Take a Cue from Your Dog—Winter Doesn't Have to be a Drag

December 25, 2015

Nothing brings back the puppy in my senior dog like a walk in the snow. He skitters off the sidewalk and into the banks of plowed snow until you can no longer see the black spots on his hind legs. The dog that wearily lifts his head each morning and decides to drift back to sleep is now moving through ice crusted mounds like a bulldozer. Four paws, full speed ahead. Two boots treading more cautiously behind him.

When I walk my dog in the winter, it seems like everyone is on their way somewhere. Cars slosh by us on city streets. Pedestrians push against the wind as they hurry towards warm homes and offices. Even the dog is focused on the next big tree. But I’m just along for the ride. So I might as well enjoy it. 

Each portion of sidewalk is new territory under my feet. Gritty salt over cracking ice. Grey slush. A dusting of snow over concrete that feels like walking over spilled sugar. 

We travel up and down residential side streets to get to a small parklet that is my dog’s not-so-secret destination. I look up from my snow musings just in time to notice half a dozen white roses impossibly still in bloom at the edge of a yard. It was warmer last week. They are holding on. I take off my headphones, paying tribute to these delicate survivors in silence. 

But the revery is broken by sidewalk shoveling. Someone in a nearby house is burning toast. And the leash is suddenly taut again. 

A sign is posted in the park reading: No dogs permitted. No one obeys. In every season, there are dogs here, and today, hundreds of white paw prints in all directions. We do our laps around the oval.

On Kara Holsopple's dog walking route, someone dressed up an old tree stump as a winter sprite—or maybe an elf. You be the judge. Photo: Kara Holsopple

On our way home, wet, droopy ears stand up. Winter reveals the architecture of a hedge—only a few coppery leaves and dark berries left. Within it, fat brown birds move fast from twig to tiny twig. They make a ruckus. Finally, my dog and I are interested in the same bit of nature. On some signal that neither of us hears, the birds take off into the skyline with a sound like the opening of a paper fan. Are they sparrows? Juncos? I’ll never know, because my dog’s attention span matches the birds’ hasty departure.

His eyes are already farther down the street, staring with suspicion at a tree stump, three feet tall. Someone has dressed it up like a winter sprite. Or maybe an elf. Nature undercover. It’s green costume is the brightest thing on this street where there’s less flora and fauna than other roads we’ve travelled today. But he isn’t fooled. He gingerly steps around it. He doesn’t even bother bringing his nose down to its level. Because that is his nature. To sniff out what is real for him. And to turn my daily chore into an opportunity. To appreciate what’s under the ice, and around the corner.