Bane of my existence: The Boot

It's beyond cold. I'm not sure why they even bother with a number; You're Skin Will Turn To Ash When You Depart Your House should suffice. I'd get the hint.

Shoot.

I got the hint.

Someone I know, did not get the memo that it's freaking cold outside, too cold for long, winding walks, being buffeted by winds usually seen in the Ural mountains of Russia. (Or whatever it's called now. THIS would be why I suck at geography. Everything changes it's name.) These are the days of long lie ins by the fire, perhaps a wee tea and honey, certainly an Under The Cover kind of moment if there ever was one.

Thus, in full consideration of someone who's only seen snow once in her life, and it wasn't near this deep or icy, I've endured the whining far from home, having to carry someone's sizable bulk back home. While trying not to slip on the ice. In my condition (being severely out of shape) this is a less than ideal situation.

We stayed close to home; I dug out a lovely latrine in the front yard. Beneath her. That is, until this very morning: accompanying me in all my footie jammie glory, she trotted, eyeballs sticking out of her head, that first sucked in breath shriveling her lungs to the size of prunes, to potty is Circus Dog Fashion.

That's right. I started the car to warm up; she peed while standing only on her hind legs, whimpering.

After a great deal of waiting for the blasted temp to rise, I gave in, slunk into PetSmart, purchased a ridiculously expensive four-set of boots. And the most fabulous coat I've ever seen. If it came in my size? I'd totally own in. It doesn't.

Getting home, I put on snow pants, my boots, dug out a whopping bit of beef jerky, proceeded to get Little Miss Moron dressed for the weather. See? Mommy has on boots. They're comfy! Warm. Best of all? I don't have to run your frostbitten, snow encrusted, salted over paws under warm water or blast them with a hairdryer to dislodge the foreign object. I rewarded after each boot went on.

I used two pieces of beef jerky.

She refused to move initially; sort of how Chloe, one of her pals, refuses to move when a coat or reindeer antlers grace her frame......and then all Hell broke loose. Howling. Running in circles, shaking her paws, shooting me nasty looks; all this before I even got to the new coat! Or the back paws! Trapping her under the dining room table (boy, I still detest that game unless she's playing it with someone else) I asked her to High Five, one paw at a time, whereupon I removed the offending garments.

She still won't come near me.

Oh, she'll lay under all the blankets in my bed, making pathetic noises, as though I've beaten her senseless; but she won't let me touch her.

The good news?

I highly doubt I've any door dashing or roaming The Grounds in her future: she'll go on the deck, whizzing with three paws down, one scratching at the door, lest we forget she's there. Wipe her paws on the rug, curl up on her bed, and wait for the fireplace to magically turn on.

The bad news?

Since neither of us is walking, both of us are getting fat.

That's just great.