snowdog

Overnight, it snowed.

 

 

Buckets and buckets of the white stuff, more yet than you'd had all year. Homeschool co-op was cancelled and your mom made pancakes and you got some serious work done in the morning.

Then you snapped the leash onto the collar of your little black dog, and headed out into a world of white to have An Adventure. The two of you ploughed and leaped and bounded through the knee-high drifts, and before five minutes had passed your black dog was gone, a furry white creature in his place.

He tired quickly of jumping through chest-high drifts, and so the two of you moved off the unplowed sidewalk to follow the tire tracks that crisscrossed the street, sprinting sometimes, the leash connecting you as you wove down two seperate paths.

 

 

 

 

A hard lump rose in your throat as you sucked in the frigid air, and the two of you slowed to a walk, you taking the lead, stomping down the snow so he wouldn't have to leap over the snowdrifts.

Almost before you stepped back inside, the snow that covered every inch of the dog had turned to water droplets, as though the promise of warm air was all it took to melt them into little shining beads that clung to his hair.

And the two of you dried him off, you using fingers and towel to pull apart the matted clumps, him working happily away with his tongue (licking fingers almost as often as he did fur.)

You remembered again why you loved snow days so much.