Twelve degrees and the dog needs a walk. I get dressed, pull on my heaviest coat, gather gloves and poop bags, attach her leash and start up the driveway. A neighbor’s truck alarm is honking. Mona pulls back. Is she going to refuse to relieve herself on account of the noise? I pull her again, but she refuses, so I unsnap the leash and walk back down the driveway.
“Let’s go to the woods!” She assents, we begin down the path, and suddenly, bang, squats right in the middle of the path! What is it with this dog? I thought they were smart enough to not soil their own nest. Grrr! She must have had a real need. At least our time outdoors was short.
It’s garbage day. So, still wrapped in my cold weather gear I rush around, emptying trash cans. As usual, the kitchen one and the recycle bin are overflowing. Grrr! Why empty when they get full midweek? Just add another jar or cereal box. Dad will empty it in three more days.
I’m sweating inside my heavy coat by the time I’m done. For some reason, Nanci Griffith’s song, “Ten Degrees and Getting Colder,” comes to mind, with those intriguing lines:
He sat down at her table and they talked about the weather,
Ninety-eight point six and rising …