This is more like it. It snowed last night. The moment you opened your eyes this morning, you could tell there was snow on the ground. You didn’t need to get up and look out a window to tell, because the world is so bright. Reflecting off all that snow on the ground. Ahh.
A couple days ago, we had bad snow. Two kinds of it fell at the same time. Some of it sort of spat at you, and the rest was tiny little granules with sharp edges. And the wind was blowing hard. It was not pleasant.
In fact, when I opened the door to take Rascal out for his walk, he paused when half of him was still in the house. “This looks awful,” he said clearly.
Although I heartily agreed, needs must. I coaxed him all the way out, and closed the door behind us. He didn’t want to leave the porch, but needs must.
He said, “You’re kidding, right?” when we stepped out into the weather. Although sharing that sentiment, I started us off. At the first tree we came to, he demonstrated that he knew why we were out there, gave me a look, and turned right around for home. By that time, we were both soaked and of one mind. That was bad snow.
Today’s snow is good snow. Rascal thinks so, too. When we set off today, the first thing he did was sink his nose into the white stuff. Our friend Don, who knows about these things, says snow holds scents, and that’s why dogs drop their heads and use their noses like vacuum cleaners in the snow. They’re vacuuming up smells.
This is packing snow. Shortly after school gets out this afternoon, snowmen will attest to that. In the meantime, we have the testament of Rascal’s feet. A furry dog who walks through packing snow accumulates snowballs in his fetlocks and paws. Most of today’s hangers-on were an inch or so in diameter, although some were double that. Precious few were smaller. When the number and/or size of the snowballs became—you will pardon the term—an impediment, the dog got after them himself. He has always maintained that this is a personal matter. Or rather, not a personal matter but a canine matter.
When we’re back home, however, I take him to the dreaded washtub and run warm water over the snowballs, most of which have become ice balls by then. His undercarriage gets the same treatment as his feet. This is not his preferred way to spend time. On the other hand, he does enjoy the subsequent rubdown with a towel, and he really, really enjoys running around the house as fast as he can, which comes after the rubdown.
Best of all, he likes collecting a treat for his cooperation in the washtub. By the time the treat portion of the program arrives, he is wound up. Does he wait to find out what trick I’d like him to perform before he gets his treat? He does not. In a clear effort to save time, he goes with the same trick I asked for last time, in this case, a jumping trick. When I fail to reward him for jumping, he jumps again. He does it better. Higher. Repeatedly. With feeling. Eventually, he reaches such a state of disgust with his human’s failure to pay him what he feels he is rightly due, that he delivers a perfunctory rendition of the desired trick and gets his prize.
After this ensues the joyful treat protocol. He tosses the treat in the air. He lollops after it. He looks at me and grins, hindquarters up and forequarters low, in a play bow. Would I care to give it a toss or two? Wouldn’t that be fun? He allows me to do so, with the understanding that the toss will be vertical rather than horizontal, thus encouraging him to cavort without risk of his losing sight of the object of his affection.
Finally, he eats it. Which paves the way for his preferred after-walk activity: squeaky ball. How that dog loves his squeaky ball. Sometimes, I let him jolly me into playing this game with him. Sometimes, that is, he allows me to take occasional possession of said ball and toss it—horizontally—for him to chase. Mostly, though, he likes to keep it to himself, while showing me how quick and agile he is, not to mention how cleverly he fits under the dining room table.
Now he wants to know it it’s time to go outside again, for his afternoon walk.
12 January 2024