An inch of snow here, an inch there. Enough to flock the trees and make them look pretty while filling in the ruts and pock marks left by cross country skiers and dog walkers after our circuits around Comstock Park.
But Monday took care of that. A seven-inch dump. So much for the 2 to 4 inches, Mr. Weatherman.
And there was the small matter of another three inches Thursday night.
|One of Miz Cricket's more reasonable sticks.|
Even Ben. The King of Comstock Gravitas who turns 12 next month.
Tuesday, he tore up the park with Miz Cricket. Wednesday, he gamely tried to keep up with a canine crew 10+ years his junior as they churned around the trees down by the tennis court like a troupe of furry Maytag washers. He glares and "Hfffs" and shakes his head if someone come too close to the treasured pine cone or stick he's gnawing on.
Of course, these frenzied hijinks usually last for about 3 or 4 minutes before Ben stops, snorts a couple times and trots back over to me with a "See-I've-still-got-it" look on his face. He is almost 12 after all.
But the most fascinating transformation -- Ben has become highly vocal and opinionated around the matter of throwing sticks. Yes, I am now the one followed by a gray dog issuing short, spoiled, peremptory barks every 60 seconds or so until a stick is found and thrown. You can't miss us.
And if said stick can't be found in a timely manner, ie, Pacific Ben Time, I also get goosed.
I'm talking a cold, hard dog snout persistently banging against my hand and wrist. That's hard to do AND bark every 60 seconds, but Ben, with his usual elan, manages it with embarrassing ease.
Ben and I are quite the pair these days -- bark! bang bang! find stick! throw stick! chase stick!
Return and repeat again.
And, by the way, Snow? Next time, maybe a little less transformative?