Surely I have described my beloved’s idea of a perfect winter day. One memorable adventure on an intensely cold day involved hiking miles from home to an urban wilderness where, crouched in the bush, he merrily heated hot dogs on a primus stove while I shivered on a wet log. Choruses of “I’m toasty! and “Isn’t this fun!” were met with my literally-frosty glare. We have had many such outings over the years and I see absolutely no signs of his mellowing. In nightmares, I am ninety, wearing a toque, and gumming my weiners in a snowdrift, albeit with a cheery mate.
Jewell also had her issues with snow. Skyes have such short legs on such middle-sized bodies that they tend to plow the snow in front of them rather than ski or prance on top of it. Skyes don’t prance at all, come to think of it. Other dog owners dry their dogs’ feet; we have to towel down the entire dog. No doubt Theodore too will require the "full-body rub/wrapped in a fleece" spa treatment to which Jewell became accustomed. I am a slave to my dogs' comfort.
Outside my studio window, the snow is accumulating on our private jet pad - other couples go on cruises; we buy high-end squirrel-proof bird-feeders. While the squirrels, well and truly out-witted, nose around the bases, aerial acts are performed above them. I read recently that chickadees have an elaborate caste system, although short of daubing paint on them, I can’t discern it. The only ranking squirrels admit to is the terror that the little red ones invariably inflict on the lumbering black squirrels. Apparently, the reds are channelling my great-grandmother who, her husband claimed, was "wee but mighty.”
I am waiting for tomorrow: usually a snowstorm is followed by a period of brilliant sunshine. This is my favourite kind of snow day, and already I am hungry for the pure blue shadows cast across smooth slopes of white. My toes may be frozen but my eyes are warmed.