Dear Kid,

In case you hadn’t heard, it is cold. Cold as in stick your head in the freezer to warm up. Cold as in the mercury has fled to the bottom of the thermometer and is huddling there refusing to peek out. Cold as in negative numbers. Cold.

Not only is it cold (have I mentioned it’s not tropical?) we’ve had a fair amount of snow followed by big trucks  putting down whatever it is they use to melt snow these days.

As you may recall, Booker’s delicate tootsies object—strenuously—to the snow-melting stuff.

Today he took those objections to an entirely new level. Did he pick up a paw for me to clean off (as he has often done in the past)? No, not exactly. That silly little boy tried to pick up all four feet—at the same time. Have you ever seen a dog try to retract all four legs while not lowering his already low-slung body to the ground? It works in cartoons. In real life on a slippery road at 6am, not so much.

So, being the kind of mom that I am, I picked him up before he sprained a stomach muscle (or his ego), wiped off his paws, and put him back down in deeper snow. He took two steps out of the snow, right back to where he’d been, and gave me a reproachful look that said, “Why didn’t you sweep this stuff off the road?” Then he hunched in on himself and refused to move. Coaxing didn’t move him. The Look did not move him. Even when next-door-neighbor Andy backed his car into the road and prepared to run us down (I’m sure he’d have done it gently—he’s a good guy), Booker refused to move. He just shut his eyes against the headlights. Death must be better than walking! Maybe, but I scooped him up and carried him back to our house. He began to shiver to better express the pathetic-ness of his situation.

Once we got halfway up the driveway, I wiped his paws (again) and put him down. I took several steps into the lovely fresh clean snow on our lawn.

Me: Come on, baby
Booker (balefully): Why?
Me: You like snow
Booker (channeling Eeyore): Not today
Me: Come on, baby
Booker: No
Me: Booker, you need to take advantage of being outside
Booker (leaving Woebegone and moving on to Petulant): Do not. I’ll hold it
Me (using my Mom Voice): I can wait
Booker: Fine (two tiny drops of yellow appeared on the snow). I’m going in. You stay here if you want, but I’m going in.

Once we got inside, he resumed shivering to emphasize how it was my fault he was cold and, um, unrelieved.

“There you go,” I said as I finished drying him off. “Ready for breakfast?”

Instantly, all shivering forgotten, Booker became the happiest animal on the planet. Joy radiated from every inch of his being. (There aren’t many inches, but he packed a lot of radiance into each one.) Never before has breakfast been greeted so enthusiastically (Snoopy danced for suppertime, not breakfast). He spun, he skidded across the floor, he raced over to tell his toy skunk, he zoomed back to the kitchen before I could change my mind, discovered I was still taking off my boots, and began the process all over again.

Silly puppy.

Hope your day is filled with more joy and less Eeyore.

Love, Mom

 To everyone hit by Winter Storm Hercules–stay safe!