Dear Adina, Dang. It snowed here. Even though I am like 95 years old, when it snows I still get all giddy. People think that because I grew up in the "south" that I don't have any snow experience – but I grew up in the mountains and we got a number of good snow falls every year. Now, we didn't have constant snow like you kids up there in Canada, but we got enough to spend 3 or 4 days straight sledding and playing several times a year.
We had this big red dog. He was a golden retriever. Sweet dog, but pretty dumb. He loved the snow – it was like we had a whole new yard and he would have to run around like a nut for a while sniffing things and peeing on trees. Being a retriever, his goal in life… his purpose… his mission statement was to retrieve balls – even if they were snowballs. Brother Robot and I would make snowballs and throw them, and he would either: 1. Catch them in his mouth. Of course, the ball would explode upon chomping and he would just stand there with white snow on his dark red muzzle.
2. Run to where the ball landed, sniff around, and then try to carry a mouthful of snow back to us.
Then there were our little winter caps with the pom-poms on them, which look suspiciously like a ball to a peanut-size-brained 100-pound dog. Our backyard was all undeveloped forest stuff, and made up of one big hill. We would go flying through the yard, dodging trees and hitting little ramps we would make, all the while fighting off Robot Dog's attempts to take the ball off our hats (and in turn take our hats). He would run next to us the whole time, grabbing at our heads and we would have to fight him off all the way down the hill.
Robot Dog's other snow "thing" was running away. I mean, he always wanted to run around like a nut, but when the snow came, if we was out in the yard and became bored with our snowball antics he would bolt for the woods. We would end up chasing him through yards and forests… fighting off polar bears. Naturally, he was much faster than two dumb kids who are wearing their weight in wool. I don't recall how we would ever catch him, but it usually had something to do with his peanut-sized-brain and our carrying Kraft American Cheese Singles.
Once he ran away good. I mean, he was gone. We had turned our back and he vanished – damn dog. So, we went and started looking in his usual places, but didn't find him (even employing fancy "looking for his tracks" system). I don't recall if we gave up and went home to cry or just kept sledding, but the phone rang a bit later.
It was the local veterinarian.
"Hello, Mrs. Robot Mom? Yes, this is the Vet's office. Your dog is here. He just showed up at our door – do you want to come get him?"
My brother and I grabbed his leash and ran down to the vet's office (about 3 blocks away). Ding-dong dog had walked down 2 blocks, crossed a major road, walked up the hill, and then found the vet's office and hung out there until someone let him in. This is the same dog that we had to carry (all 100lbs of him) from the car to the vet's office when he went in for an appointment. Mom's theory was that he got lost and he recognized the office and went there. It was his safe place that day.