The gladiators

Jack is Murdoch’s best friend in the whole world. I constantly remind Murdoch that Jack is also his only friend and that perhaps Murdoch shouldn’t be such a bully all the time, like when he pushes Jack’s face into a snow bank or body-slams him into a ditch.

“Murds, you be nice to Jack,” I say as he steamrolls Jack off the trail into a deep, fluffy snow drift and sits on him. Jack peers up at me around a shaggy black shoulder with a wide grin on his face. I shake my head as I trudge past them, “Come on you guys, let’s go.”

Behind me I hear snarls and grumbles and claws digging into squeaky, packed snow and then a thundering charge as Murdoch whips past me, knees up around his ears, followed by Jack, snow spraying from his heels. Murdoch stops suddenly, turns back and picks up speed, lips flapping away from his teeth as he heads straight for Jack, Jack falters in his stride, turns to the right and pulls back just before Murdoch plows into him. They tumble around my feet, locked in battle, jaws clamping on necks and I jump to the side to avoid the tangle.

They leap in the air and bash chests, tails swish violently at the air, teeth flash white in the sun. They are a couple of gladiators snarling vicious threats; if I didn’t know better I’d think it was a fight to the death.

Murdoch throws his arm around Jack’s neck like the start of a head lock, Jack reaches up and grabs Murdoch’s cheek in his teeth, pulls him to the ground. They roll through the snow, Murdoch’s nimble body contorting in strange shapes, teeth bared and clashing. I expect them to chip.

They are so deep in battle I am surprised when they stop, distracted by some sound in the distance I don’t hear, and stand together, thoughtful and panting.

“You guys are crazy,” I say. They look at me, a brief flicker of recognition crossing their faces, and then Murdoch turns his head, slams sideways into Jack. Jack clamps his teeth on Murdoch’s neck and I skirt around them as slobber flies and freezes to their faces.