The
temperature outside is handily visible through the glass above my sink. Affixed to the big maple, the gage reads a frigid 29 degrees. In this part of the country, at this time of year, degrees
mean nothing until you factor in wind chill.
If I were sailing, I’d use the treetops as a yardstick to measure it, the wind, but the trees are leafless now. I watch the top branches sway anyway and suppose a sweatshirt under my Patagonia down coat should do the trick because it's always twice as windy when whipping through the park.
If I were sailing, I’d use the treetops as a yardstick to measure it, the wind, but the trees are leafless now. I watch the top branches sway anyway and suppose a sweatshirt under my Patagonia down coat should do the trick because it's always twice as windy when whipping through the park.
She begins to dance as the words “Do you want to w…” leave my lips. My gloved hand reaches for the hook where her leash hangs and this seals the deal.
The
park across the street looks like frozen tundra. The prairie grass has been sheared
for the season and the playground is uninhabited. The old metal slide is
covered with icy crystals.
I
zip in tighter as precipitation, something between ice and snow, stings
my cheeks. I can feel its weight and chilliness in my hair so I lift my hood.
Circumventing
the first pond, we venture further inside, to the desolate space in the park’s
center where she can explore unleashed with true Labrador unbounded enthusiasm.
Pluck, chew, dash.
Roll.
Pluck, chew, dash.
Roll.
Pluck, chew, dash.
She
appears almost childlike and I brim with envy. It takes me a moment to comprehend what’s enthralling her so.When it finally dawns on me, I can’t get her
attention because she’s in heaven. So I zigzag run behind her through a field
of icy doggie delicacies (frozen goose poop) trying to catch her collar. I shout, as she licks her lips,
“Addison!
Get over here!” “Stop eating that.” “Oh, man! That’s just plain gross!”
Then
finally,
“I’ve
got TREEEEEATS!”
I promise them out of desperation and disgust, and it's a lie, but she comes to me because I usually have them in my pocket.
*****************************
33-333
words for the third definition of:
PLUCK:
(transitive verb)
1:
to pull or pick off or out
2
a : to remove something (as hairs) from by or as if by plucking b
: rob, fleece
3: to move, remove, or
separate forcibly or abruptly
4
a : to pick, pull, or grasp at b : to play by sounding the strings
with the fingers or a pick
