Let’s talk about snow, shall we? That white, powdery substance that manages to get into every crevice of my fur without mercy. I was born in the American Southwest- the land of “it’s a dry heat”, sunshine, and balmy 60-degree winters. Then, my parents moved us to this “Midwest” place. And its snow.
I can’t even go outside in this mess without ending up a half dachshund/half snowdog. Little clumps of wet snow bunches into my fur, and hangs on tighter than Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. It then either melts slowly and turns me into a (shudder) wet dog, or Mom tries to yank the snow out of my fur like she’s pulling taffy.
I don’t know what kind of joke Mother Nature is playing, but this business is ridiculous. I already have to put up with rain, a.k.a. God’s tears (who wants to literally be showered in sadness? Not this guy). I mean, what’s the point of snow? Sure, it gives me a fresh canvass for spreading my precious urine (it ain’t gold for no reason folks). (Dear God, I’m turning into a midwesterner. Make it stop.) And it makes it much easier to track squirrels since I can see their freakish pawprints in the snow. But really, it’s overall purpose escapes me.
And of course, the big dumb animal who also lives here loves the damn stuff. She romps around in it like an idiot, and OF COURSE, she is a short-haired dog, so the crap doesn’t get stuck in HER fur. No. That punishment of nature is just reserved for me, being long-haired and low to the ground. At least Dad had the courtesy to shovel out a path for me in the yard to minimize the trauma to my body.
Eff you, Jack Frost. Take your snow & get out.