It snowed overnight, about seven inches. The thermometer is stuck in the teens. The wind is blowing. There are puffs of snow stuck in our screens. But if you have a dog, you go for walks. That’s the way it is. Our little mutt likes his walks. He’s a trooper. His cheerful outlook in all types of weather is an example to one and all.
So we set off as usual this morning, he sporting his fur coat and me sporting a jacket with the hood up, a hat under the hood, a scarf, and tall waterproof boots, and carrying hand warmers in my mittens. He surveys Snow World from the porch and steps off, intrepid, as usual. For as far as the sidewalk has been cleared, he is good to go. Tail up and moving smartly along. Giving thought to which route to take today–he has definite opinions on such matters.
But then we hit uncleared walks, and it’s a whole different experience: walking no longer works. It’s too hard for the little dog to push each leg through inches of snow plus, even if he succeeds, he hangs up on his chassis, which he finds Frustrating and Undignified in the Extreme (FUE).
He has to change his gait, from walking to bounding. Sometimes he can get me to bound along with him, but not when there’s ice under the snow, as there is today. He has built-in grippers. Me, not so much. So he has to lurch along, which again he finds FUE. It’s hard to get good help.
We reach the woods and, to my surprise, he opines that he’d like to go right in. Perhaps he is lured into a false sense of confidence because someone has, no kidding, taken a shovel to the first thirty or forty feet of the path. In any case, in we go. The going isn’t too bad in there, as boot-clad people have gone before us, and he uses their footprints to aid his progress.
A new problem arises when he decides it’s time to do what a dog’s got to do. He curls his body into the right shape, only to find his posterior sitting on the snow. There’s no clearance. FUE. He solves the problem by repositioning himself over a footprint and getting the job done.
We come out the south end of the woods and head east. To reach the nearest sidewalk, we need to pick our way through some bushes. This is generally a pleasure. Today it’s a problem. The heavy snow has weighted the bushes’ branches down so low that they infringe on the path. He wiggles his way through, but one of the branches unloads its snow onto his back. Yessir, FUE. He shakes the snow off and gives me a look that says he knows this is my fault and shouldn’t I be ashamed of myself?
The first couple households have rousted themselves and cleared the walks. The dog moves out smartly, tail up once again. Then it droops. The next households have not shoveled. He turns right, down a cleared driveway, suggesting we cross the street. I agree and we do, both of us stepping in tire tracks whenever possible until we reach the haven of a shoveled walk.
Then, instead of turning left again to continue his Adventure in Snow World, the dog turns right, toward home, and leans into the leash. This is not a dog who is ever inclined to go home before I am, but this is deepish snow for a little dog. His thought bubble cannot be clearer: ’Don’t know about you, but I’m going home.
When at length we return to base camp, his ordeal isn’t over. Nope. There he is, minding his own business and worrying at the balls of snow and ice stuck to his legs and undercarriage. I take off my boots, jacket, hat, scarf, and mittens and remove and turn off my hand warmers. Then what happens? A tasty treat for the weary beast? Nope. A free trip to the laundry tub for a warm-water rinse of the clinging bits of Snow World. Talk about FUE.
Then I give him his treat. He tosses it into the air, lollops after it, and forgives me. Life is good again for a little dog.
5 February 2021