Last Friday, I took the girls with me to the dog park. I think it will be the last time I take them for a long time.
The wind blew. The Youngest froze. We all ended up in the former bus shelter, where curious dogs poked their heads in through the open spaces where panes of glass used to be. Our Best Friend, in full protective mode, spent most of the time in the bus shelter with us, venturing a few feet outside to wander and sniff, but not moving too far off. We left before our meter expired, which is unheard of.
The best dogs are gone. I haven’t seen Princess in over a month; she and her owner disappeared last winter too, reappearing in May. The Italian greyhounds, my two special boys, were there about a week ago, but they had their sweaters on (and Cocoa looked quite… effete… in his little Argyle). I haven’t seen them since, and they’re too delicate for severe cold. More friends I’ll miss ’til spring. I’ll see Happy, I’m sure, a few others… but only strong, heavily furred creatures enjoy the northern winter.
Our Best Friend loves the cold, but he hates the wet. I managed to run out there with him today, during a break from the rain that’s been falling steadily since Saturday. About five minutes before we had to leave to get the girls from school, it starting raining again. And it wasn’t a gentle start, with a slow build-up, giving you a chance to open an umbrella, or get to your car. No, suddenly it was sheeting down. Again, I got to the car before the meter expired.
I don’t like the cold or wet, but unless I want to suffer guilt, I try to take him out every day. That means muddy paws on my kitchen floor, and dirt everywhere. That, combined with the furballs along the baseboards and in every corner, makes me understand why my friends think I’m crazy to have a big shedding dog in the house. I’ll actually be happier when it is winter; at least the snow is cleaner than the rain and mud.