The snow arrived, sneaking in overnight while we slept.
I shoveled the little side deck so Willow wouldn’t slip.
She watched me from the kitchen door window.
Are you done yet?
Can I come out?
Opened the door and out she went, launching herself off the deck to sprint in large circles around the yard.
A graceful runner she is not.
Instead, she is a clumsy tumbleweed of fur.
For this reason, HJ, the clever one in this house, erected little caution pole circles around areas in the yard where there are large tree stumps which, when covered with snow, are undetectable.
She ran a few laps (the poles worked – no collisions!), peed in a corner and then looked to me.
What’s next?
I tried to play with her – threw a fistful of snow into the air, pretended I was going to “get” her, hid on the other side of the large pine so she could “find” me.
She played along, but she’s older now, and doesn’t flail around in fresh snow like she did as a little pup.
(So, was she humoring me?)
We came inside and began the snow removal process. I tackled the little snow balls that formed in and around her paw pads. Grabbing the whisk – a bizarre, yet effective tool for snow removal (thank you, Instagram) – I gently slid it across the underside of each paw, shaving the snow balls off. They fell to the mat, ready to be eaten by Willow.
She didn’t eat any ice balls. She’s older now. I suppose they aren’t as exciting.
In some ways she is still a puppy, still inspires strangers to say “wow, she has SO MUCH ENERGY!” when we encounter them on walks. But she no longer eats her own poop, which is an encouraging sign of maturity.
In other ways she is a teenager, snatching sticks to chomp on when she doesn’t get enough treats on walks or sniffing around an area, pretending she is interested in a boring corner of someone’s lawn, before pouncing on a smashed blueberry pie hiding under a pile of leaves.
I still wonder how that pie ended up there?
In many ways, she is an adult. She listens better. She runs inside when we ask her to, rather than sprinting away from us, grabbing a rock and running in circles.
Now she’s curled up against my right side, head on my legs, squished against the long side of my lap desk. I’m typing with T-rex arms to accommodate her comfort. I don’t mind.
Her cuddles are tender gifts I am honored to receive.
But now, as if to say, ugh mom, you’re so corny, she groans her way to a seated position and jumps off the bed.