First walk is the hardest. Getting out of bed on a snowy morning is brutal, especially touching my feet to the cold linoleum of the bathroom floor, although nothing seems to wake me up better than standing there and shivering. Thankfully Duncan is generally pretty patient with me; he's like a child, still dazed and dreamy with his hair slightly askew and a confused look on his face. He ambles down the hall behind me and stops to take a big stretch, a downward dog yoga pose, grinning up at me while I pull on my socks and Vans. By the time I'm slipping my cap and gloves on he's awake and dancing at the door, his tail wagging and his bum swaying side to side.
Outside in the new light of this Sunday morning the snow looks blue and the roads have not yet turned to gray and brown slush. An occasional car coasts by, barely moving over the ice, making no noise at all. While Duncan leans into the snow to pee, I watch the Christmas lights blink off and shiver a big one, from my shoulders down the middle of my back to my hips, which rattle in my big blue coat. I love morning time, love watching the world come awake, feeling like I'm witness to something so few know anything about, Sunday 6:30. While Dunc meanders along the fence line, his nose pushing the snow forward, I close my eyes and let the cold sting my cheeks and the place on the back of my neck where the scarf I wear has pulled loose. The air is so clean early Sundays, like the world has made a fresh batch just for me. Snow-scented air (and there is such a thing if you pay attention) is just as wonderful as entering a home where bread has only just come out of the oven. It brings a smile to my face. After a moment, I notice I can't hear the soft crunching of Duncan walking so I open my eyes to find him twenty or so feet away, hunched up in the green circle under a tree tending to his real business. I wait a few seconds for him to finish, then plod along, scoop it up in a bag, which I drop in the garbage bin. With a whistle and a pat on my leg I call him to me. He comes readily, his snout and face white, his eyes little raisins poking through. We move back inside where my tea kettle is already calling to me. As I choose my flavor (Egyptian Licorice Mint) Duncan goes back to bed and I settle down at my desk to watch the rest of the world catch up.
Outside in the new light of this Sunday morning the snow looks blue and the roads have not yet turned to gray and brown slush. An occasional car coasts by, barely moving over the ice, making no noise at all. While Duncan leans into the snow to pee, I watch the Christmas lights blink off and shiver a big one, from my shoulders down the middle of my back to my hips, which rattle in my big blue coat. I love morning time, love watching the world come awake, feeling like I'm witness to something so few know anything about, Sunday 6:30. While Dunc meanders along the fence line, his nose pushing the snow forward, I close my eyes and let the cold sting my cheeks and the place on the back of my neck where the scarf I wear has pulled loose. The air is so clean early Sundays, like the world has made a fresh batch just for me. Snow-scented air (and there is such a thing if you pay attention) is just as wonderful as entering a home where bread has only just come out of the oven. It brings a smile to my face. After a moment, I notice I can't hear the soft crunching of Duncan walking so I open my eyes to find him twenty or so feet away, hunched up in the green circle under a tree tending to his real business. I wait a few seconds for him to finish, then plod along, scoop it up in a bag, which I drop in the garbage bin. With a whistle and a pat on my leg I call him to me. He comes readily, his snout and face white, his eyes little raisins poking through. We move back inside where my tea kettle is already calling to me. As I choose my flavor (Egyptian Licorice Mint) Duncan goes back to bed and I settle down at my desk to watch the rest of the world catch up.
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