NBT and the dogs and I went cross country skiing at the golf course up the road the other day. In the sinking sunshine the shadows were long and blue, and the grass and tree trunks and, of course, the dogs, were golden-brown. It felt great to glide along, next to the ocean, in the sparkly snow.
Lila's always been cautious about the water, wading in but never swimming. She's been afraid of docks, going as far as the pier but never down the ramp or onto the docks. Over the past few weeks she's conquered that fear and now she races down to the dock and romps and plays on the end float. On Sunday, NBT and I coaxed her into the motorboat and took her and Spinnaker to Warren Island, a state park very close to here that's accessible only by boat. It's a glorious place, and although it took Lila a long time to get into the boat, she adjusted quickly and forgot that it was scary at all. More pictures are here. 
There's been a lot of rushing around lately. Today Lila and I stole a quiet hour to walk in the woods together. It was fresh and piney and cool. The mosquitos haven't woken up yet, and the muddy banks of the meandering brook were home to unfurling fiddlehead ferns. It smelled earthy and fresh, and Lila reported that it tasted delicious.
There is a place I get to go, almost every day in the spring and the fall, that is beautiful. It smells salty and rich and clean, and the color of the water changes all the time. The rocks are striped by the ocean, and birds and crabs and seals go about their business, totally unconcerned with the world of humans.
It's been a long winter, and there's still mud and snow to fight with before our docks are all in the water, but it's great to be back.
I like the white patch on her nose.
I like the velvet softness of her short hair.
I like the way her bottom lip protrudes, like she's pouting all the time.
I like how earnest she is, and how her brow wrinkles when she's uncertain.
I like the eyeliner around her brown eyes.
I like how she is somehow handsome and statuesque and long and lean and also funny-faced and gorilla looking and undignified and expressive and silly.
I like how much she has softened up since I brought her from the pound last year. She is not afraid of people anymore. She wags and approaches, eager for pats, instead of nervously growling and backing away.
I like how some of her toenails are black and some are white.
I like way she invites me to play tug of war with her old scrappy red bone.
What's coming is a visit to her best dogpal, Cody. The two of them romp endlessly, running in circles, jumping, reversing direction, climbing on one another, leaping, rolling, nipping, spinning. Then the come into the house and pant for a while, chewing on bones and looking jealously at one another's prize. When one gets up to go drink some water the other immediately comes over to take the first's bone; the returning dog goes to investigate the abandoned one, and they lie heavily down, each more satisfied chewing the others' bone.
I tell Mr. NBT that the way to enjoy winter is to go outside and play in the cold. I did that yesterday, on the fluffy new snow that arrived overnight. Lila and I headed up the road to the golf course, and cross-country skiied in the sunshine, next to the ocean. It was bright and clean and white, everything sunshiny and shadow-blue. I wasn't sure whether Lila liked the snow or not until yesterday. She bounded along, chasing after birds, then looping back to check on me and tearing away again. Every so often she would roll on her back in the snow or dive down to eat a biteful, staring at me with a powder white snout, then turn and race along toward a flicker of movement on the snow, far ahead.
It's too cold to take Lila on long runs, so we've been going to the dog park, sometimes with friend and neighbor dog Haole. Those two, who normally disdainfully ignore one another, transform into puppy pals at the park, romping, leaping, chasing, wagging.
Loved Lonesome Dove, even though the author kept killing off characters I'd come to like. 850 pages didn't feel like enough. Are all of McMurtry's books so good? The memoir I'm reading now (The Tender Bar) seems stilted and insignificant in comparison. What McMurtry should I read next?
The dog park was mucky today, a partially thawed puddle of icy ooze and mud. Lila and Haole thundered around, chasing a chocolate lab and a small german shepardish mutt, being pursued by three black dogs and a boxer who couldn't decide whether he was frightened or delighted by all the commotion. When their tongues started hanging out the sides of their mouths, B and I took our dirty dogs to the high ground behind the park and let them race one another through the dry grass. On the ground I spotted this mysterious figurine. I'm not abreast of children's characters these days but I found her fascinating. She seems to be a tailless mouse of some kind, from London, with a Donny Osmond haircut and a magic space belt and extremely patriotic pants. What an improbable combination. We climbed to the top of the hill, built a cairn of rocks for her, and stood her on it, then followed the dogs willy nilly down to the creek for a bath.
