Yard Snow

yardsonwFranko and I have a deal during the winter months. I try not to throw his stick in the deep snow, because it just isn’t fair. The stick does sometimes stray off the trail or the road, and we both accept that. In general, though, the snow is so deep and heavy that poor Frank has to porpoise through it to start to look for his stick, and even when he gets near where he thinks it landed, it disappears beneath the snow and is very hard to find.

Yesterday, we were carrying firewood to the house from the woodshed attached to the garage. This is a well-practiced ritual for the pair of us. Except for one thing. Yesterday, I was able to throw the stick anywhere in the yard, and he could just run straight to it, pick it up, and bring it back to me. As I write this, I realize it sounds strange, but this past winter has been extraordinary. The snow has been the stuff of legend this year, and I think both Franco and I were getting a bit tired of it. Neither of us really talked about it, but I think this relentless winter was getting under our skin.

I wish you could have seen Franko’s exuberance as he chased yesterday’s sticks. It was like a cork had popped out of a bottle. He realized that he could really let it rip, and rip he did. His spirits were lifted, and mine were lifted along with it.

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