Norman Rockwell, meet Pucker Up

Taking Pucker Up for her nightly stroll (or, really, a dump and a drag if you must know) I got rather taken aback by just how stunningly gorgeous the snowfall became. Us New Englanders become rather lackadaisical at noticing how each snowflake is different - perhaps, because we see so many of them each winter season.

Tonight, however, standing in the open field, trees already coated in white, sound muffled under inches of pristine alabaster, Pucker and I stood watching snowflakes bluster down through the gauzy light shed by the street lamp. Norman Rockwell stunning. Homes all snugged up against the cold, only the odd set of footprints marking the path to a glittery front door; the wind on a respite from it's biting blast buffeting the car on the ride home.

Today melted away, my shoulders slowly taking their rightful place beneath my ears; I slipped into seeing the world through my 1940's glasses....roasting a chicken in this weather, a crisply tied yet generous bow on my apron, dog and little one playing by the fire, content for once to Just Be.....I sort of noticed the jerking leash, in same fashion as one being dragged from the depths of a peaceful slumber notice the phone, in nearly unplaceable increments.

Turning, I pictured my little beagle, tail a-wag, nose buried in the snow, little paws furiously digging - and I would be wrong.

Norman Rockwell be damned.

The silly bitch was rolling. In DEER POOP. Freshly unearthed, still musky deer poop.

You have GOT to be kidding me.

With a jerk on the leash I'm shocked didn't separate her head from her body, I hauled her protesting, overweight, ill mannered 30 pound ass over to me, and Alpha rolled her, hoping against all hope that the snow, being so wet, would leave her clean.

Fuck. Me. Running.

She's filthy, covered in poop; instead of roasting a chicken, I'm going to be hip deep in a tub with jets, blasting freaking deer poop off my dog. Actually, come to think of it, it's Foxy's dog, so he should bathe her.

No, (add sigh here), I'm not going to leave a 7 year old in charge of bathing a writing, howling mess of a dog - instead, I marched her happy ass right back home, bypassing the treats at the door, and deposited her straight in the tub.

Much to her dismay.

She's finally clean (three - count them, THREE! washes with soap) and if I were her, I'd skip giving me the dirty looks. She's the one who rolled, face first I might add, in poop. Not I.

I think my swearing and muttering under my breath penetrated that thick skull of hers - she's been laying, peaceful as a lamb on the blanket I assigned her. I'd say she looks like a Norman Rockwell painting-

........except look where that got me last time I thought that.