Winter Storm: trapped with dogs

Snow is whipping across the landscape. But it's not dense, it's filmy. Not like cotton but chiffon. That's because it's mixed with rain.

It's not cold. Only 34 degrees F. But it's going to get colder. And the rain/snow will thicken, obliterating my view, a flailing white sheet dropped from the heavens. The ground, now sloppy, will harden. The clusters of brown oak leaves on the lawn will skitter across it. The walk, which hasn't been shovelled will have icy peaks and hollows.

This isn't one of those first, gentle snowfalls romaticized on calendars and Christmas cards. In a gentle snowfall, everything is softened. But as I look out, the day is harsh. The straight-up blackness of the trees pierces the metallic sky. The prevailing wind has packed the west-facing trunks and branches with white: a stark contrast. The rushes of the marshes and the dead wildflowers on the prairie stand up like weapons in the slush. Soon the weight of snow will beat them down and the horizon will be flat.

This is the most entrapping kind of storm. The visibility is tenuous. The roads will be slick, the walkways impassable. No children will be rolling big balls of snow for snowmen. It's a day when you want to light a fire and hunker down and watch old movies.

But not if you have dogs. You can't say to a restless dog, "It's too awful to go out there. We'll have to stay in. I'll read you stories. We'll play games."

My dogs have an internal clock set to "park-time". Somewhere between 2:30 and 3pm , Hutchie, the grey toy poodle jumps up and barks. Maggie, the Great Dane is more subtle but just as insistent. If I'm at my computer or studying Spanish, she wedges her head firmly under my arm and pushes. Or she rests her big slobbery muzzle on the desk. If I'm standing up, she leans into me. She follows me around, stepping on my feet. She gets a look that isn't the usual canine pleading. It's look of assertion. She's absolutely certain it's time and that we'll be going.

But the park is going to be hell, today. Any day it requires effort and time. Effort now to pile on winter gear. Effort to fill the water cooler, effort to get the three dogs into the car, effort to drive to the park, effort to contain their excitement when you get there.

And time, because I can't just go for five or ten minutes. I have to go for at least an hour. And today, I'm going to be lashed by the storm while the dogs get rid of their pent up energy. I'm going to throw the ball into the gauzy air only to have it disappear. I'm going to trudge around the perimeter, shoulders hunched while my dogs romp.

The best thing about the dogpark is that there are die-hards: people who have to get their dog out no matter the conditions. We're the usual few, now as familiar with each other as our dogs.
It's not that we know a lot about each other. We really only know about our commitment to our pets. That unites us. It's a sense of commonality that makes a storm...or any oppressive weather...bearable.

Yesterday, I was at the dogpark when the storm was just starting. The wind was wicked. It flung wet snow in my face. I felt as if I was on the Steppes of Russia.

But at least I wasn't alone.