Last night, I took my dog, Sprocket, for a walk in the snow.
About 5-6 inches of powdery snow covered the grassy areas in front of our apartment building, but the parking lot was plowed. Sprocket has on the little booties I got her for Christmas. She doesn’t like them, as evidenced by her altered gait that looks something like a cross between a penguin and a sea lion, her hind legs bow-legged and her paws lifted at strange angles like she’s walking in syrup. But they do protect her paws from the cold (somewhat) and the salt.
I let her off leash to see what she would do.
First, she adventured into the unplowed area to relieve herself. The snow was up past her shoulders (she’s a corgi mix), but she soldiered on about three feet off the plowed path and squatted down to take a leak.
Once relieved, curiosity overcame her and she started to explore — sniffing the snow and the bushes covered with snow. After she’d gone about seven feet out I called her back and led her toward the plowed parking lot.
She followed me at first then started to lead the way. Soon she was running at full speed toward a tree at the end of the lot that marks one of her favorite spots to dump. But, there was a barrier of plowed up snow about 2 feet high blocking her way. She stopped and looked back at me.
“Go on,” I encouraged her.
She looked at the barrier and took a leap, knocking some of the snow down as she pushed through it.
Now she was in the spirit. After her dump, she sprinted here, sprinted there, while following me to the trashcan.
Then we started to slog our way back home. On our way, we came to a pile of plowed snow about 3 feet. I pushed through just fine, thankful for the warm, fake-fur lined snow boots I bought this winter. She followed me as far as the wall of snow.
I turned around to see how she was doing. She was staring at me, her head just above the pile, with a pitiful a look upon her face. It was like she was trying to say, “Don’t leave me!”
“Come on, you can make it!”
She turned around and started to run off, back toward the trashcan and out of my line of sight.
“Where are you going?” I call after her.
She changed direction, her run forming an arc, coming around back to the barrier that had just moments before stopped her in her tracks. She ran. She leaped. She burst through the pile of snow, and joyously ran on ahead of me toward the apartment.
She had a look of pure glee upon her face — I was filled with joy at the sight. Her exuberance took her past the pathway to our building’s main door and she had to turn around and come back. If it hadn’t been so butt cold, I would have let her enjoy her snow run longer.
