We had a total of about 15cm of snow overnight, and Jack couldn’t be happier. One of his very most favourite things to do is to lay down in the snow and roll around. He starts with his head, digging in his nose and then sweeping it back and forth. Once his head and whiskers are sufficiently rubbed cold, he wiggles his body around, making sure to get full contact with his belly and boy bits, which will be bright red by the time he comes back inside. I don’t understand the appeal of this behaviour, but it makes my Bubba happy, and that’s good enough for me.

I, on the other hand, am not that happy about the snow. It’s beautiful, but it’s heavy wet snow.  The kind of snow that packs well and makes a good hard snowball. It’s also the kind of snow that’s heavy to shovel, which is how I spent the morning. Jack and Angus kept me company, but they weren’t much help. It took about an hour to clear the sidewalk and patio, and by the time I was finished, the muscles in my back and shoulders were complaining. They still are, and boy Howdy am I stiff and tired. I doubt that I’ll be able to stay awake until midnight, so I expect I’ll greet the New Year in my sleep. That’s fine with me. I’m not a party kind of person at the best of times, and tonight my bed is where I want to be. Gosh, I must be getting old.

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I would like to take a moment to send my best wishes to our readers in Australia. The news we get from your country is frightening, and you’ve been on my mind. I hope you’re all safe.

 

 

Jack and I have hardly left the house today. We had freezing rain overnight, and the world is very slippery. First thing this morning, I took Jack out to the backyard for a morning pee and the poor boy fell twice on the patio before getting to the grassy area. He limped into the house and has been lightly favouring his right leg all day. I decided not to risk further injury by taking Jack out for a walk, and I went out carefully alone, to get ice melt for the patio and front walkway. Jack didn’t even ask to come with me. We’ve been out to the backyard a few times since then, and Jack has learned to hug the patio close to the house until you reach the garden, then across the dirt to the grass and back again. The other dog here, Angus, springs across the patio like a leaping deer, and if one leg slips, he can correct for it without falling. Angus is also only 7 years old. Jack is almost 12. Bubba didn’t; mind the forced inactivity too much. He found a comfortable chair and spend the day in it watching the news and looking for sympathy from all who walk past him. He’ll be fine. The limp is gone, just the indignity of it remains, and Jack will suck that dry soon. That’s OK. I fell last night and have a few bruises, myself, so I understand. My bruises are all on my ass, though, so I prefer to stand, not sit, which is good because Jack is sitting in my chair. Oh, the dangers of ice for the elderly. It’s due to get warmer here tonight, with continued rain. As long as it doesn’t freeze, I don’t mind. Wet doesn’t hurt.

Bonjour, ça va?

Jack and I have relocated to Pointe-Claire, Quebec, which is on the west island of Montreal. We’ll be spending two weeks here, visiting my mother-in-law, who will be 94 on the third of January. She’s a pistol, Mum is. She still does everything she did at 50, including baking (store-bought cookies just aren’t as good), shopping, driving, cooking, laundry, ironing (even underpants because they fit better in the drawer when pressed!) and keeping a tidy split level home with stairs everywhere. She has a full turkey dinner planned for Christmas Day, including a home-made raspberry pie.

We had a good drive. The roads were clear and traffic was much lighter than we expected, even going through Toronto. Jack slept most of the way, but the Mr. and I are feeling a bit road-worn after the 8-hour trek to get here. We’ve been making this drive for nearly 30 years, but the older I get, the longer it seems. Now, I think I’ll have one of those homemade cookies and wait for the feeling of still driving to stop.

It’s been wintering here since early morning, even though winter doesn’t officially begin until Sunday (Dec. 22/19). We’ve had brisk north-westerly winds bringing in snow squalls and Lord Thunderin’ Jesus, but it’s been bitter. With the wind chill factored in the temp was -19°c when Jack and I were out for our walk this morning, and at times the wind was driving snow into our faces and visibility dropped to just a few metres. Brrr!

I shouldn’t complain, though, Harsh weather is harder on Jack than me. Today, I put on 2 pairs of socks, and then my boots, but poor Bubba has only a layer of vaseline for boots, and I don’t think it gives much protection from the cold. Jack also doesn’t have a long, cozy down-filled parka, nor a tuque, nor gloves, yet he never complains about the cold.  He’s very stoic, our Jack.  Me? I like to complain about the cold. It’s part of my culture and the opening line to most conversations. It’s something that we Canadians do. We comment on the weather, both good and bad, and storm days like today allow us a bit of drama with the talk as we stamp our feet to shake off the snow and rub our hands together or blow on them or stick them into our armpits for warmth.

If only we could share the cold, I’d send a good bit of ours down to Australia, where they’re dealing with sweltering heat. Since I can’t do that, I’ll share a frosty photo of Jack and send our good wishes that our Australian readers stay cool.