At 8:45 AM this morning, I drove by a family building an enormous snowman in their front yard. A butter yellow dog lounged beside them, half buried in a snow drift. Three (or were there four?) children danced around in the snow as the father hefted a round snow belly up to continue building the snowman.
The whole scene brought a smile to my face, mostly because I looked at the time. I remembered those days when it wasn’t unusual to feel like a whole day had passed and the time read merely 8:45 AM. I imagined how long the children had been awake already and how snowman building was just part of this long snowy morning. I smiled, too, about that happy dog. Dogs in the snow make me so happy, every single time. They roll around in it. They eat it. They bury themselves in it. They take a nap in it.
I drove on, smiling about dogs and early-rising children and snowmen and dads who lift up middles made of snow. I thought about them now going in to drink hot cocoa, then off again to sled. But mostly, I loved that butter yellow dog.