snow

We are absolutely crushed under the snow, which has flattened trees and bushes and weighed down power lines. On the first day of it, Kosmo decides that he’s not leaving the porch, but Pearl keeps launching herself into a bank of snow, trying to find purchase. As always, I have to admire her spirit and the way she seems hardly to notice that since the last time she came outside, 30 inches of something white and wet has covered everything familiar and turned the ground into, well, into something white and wet and deeper than she is tall. But it doesn’t trouble her, doesn’t even merit a second look. She doesn’t love it, and she doesn’t hate it. She appears to regard it with complete equanimity, much as you’d think she’d regard, say, the teapot, except that she’s afraid of the teapot, or the broom, except she’s terrified of the broom. So I suppose this is what it means to be a little feral: if you find yourself in 30 inches of snow, you just look for shelter and curl into a tight, warm ball, preferably with a member of your pack if you have one. Nobody remarks upon the weather. But if a teapot shows up, it’s every pup for herself.