The Book of Weston

Fishing on a dock, on my first cast I feel a tug on my line, so I reel it in even though the force of it threatens to yank me into the lake. I must have a monster of a fish. I call to my family, but they're no longer in sight and none of them come. Turning back, I see a bright orange mass emerge from the brown depths: a tiger slowly clawing its way to the surface, eyes shining, demon face wrinkled and snarling, lips peeled back baring fangs, releasing muffled underwater roars and swirling plumes of furious bubbles. I back away, no longer wanting to pull it in, but it’s coming up on its own now. Soon, it’s on the dock dripping and growling. I stand still but it lunges closer and, instinctively, I risk my arm and rub it on the nose. This seems to work, confusing it long enough for me to back away toward the house. It lunges again, and I extend my edible hand to scratch its wet nose, and it freezes, and we do this dance all the way to the garage where, once inside, I slam the door in its face. But I don't think it's gone. I think it's still out there circling. I hear its rumblings some nights; it seems angry I brought it up. I'll go outside again someday, I swear.