...the subheading for the post being: "Walking Your Dog When It's Friggin' Freezing."
For those of you living in the balmy NorthEast, be it known that the central western part of the states, or at least central California, is having a rare cold spell. So rare that the newscasts are leading with it. So rare that the Governor opened up many more Warm Shelters. So rare that we're being instructed in how to protect our pipes and our lemon trees and our rose bushes from the frigid air. So rare that we haven't seen the like of this weather in this century. So rare that the last time we descended to these depths of farenheit it was way, way, way back in '92 or '93.
I don't mean to make light of it--well, obviously I do--but really, one man's subArctic freeze is another guy's sunshiney day.
I just came back from walking Molly in this subArctic balm. The temp is, oh say, 40 or 50--and yes, there's a wind chill. But I, being a former Pennsylvanian, insist that January in California should be shirt sleeve weather. My winter coat is stored for trips to New York. I make do with a $10 hoodie sweatshirt from SaveOn and my LL Bean downvest. And earmuffs. It wasn't, I regret to tell you, enough.
Or perhaps the walk was too long. I have a short round-the-block version for Molly's poop walks and a much longer, down-by-the-Slough-I'm-Exercising-My-Dog walk. I intended to go on the former. But Molly--poor Moll had a weak belly this morning. It is, I'm sure, a consequence of ALL THE HUMAN FOOD THAT HER FATHER FEEDS HER! Which is what I'm silently screaming as I crouch on the sidewalk trying to find and contain each dribble. She assumes the position here, there, and everywhere trying to get that last little drop off her asshole. Have you ever tried to wipe up soft shit from a lawn? Let me rephrase that: have you ever tried to wipe up soft shit while you had your hand inside a thin plastic bag which is all that is between you and the doggy diarrhea--in subarctic conditions? It feels like exactly what it is.
And then my ear muffs start to slide off, but I have no free hand with which to readjust them. And thanks to Molly's bowels, we're far from the short round-the-block walk. I think of it longingly as I trudge home. But I have miles to go before I sleep--and piles of dog shit to dump when I get there.