Freezing Fog at the Dog Park

The weather. First, the snow and then the incredible cold and then the freezing rain and ankle-deep slush had me swearing in the street where all the neighbors could hear if they were listening. Meanwhile, the man who just moved in to the house on the corner is shoveling the slush off his driveway. He’s from Texas and wanting to impress. I hate the slush. It can go fuck itself.

Late this afternoon we took the dogs to the dog park. We dithered about it for a half an hour. Should we go or piddle away the time in some other, less strenuous, activity? We decided to go, despite the weather, which, while not truly cold, was treacherous. I am sick of daily things that have become contests because of my advanced age.

“Are you a man or a mouse?” is the question often posed around here. The obvious implication being a man would strike out, freezing rain be damned, and a mouse would huddle in the corner, just out of reach of the cat. We don’t know what ‘woman’ is doing. We don’t care anymore.

It was not bad at the dog park because we were wearing YakTrax on our boots. This means we wouldn’t slip and fall on the ice patches and that we could trudge through the few inches of snow without worry. Still, there was freezing fog, a new term coined by recently graduated weather people wearing pleated, neon skirts. This made our walk feel almost London-like except for the despicable things Swirl was eating. Sometimes, I cannot look.

The other dog, Tempest, found a tennis ball buried in the snow and then ran crazily from one end of the park to the other to express her glee.

“Aren’t you glad we came?” I ask my husband. The irony is clear though he doesn’t note it. It was, after all, me swearing in the street earlier. He nods yes, and asks, “Are you?” And, oddly, I guess I was. Glad, that is.

There are no pictures, though. It wasn’t that kind of day.