In less than a month, Harry will be celebrating his 16th birthday. I promise a big party and costumes. You’re all invited.
This morning he woke up around noon (it’s Saturday after all) and, trotting into the front yard, soon began reconnecting with his Tibetan roots, sniffing at the snow starting to fall as predicted. I shoveled once today, just to keep it from building up too much; the effect was short lived. After an evening of dire warnings on every channel and a venture into the 9 inches of stuff (Harry is just a small-medium, photos below) now we’re off to bed. Here we are in the middle of a record snow blizzard, they say, and the worst is yet to come.
I will dream of the full moon and high tide and unusual sunspot aurora. Harry will gallop across fields of white, his suddenly long wolfhound limbs splashing crystal rainbow sprays, as he allows the Irish setter of his fantasies to catch up, in exquisitely slow motion.
