But I am late, too late. Covered with ice and melting snow, the huge hairy beast is on me. Before can dodge out of the way, I am as sodden, and far colder, than Bubba. He likes the weather. He’s got a fur coat. I have naked skin, a serious disadvantage in wintry New England.
I glance out the window.
Late in the twilight. Almost dark. No stars shining nor moon. The heavy cloud cover obscures the sky. Looking up, all I can see are swirls of snowflakes. What little light remains reflects on the whitened driveway and yard. Every branch is glittering — as if a giant with a marking pen has come to highlight my world.
Winter is here even if the calendar hasn’t caught up. The fluffy whiteness and biting wind are unmistakable evidence the seasons have switched. Not to mention the giant sodden fur ball melting in my lap, pinning me to the sofa and breathing hotly in my face.
I am sure Mother Nature isn’t big on dates. Or double-checking to see if the solstice has come. When she and Mr. Frost get together to party, we get buried. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later.
Before I have a chance to move, the other fur children arrive, each wearing a snow blanket, trailing puddles and paw prints across what had been an almost clean floor. They are so wonderfully happy. I regard my house and my pack. They are bouncing around like a pile of doggy ping-pong balls, exuding enthusiasm and good cheer.
“It’s snowing Mom,” they wriggle and bark. Dancing with joy because they don’t need a bundle of gifts under a tree to tell them it’s time to be happy, to celebrate.
As far as they are concerned, snow is enough. Life is enough. Enough is enough.
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