Brendan Gates

I left the office building tonight and walked down the hill towards my car. It was dark and cold, with winds snapping just enough to be noticed. Runoff from the day’s snow melt kept the ground damp and slick. Feral cats cried from the woods near the old creek.

I entered my lot. Dimly lit street lamps glowed down on the bits of gravel I kicked with each step. Closer and closer I came with each step. Then I saw it. The golden crunchy crust brandished a clean wooden stick, both working to promote and protect their salty meat treasure. Could it be? It was.

A corn dog.

On the ground. Touched by neither man nor mustard, this battered treat looked as fresh as the day it left the Fry Daddy. I looked around but there was nothing. Nobody. No clues, no wrapper, not a state fair in sight. Where did it come from? What did it mean? Should I pick it up and eat it?

The wind snapped again, reminding me sharply that the crispy cornmeal with just a hint of honey was not to be. I had to get home to my stick-free dinner, and out of the cold. I moved on.

It’s probably still there, on the ground. Calling out towards the next hungry employee or stray dog to walk by. What will become of it? Will I eat it on my way back into work tomorrow morning? Maybe I should wait until afternoon and use it as a post-lunch snack? What if one of those feral cats beats me to it? Only time will tell. Fare thee well, little corn dog. Fare thee well.