who likes to hang unaware animals and eat cats as a breakfast. The man's bald head was moving towards me. His body was huge. The dog wheezed quietly. I walked away and tried to find my mobile, but I had left it at home. Who would leave her house at midnight, without a phone, when all the squirrel eating bareheads were set free?

A white van came came closer. I waved my hand vigorously and the car slowed down. A small, slim long-haired man looked at me with huge, round eyes. He opened the window, just a little bit.
Man2: Yes?
T Fox: Look, don't you think that the man there is hanging a dog?

The man looked at the bushes. I tried to think if he thought which one was scarier; me jumping straight from the bushes with a wolf-like dog or an invisible dog-hanger in the dark.
Man2: I'll go and look then.
The man with the van drove to the park, opened the door and walked with short steps towards the man and the dog on the tree.

I followed the man, who looked really scared. The bald, big man looked scared too. I wondered what did the slim man think about the bald man and what did the bald man think about my hippie-looking scout. There were we; standing in the deep silence, staring at each others' trembling shadows.

The dog from the tree fell down. It was big thumb. A sound, which only comes when a trimmed bulldog falls from the tree. The dog looked at us, gave a questioning glance to his owner and
then looked carefully at my husky. I looked at my dog too and tried to guess what would she do. If she gets scared she either shows her sharp white teeth or pretends she is a squirrel. I bet she hadn't brushed her teeth yet.

Cemetery of the Living Bed

July 1994
Amsterdam

We all were feeling quite tired; me, Mr Fox and our friend "Muzzy". For two days we had been travelling, first by a ferry to Stockholm and then by a train across Sweden and Denmark.
Because we were young and extremely thirsty, we had eaten just some crackers, cheese snacks and chocolate cakes.
Because we were busy eating crackers, cheese snacks and chocolate cakes we hadn't had time to think about sleeping, until we wanted to just sleep forever and have some dreams of cheese cakes. Because we just wanted to sleep, we didn't think it was July, which was funny, because it was +30°C outside during the night, my lips were dry and my black short skirt had turned to be light brown because of the heat. Possibly because of the heat we hadn't booked any accommodation and it seemed like everyone else had done so.
Clever bastards.

Mr Fox: Where are we going to sleep?
T Fox: Can't we book a hotel room from there? [points towards the Cinderella's castle type of building with red carpets and elegantly waving flags]
---silence---
Muzzy: Last time I was here, we were sleeping in a rather nice youth hostel. It takes just about twenty minutes to get there... by train.


So we went to the Railway Station, only to notice there was just one local train leaving at that time of night and it was going to the right direction. We jumped in and had a lonely ride to a place called Bussum Zuid. What we found in the darkness, was a sleepy dormitory town, but no place to sleep. The owners of the posh buildings were dreaming of their rectangular lawns, where the worms were at deep sleep, dreaming about whatever that is the worms dream of.

Mr Fox: Where exactly is that youth hostel?
Muzzy: Well, I think it was somewhere here or there.

The direction there led us to a bigger rectangular lawn, where the weeping willows silently whispered over the stone beds for the eternally tired ones.

T Fox: This isn't a youth hostel. I think it is a cemetery.
Mr Fox: So, besides you are beautiful, you really are bright too.
Muzzy: Stop it. I think I know that path there.


So there we were, silently walking our way, heavy backbags increasing our joyful mood, when we saw a flat warehouse on one curve of the track. Three men standing near a dented Chevy van, looking at us, climbing inside the car. Suddenly we were standing in the spotlights.

T Fox: What was that noise?
Mr Fox: Did they start the engine?
Muzzy: I think they are after us. Run!


To be continued

I disagree with everything is said

There have been better weeks.
I have just found out that if everything goes wrong, it just goes.
If I try to be as zen as one can pretend, it won't make anything better, it just makes things even more unclear. I might be inside the bubble, but I fear, and hope, somebody will poke a sharp, but pointless needle on it.

And it's damn lonely there.
Some French once said the worst loneliness is the kind you have whilst around people.
I agree with that, so actually I don't disagree with everything is said, but I might probably disagree something else that French once has said.
I also noticed if i say something I am misunderstood. If I don't say anything I am misunderstood too.

So I just sat there, inside my bubble.
I sat there on the metro. My mobile rang and I didn't find it, because it was already in my hand.
Even inside a bubble one can feel those unpleasant glances of the amused.
I sat there at work. Around me, I saw people who made me feel not so shiny and more unhappy than I thought to be. I tried to speak but nothing came out. Well, something came out, but that was nothing.

I also noticed that you can't be inside that bubble for too long.
I made my decision to finally say why I disagree, but then I saw it coming closer, breaking my bubble. That did hurt, because I didn't know I felt that way.

I agree with myself. I should have stayed in that bubble. At least I produced some understandable words inside it.

I shall never open my door again, thought the neighbour

There she was like always. Dressed on her rosy pyjamas, smoking her fourth morning cigarette.
She landed her hand on the fresh morning paper and made a gentle glance towards her loving companion, still sleeping. It was 6.30 am.
Her hair is whiter than I remembered, thought she and looked at the news again. It was dark outside. Demanding drops banged the window.
It was so silent.

Suddenly she heard noise behind the front door. Heavy footsteps, sudden squeak of the wet wellington. Then nothing.
She looked at the paper again. "The City of Helsinki plans to declare itself a smoke-free city at the beginning of next year" she read and lighted another one.
Someone tried to open the door. Sounds of movement. Scratching.
Was that a small howl?

Her tottering walk led her towards the dusky hall. A key was stuck into the keyhole. Whoever it was behind the door, was becoming impatient. She looked at the door. It's silence was shaken with a furious twisting. A sound of fist cracking it's wooden surface.
She heard annoyed noise behind the door, saying: "Let me in, you son of a ****, I know you are in the kitchen!"
The voice was familiar. She opened the door.

Neighbour: What has happened? Is there a fire?
Taiga Fox: Why didn't you let me in? There must be something wrong with my key...
....
Oh dear, wrong door!

I shall never read another single detective story in my life

Early Saturday morning 3.30 am

The dog barks. I wake up. Mr Fox wakes up.
The loud doorbell voice bounces around the otherwise silent house.
Mr Fox goes to check out who's behind the door. It's not Granny Fox.
A strange, skinny, bearded man stands on the porch.
Mr Fox: Do you know anyone from here?
Me: Not really. Who is that?
Mr Fox: Well, it's some man. He's almost naked.

There really was a man. He was wearing just black underwear.
Man: Let me in!
Mr Fox: Who are you? What do you want?
Man: I want Saara!
Mr Fox: There isn't any Saara living here.
Man: She is there. I know!

The conversation went on and on. The naked man didn't believe she couldn't find Saara from our house.
Finally the man started to be desperate.
Man: Where is Saara then?
Mr Fox: I'm so sorry. We don't know her. Why are you naked? Who are you?
Man: I don't know.
Mr Fox: Where did you came?
Man: From Toivola of course!

The man didn't remember his name. He didn't know why he didn't have any clothes on. He just remembered he and Saara had moved away from Toivola.
I called my Mum.
Me: Do you know any Saara living at the neighbourhood?
Granny Fox: Oh. There is one living near the station.
Me: Saara lives near the station.
The naked man looks confused.
Man: Sounds familiar. Please, let me in.

He was somewhat blue in colour. It was + 6 ° C outside.
What could have we done? Let the strange, naked man to come in ?
But we didn't see what really was behind the door.
Maybe he was hiding an axe or a friend there?
Why was he knocking on the strange doors in the middle of the night?
Why wasn't he wearing any clothes?
It was easier to wash the blood away from the naked body, though.

On the another hand he was freezing.
I saw his blue, dead body in my mind.
I saw our axe-murdered bodies in my mind.
We threw a blanket from the window and called the police.
The man sat on the porch.
Man: Please. Let me in. I'm not bad. I'm really not a bad person.
Mr Fox: Sorry, no.
Man: Okay. Could we just have a chat then? What kind of music do you listen?

We didn't hear what was his favourite piece of music. The police came and took him away.
Early in the morning I found his wet clothes and a wallet from the backyard.

There was Saara's credit card inside the wallet.
They had just moved living quite near to us. He was drunk. He must have fallen down and taken all his wet clothes off. The houses look all pretty much the same.
But instead of finding his loving, but possibly angry wife, there was a strange man inside his home, telling him that Saara (obviously a wrong one) was living near the station.

I thought how utterly confused he must have been and how ashamed and confused he must be now. I thought why I couldn't trust anyone anymore.
Then I saw a black plastic bag on the porch.
Me: Oh my god! It's Saara! Maybe he didn't remember where he left the remains of his wife.
I opened the bag. It was filled with rubbish, leftovers from the workers repairing the roof.