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| The Frozen Tundra |
8:30 last night, nineteen degrees below zero outside, and I have a desire for a snack. Ice cream. The
most illogical snack in the middle of a polar vortex and that's what I want. So
I'm sitting there in the living room watching television, munching down on
something called Triapolitan American Dream ice cream, and the dogs decide it's
time to go out. They really haven't wanted to go out much the last couple of
days, but when the urge hits them they suck it up. By now, with twenty four
hours of sub-zero temperatures, we have developed a routine. I bundle up like
Nanook of the North, head to toe warmth, and take the two little furballs down
the back stairs. I open the door and they shoot out there, pee, poop, and then
run back in. We try to keep it under one minute. Best time so far, twenty three
seconds. My dogs do not like this crazy weather, not at all. In fact there is
none of that hunting around for the perfect spot to do a number. No, Scout will
squat right there on the sidewalk, in front of the door. Chandler quickly runs out
into the snowy yard and pees, and he has given up digging for that pile of diarrhea
he left out there last week. For some reason he finds frozen diarrhea
delectable. (The diarrhea was caused by
Mark feeding him too much prime rib, which might explain why he wants it back.)
Anyway, I am looking forward to the weekend when temperatures soar into the mid
forties. That's forties on the plus side of freezing. What I am not looking
forward to is the big thaw. I can just imagine what is under all that snow
along with Chandlers puddle of prime rib.
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