He holds a paw at the door so that he may stroll out from the heat, but just as soon as the winter winds settle on the gentle giant's coat, he'd rather step back inside. Scratch, scratch. The silver-blue moon echoes the song of frost, and the warmth departs his body to join in the dance. By the time the door swings inward from the other side, the beast has already thrusted his nose back into the room before the blinds have finished dangling against the glass. Not even a second of a dream by the glowing fireplace later, an amber eye flicks open; the moon is calling. So with sleep still encrusted in the cast of his eye, the dog quivers toward the door.
Here, there, in, out. His nose has smelled both flame and frost, summer and snow, but the passings of the seasons have done little for him. Thus, when the grass in his yard begins to harden or the sun starts to linger into the night, the brown beast's bones ache for the other, always hoping to scratch, scratch into the next. His paws miss the sand; his stomach wants the couch.
Every day, the dog crawls forth or heads back through that same door, forever hungry for the meal he missed. But when the door behind him closes shut, the silence starts to stir, as certain as the moon steals the night.