The snow had stopped falling by the time I reached home and most of what had collected on the grass had turned into slush under the light drizzle that had replaced the snow. Duncan was sitting in the window watching the parking lot and, I assume, the snow, waiting for me to climb the stairs, leash him up and take him out. He was quite ecstatic at the sound of my key in the lock and began chirping anxiously as I stepped inside. I was cold and wet and frustrated at the long drive across the city, surrounded by drivers who, despite what you'd expect, have almost no knowledge of driving in the snow, even the kind that looks more like rain and doesn't stick to the ground but for only a few minutes. I was not eager to go back out in the cold but Duncan wouldn't have any of it; he grabbed my wrist in his mouth, led me to the couch where I could put my things down, then guided me right back to the door where he sat and waited, tail thumping, ears up and alert, eyebrows raised. I patted his head, sighed, grabbed my gloves, made a mental note to start thinking about getting a new winter coat, and grabbed his leash.
It was dark out and what little snow remained was threadbare and weak but Duncan did not care. He galloped across the parking lot and slid on his belly right through the closest patch (if it could be called that), scooping the slush up in his mouth and snapping at the last of the raindrops as if they were heavy flakes It was not what he wants but he made the best of it and celebrated it as hard as I celebrated our weekend sunshine. He did not turn to look at me as though to say, "This is it? This is all there is? This is what you've been bellyaching about?" No, he ran and jumped and rolled about as though the gray little patches barely peeking above the grass were the greatest thing he'd ever seen, greater than bunnies, greater than leaves tossed on the wind or turkey fed from my mother's fingers.
We could all take a lesson from our dogs. It takes so little to please them and they are so very, very patient.