Mopping raw sewage in his cellar, the wolf regretted ever leaving the forest.
From where had it come? Had the sewer line leading out of the house clogged, causing in-house sewage to somehow overflow into the furnace room, or had some external problem caused outside sewage to flow back into the house and overflow?
And why did it have to happen on a Saturday night, maximizing the time he would have to wait before a plumber could come?
He imagined scenes from plague horror movies where a janitor mops contaminated water and you see a single drop, in slow motion, splash up and get him in the lip, or the eyeball, and then in even more extreme closeup, how the bacteria, or viruses, enter his bloodstream, etc.
Everything is a question of perspective, he told himself.
Accepting his fate to the extent that he mopped up everything and resolved, once it had dried, to mop the room again with some sort of harsh disinfecting liquid, the wolf nevertheless washed his paws for a long time, then clipped his claws and washed his paws again. And then again.
Good thing about a pandemic, thought the wolf, is at least you have lots of disinfectant on hand.
Then he poured a glass of whiskey, closed his eyes, and thought of tundra, and forests, and prairie.