I Never Should Have Built A Snowman In My Backyard

I’m going to sound crazy, but I need to tell someone the story of what happened to me. Someone other than the police. Those fuckers laughed all the way back to their patrol car.

It started this morning, when I woke up to ten inches of snow on the ground. The storm came out of nowhere. Thanks to global warming, it’s been warm and sunny around here lately. I honestly thought we’d be able to get away without a drop of snow the whole winter. But then it all hit at once.

I wouldn’t have even bothered to step outside if it wasn’t for my dog. He needed to use the bathroom, which meant I needed to shovel a path. I strapped on my snow boots, slipped into my heaviest coat, and rummaged in the basement for a pair of gloves.

I had a large, heavy-duty shovel, but it didn’t help. Clearing out the snow was useless. Whenever I felt like I was making progress, the snow would pile up again. I had to stand on top of a fresh patch and call for my dog, begging him to get his paws wet, because there was no way he’d be stepping on grass for a few days.

He timidly joined me outside, but after a few minutes, he was loving it. He pounced around, leaving circles of paw prints throughout the yard. He dug his nose into the ground, turning his whole snout white. It was adorable.

I rolled up a snowball to see what he would do. As I should have guessed, he tried to eat it. Then I rolled up a larger one. Without really planning it, I built a snowman and a snow dog. Then I snapped a selfie of us in front of it. It was cute. Got lots of likes on Instagram.

I expected the snow to clear up within the next few hours, but it only got heavier. The weirdest part was, instead of getting covered over by snow, my creations only grew bigger. They nearly towered over my fence. They also looked like they’d moved a few inches, but I figured it must’ve been an illusion.

The next time I let the dog outside, I wasn’t brave enough to join him in the cold. I was already in my pajamas, sipping cocoa. I figured he would be fine on his own since he had so much fun earlier, so I closed the door and waited to hear him scratch to be let inside. But I heard him yelp instead.

I assumed he’d gotten frightened by a branch snapped by snow or a whistling gust of wind. I opened the door to let him inside and he came in, tail between his legs, whimpering. There were slashes across his back. Four of them. Like claw marks. It must’ve been a fucking raccoon.

Thankfully, the scratches weren’t deep, so I cleaned him up and fed him treats. Then I marched outside with my shovel, putting on shoes but skipping the coat and gloves, planning to chase the creature away.

There were blood drops on the snow. They led up to the snowman. To his stick hand with four wooden fingers poking out. Like he had done the attacking.

It was a ridiculous thought. Impossible. But whether it was a raccoon or a squirrel or a snowman, I was pissed about my pup getting hurt, so I raised the shovel over my shoulder and whacked off its head. It made me feel a little bit better, so I kept going. I knocked off its buttons. I bashed in its stomach. I kicked a hole through its bottom.

I only stopped once something sharp dug into my leg. I stumbled forward and fell into the snow, shivering. When I looked down, my ankle was bleeding. And I swear, that blood trailed from my flesh, all the way over to the snow dog’s teeth.