We are in the dog days of winter, if that term applies to more than long, hot, miserable days. It is COLD out there, really cold, too cold even for me.

I like winter, but only if there was a fair amount of snow on the ground, and apres ski most afternoons. This lingering, bitter cold isn't really cutting it. There has been one beautiful side-effect to days that don't have a high much past 35 degrees: ice. Ponds, puddles, streams and creeks, they are all sporting a beautiful layer of the slippery stuff right now, and one person in my house could not be happier.

The dog and I are less than thrilled. Flipper is in winter-heaven. Our daily walks with our surviving pooch (sob!) are no longer a long whine-fest; instead they are joyful jaunts over hill and dale in search of ice. And more ice. Ice to walk on, to slide on, to "skate" on, to throw stones upon. She is mesmerized. And I get to relive, briefly, one of those flashes from childhood that having your own can bring about.

I watch her, while forcing myself not to hurry her along so we can GET BACK INSIDE, raptly playing on the ice, balancing carefully, thumping it with a stick, and I can remember, with total clarity, doing the exact same thing. My sister and I would hide icicles and snowballs and chunks of pond ice in the deep recesses of our parents' chest freezer to pull out on a hot summer's day, only to watch it melt away, but how we loved it! And now she is doing the exact same thing. So until this extended cold snap ends, we will keep bundling up and heading outside every day, I will quell my impatience and desire to be back in my reading chair, book in hand, and the poor dog will continue to stand by the bank of the creek wondering when, oh when is she going to get bored and let us all go inside, and I can pet poor Sophie on the head and tell her never. She is never going to get bored of it.