When I checked the temperature this morning it was -8.* It's cold, is what I'm saying. The kind of cold where you feel like you've been beaten with a sock full of nickels after a minute outside.
It's supposed to be cold in January in Southern Tier New York. I'm not complaining about it, not really. This is what we must endure so that we have glorious summers and falls. So be it.
Negative 8 is even too cold for the puppy. This outdoors-loving dog can manage about five minutes before she makes a run back for the door. And even that's OK, really, because I don't want to be out there anyway.**
But she's still a puppy. There's all of this excess energy that needs to be burned off somehow. Over the last few days, we've played about 9,000 games of indoor fetch, she's gnawed a hole in the carpet,*** and eaten a latex balloon (uninflated).**** I chase her up and down the stairs as much as I can. And we do this:
If you need me, you know what I'll be doing, which isn't what I need to be doing, just what I have to do to keep the puppy from destroying the house. Spare a thought for me.
* Fahrenheit. It translates to -22 Celsius. Which is still really freaking cold.
** I also seem to be sort of sick, the sort of ill where I feel just fine for a bit, then like I'm dying from the aches and drippy head, then just fine again. I'm taking this is a sign that I'm fighting it off. No one tell me differently.
*** The carpet is a goner anyway and will be replaced once there is a dog in the house, not a puppy.
**** Long story but the end result is that I was outside for a half-hour with Lucy waiting for her to throw up.