My dog, Mr. Pickles, is 10 years old. If the conversion factor for “dog to human years” is to be believed, that makes him 70 years old. He still likes to run in snow.
It brings me joy to watch him bound along the side of the road as we go for our morning and evening walks, sproinging through fluffy white powder, as well as leaping over the plow-turds* left by the maintenance folks. For an old dog, he’s got a lot of life left in him.
This morning, however, i was essentially asleep on my end of the leash. It had snowed again last night, after a brief warming period. It was only when 100 pounds of brown mutt sproinged merrily away from me – playing out the entire length of leash – that i realized i was, in fact, standing on a solid sheet of ice.
Suddenly awake, i flapped and slid like a windmill in a hurricane. In my head? Cartoon noises were playing… that “Scooby Doo” sound effect used when he’s skittering across a wet floor. If the overgrown puppy hadn’t suddenly located the EXACT spot to drop his morning poo, and stopped yanking the leash, i was destined for a certain assplant on asphalt.
It’s a damn good thing he’s cute…
* “plow turd” is a term i learned from my ex-husband, who grew up in the snowy frontier of upstate New York. These are the big clumps of gray, icky, icy snow that are dumped at the end of your driveway when the plow trucks come by… generally right after you finish shoveling.