Most days I enjoy being a little dog. Laps are bigger when you are little. I can be picked up and snuggled. I don’t scare anyone (although my barking and failure to curb my enthusiasm does annoy people.) But there is one time I don’t like being small. That is when it snows.
I love seeing you big dogs romping in the snow. You stand so tall with your torso high above the crisp white topping while your feet are kept cold and fresh. Then you start to jump up and down and the snow is flying. My gosh that looks like fun!
I wish I could have a day like that but snow is the enemy of the small dog. While the rest of you are romping and rolling I come to a big pile of snow, three times my size, and I look up at it, an insurmountable mountain. Occasionally a kind hand will lift me up and put me on the snow, and I can take several steps but the snow cracks, my legs go through and I get stuck.
Just give me a day. One day to experience the snow like a big dog. To run and not get hot, the coolness on my belly, my feet landing softly, and then, when I push forward, the snow defies gravity, moving upwards around me, falling towards the heaven, as I bull forward, creating my own path. Making my own way in the world.
The closest I can come to that magical experience is when there is a paltry three inches on the ground. Three inches of snow can’t defy gravity, and I don’t forge a path like Lewis and Clark, I leave a trail like Hansel and Gretel. A forged trail is a show of power. A paw print trail is cute. Cute. Oh how us little dogs wishing to be big dogs hate cute.
When it snows, and we go out, River and I look at the big banks, turn, and ask to go back to the pads on the porch. My parents think it is because we are too wimpy to go in the snow. But it is because of disappointment that we cannot enjoy the ride like the other dogs.
And we will never be tall enough to go on that ride.