Antidote

At the end of a long and unfair day, when the sky and snow had turned a satisfying shade of purple while the sun still glowed brilliant orange around the darkened silhouette of the trees, Duncan and I stumbled across the street to the park to romp in the snow. It was a chore getting there, and more than once while I pulled on a second pair of extra thick socks and laced up my heavy boots, while Duncan danced around me, bouncing and whining in that sing-songy bird-like way of his, I said aloud, "God, I hate winter." But once we were there, once Duncan began running in wide laps around me, his mouth down low, jaws open wide to scoop up the wake of snow he pushed before him, the residue of the day was gone and there was no place more perfect for me. I indulged him and kicked the pink tinged snow, which shattered in heavy chunks rather than dusting up in the crystalline powder he prefers. I chased him, let him grab my gloved hand in his mouth and pull me along at an absurd pace considering the size and weight of the boots with which I am only just beginning to get reacquainted. And he indulged me, laying for long quiet moments, his face turned to the sunset, the fine line at the edge of his fur glowing magnificent gold while Orion climbed the night and the world faded purple and blue around us, the perfect antidote to this day.