A blizzard hit Massachusetts last week, and I figured that I’d hear all about it from the dogs. Grace was more than a little excited when she called me after the storm.
“S.E., S.E.,” she said. “It snowed!”
I heard, Gracie. Dad told me that there was a blizzard.
“There was snow everywhere, and Dad took me outside to play in it!”
“I had so much fun. Dad doesn’t let me dig in the backyard because he says I can’t fill it in afterwards, but he let me dig in the snow. It was so soft compared to the rocks in my kennel–”
You mean the kennel.
“It’s mine. Not Sampson’s, mine,” she said. “Dad brought out my Wubba and threw it. He made me bring it back to him even though I just wanted to do a victory lap around the yard. But I got him good. Whenever I brought it back, I would pretend not to hear him and ate snow instead.”
Gray-girl, you shouldn’t be eating snow. It just makes you cold.
“You sound just like Dad. He made me go inside and put on my sweater before he’d let me play anymore.”
It’s for your own good.
I know. That’s kind of the point.
And you’re warm. You’re welcome.