Bader is a fan. Banksy probably isn’t. She gets ice balls between her toes and I can’t find my tiny grooming scissors to trim inside those little toes. In some box somewhere. Along with the dremel charger. I fill them with wax, and pick out the ice balls. I’m ordering her little dog boots. Banksy in little boots makes me want to cry. But it’s better than the ice balls.

I shovel. I scrape. I sweep. I like the snow better when it’s out of the way. The pasture is full, the blm is full. I look out and all I see is snow. That whole not sticking, we don’t get much, that’s long gone. This is full blown, full scale snow. And I don’t think I could fathom living through another winter of it. Being that it’s not even actually winter yet.

A friend says the snow brings on Festive and Joy. Another says Best Time of Year. I say Despair and Horror and Weeping. So there’s that. Something about a vista without green, without dirt, with snow even causing the pines to go blank. Like white out. It’s used to erase and deaden. That’s exactly it!

We’ve obviously made a giant miscalculation. Like the titanic is now heading for the iceburg. The crash is impending. What remains to be seen is how the heck do we survive it and stay afloat?