Hey, bloggy buds! Christmas is upon us and here in the Land of Cotton Mather, in boreal Connecticut, WE HAVE SNOW!
Actually, it came several days ago, to be precise, but it's on the ground, and we wolfskinder are getting in touch with those atavistic parts of ourselves--the howling, predatory doppelgänger, the ancestral yearning, that is unleashed (literally) by falling white stuff!
It's at times like these that Persephone, Bailey, and I take out our well-worn Book of Breathtakingly Mediocre Poetry and read again the collected works of Robert Service...
The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-bye-but I can't.
Only the oratorios of Salieri and reruns of Gilligan's Island bring such palpitations to my canine heart!
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold...
Don't you think I could play the lead in Call of the Wild? No grizzly bear would dare mess with me!
Can you remember your huskies all going,
Barking with joy and their brushes in air;
You in your parka, glad-eyed and glowing,
Monarch, your subjects the wolf and the bear?
Then, of course, there's Bailey...
Admittedly, the overcoat is a bit whimpish--and she does seem perplexed that the snow is so deep and she is so short--but she's coming along. I don't expect it will be too long before she's ripping the viscera from a caribou.
One small problem! Canine color-blindness! Gotta work on that!
Well, we'll have more to report soon! NORAD has just picked up Santa on his way south! He was intercepted by a flight of RCAF F-18s, and at last report, he's being escorted to Australia first. Crikey!