Sleet and Snow Turn into Cold Rain

November 25, 2010.  Thursday.

Situation:  Last night my old college chum Drew visited, showing up at my workplace, and then coming with me to the house afterwards.  Mway lunged and barked at him when he came to the door; Moi and I had to yell and hold Mway back.  Eventually she came to realize he was a friend and not a foe, trying to nuzzle up to him as he sat on the sofa.  After Drew left and Moi and I went to bed, the Boy arrived from NYC sometime during the night; he’s still asleep.  It’s sleeting and snowing outside; I see patches of snow on the green grass, snow on the roof of the summer house and on the stack of old lumber from the front porch.  Moi is on the phone with Jazz, probably talking about the prospect of traveling today (it turns out Atlas has diarrhea, and she and Matt won’t be able to visit.)  Squeak was sitting on my lap for a while, but Woody was pawing at her, irritating her (and scratching me through my shirt), and she has jumped off.  It’s 9:15.  I guess I might as well put on my walking clothes and take Mwayla for a walk (I’m pretty sure Moi hasn’t taken her for one yet).

State of the Path:  Moi advises me to wear an orange wool cap today; I manage to find one in the mass of clothes at the bottom of our bureau.  She has an orange pinny for Mway, with the word “dog” scratched on it, but she is unable to fit it on Mway, who’s gotten too plump for it.  The only stick I find on the bench is a rather thick birch branch with broken limbs poking from it; it has chew marks on it, so Mway has apparently fetched it sometime in the past.  What’s fallen on the ground is a kind of crystalline slush, slightly slippery as Mway skids across it before she realizes it’s there and she has to adjust her velocity.  What’s falling from the sky by the time I get outside is a cold rain.  Nothing is lying on the limbs of the trees and shrubs or the stalks of the weeds.  I feel a cold raindrop falling every now and then on my neck.  No side paths today – I wish I had worn my snowsuit.  By the time I get to the creek I feel the cold seizing my back and thighs.  Raindrops hang to the branches of the multiflora.  I duck low as I’m walking through them, and move with increasing speed along the path.  Hear the chirps of birds, the caw of bluejays or crows, but I don’t see anything – are they calling from their nests?

The State of the Creek:  The creek is a brown stream today, with ripples from raindrops colliding against each other in the pools.  My foot slips a little bit in the slush next to where Moi had knocked away part of the creek bank.

The Fetch:  Up at the clearing, I hope Mway will only want to fetch the stick a few times.  I throw it in the same alternating directions I did yesterday – hear her paws pattering on the slush, the stalks of the goldenrod snapping as she plows through them, the rain falling on my jacket at a higher pitch than it makes falling on the ground.  Drops of rain cling to the lenses of my glasses.  Mway keeps going and going, and the first time she returns with the stick without dropping it I tell her “that’s it.”