I know, I know, no one cares about the fact that we’re buried under 25 tons of snow in the northern climes. I knew the risks when I moved there! (Actually I can tell Teri is slightly interested, maybe from a dim anthropological sense or maybe from some misplaced Upper Midwest nostalgia, as she lives now in a place where it rarely snows.)
I was awakened before dawn by the sound of my dog heading for the kitchen. Fear clutched my heart. I followed him, and asked without much enthusiasm, “Do you want to go outside? Do you need to go out?” If he does have to go out, this questions is usually followed with much dancing on the dog’s part, because successful human–dog communication always makes him happy. That is, he likes it when I understand what he wants.
I look outside. At 6 am the snow is orange-tinged from the street lights. I can see the fence at the side of a yard and a little of the park, but I can’t see the playground. There is a foot of snow on the porch, god knows how much snow on the stairs leading to the yard, and the snow is definitely coming down sideways. A little dog could get blown away in weather like this.
Taking the easy way out, I calculate that he probably doesn’t have to pee or he would have danced at the back door instead of sitting as if he wanted food, and so I carried that hungry little muppet right back upstairs and deposited him next to the warm and sleeping DP. “Go back to sleep, dog. It’s too early.”
But now I’m awake. Half a cup of coffee in, I can see the sky lighten slightly. The snow looks blue with incipient daylight. I’ve got some editing to do, some writing edits to enter, an essay I haven’t looked at in a week, some posts on transgender identity to moderate, and at least twenty minutes before I have to go out and shovel a pee trail. At least I can pee indoors.