When I was a little dog living in Alaska, going outside was one of my favorite things. I loved when my people went out to remove the snow. We lived several miles from the nearest town and about a mile off the nearest paved road. Our road was dirt, and because we lived so far out, there were no fences anywhere. Dad said because of the permafrost, they wouldn’t stay in the ground.
That meant I couldn’t be outside without one of my people, but, I didn’t mind. Being with them made everything feel like an adventure. And the best part was that I never had to be hooked to anything unless we were going to town. At home, I got to run wild and free. I ran up and down our long driveway like a speed demon.
When we went outside to start removing the snow it was dark because the sun only peaks over the edge of the sky for a few hours per day in the winter here. The hill we lived on blocked the Southern sky, so we didn’t see the sun during the winter, but it was light for about three hours.
When my dad cleared the snow from our road, he let me stand right next to him if I stayed close. I took that job very seriously. I watched the snowblower with great focus, like maybe I was helping run it with my mind. Dad said our road was a goat trail, and no one ever came down it except us. If we didn’t clear it, nobody would. That made the whole thing feel important, and I was the official snow guardian.
As winter went on, the snow built up. It would fall, get packed down, freeze, then build again. Pretty soon, it turned into something my people called hard pack. Hard pack was amazing because it was slippery and fun. I could slide around on it and act like I meant to, even if I didn’t. And if I fell, I just pretended it was a style choice.
The hard pack stayed all winter, sometimes it was still here when the flowers showed up. Snow didn’t just mean cold. It meant hours outside, breathing the sharp air, doing my favorite things: running, sliding, exploring, and eating the snow I was supposed to be walking on.
But it did get cold. Really cold. After a long time, my sister and I would get so cold our paws hurt, and we would start to dance around because the ground was too freezing to stand still. That is when Mom made us go inside. I was always disappointed. I never want to go inside. Outside is the place to be. Always.
Inside, we would curl up on the rug next to the wood stove. The warmth soaked in slow, like it had to fight the cold for space inside us. Pretty soon, I would be asleep with my paws twitching because my brain was busy practicing running for next time.
Mom used a leaf blower to clear snow off the deck and from around the woodpile and other places. But because it was so cold out there, she had to bring it inside so it could warm up enough to start. So it sat with the Shepherds by the fire, which made perfect sense to me. In Alaska, everything froze, and everything took turns warming up.
Once the leaf blower was ready again, back outside we went. And the fun started all over. By the time we went back outside, the sun had set, and it was dark again.
My dad would run the big snowblower around our property and all the way down our road for hours until everything was cleared. And by the time he finished, the sky would usually start snowing again.
To me, that was the best part because fresh snow always meant one thing.
Tomorrow would be another great day.