Frosted.

Walking my brown dog in big city snowstorms is one of my favorite things. Actually, honestly, I could take it or leave it, but it makes her really happy and that winds up making me feel good. Anyway, today was no different than any other. She was running like hell and I was standing by—amazed that a 15-year-old lab/mix can move so fast.

Well, after 10 minutes of racing around in circles and chasing squirrels, it was soon time to go. I called her and she came running—a thick layer of snow stuck to her back.

“Look at you, you’re a frosted dog. You cute brown frosted dog,” I said in a most annoying look-at-that-cute-baby voice as I clipped the leash to her collar.

A second later, we turned around to discover a couple of saggy-panted-high-school kids staring at us in utter disbelief. Clearly they’d witnessed the whole scene: me, the dog, me talking to the dog like a soft little baby. I laughed and the frosted dog and I headed for home.

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