Last night, in the middle of yet another snowstorm, Olive and I ventured out into the yard and ran around like two idiots in whiteout conditions. Although the wind was brisk and the freezing snow felt like sandpaper grinding against our faces, it was both a joyful and childlike experience. Olive loves galloping through the snow as though she’s a Clydesdale, so she’s hopping in and out of at least 2 feet of accumulated snow like an animated pogo stick. And then she sees it. The tip of a little red flag poking out from under the snow. Yes, the infamous poop flags that I’ve chronicled here. As she goes to yank it out of the ground with her mouth, I recoil the flexi-leash just before she extracts it like a rotten tooth. She is momentarily distracted by some inaudible sound that I cannot hear as she cocks her head to the side and stands still, waiting for confirmation of the alien signal. We literally run around in circles and crazy eights criss-crossing the yard under a bright moon dulled only by the carpeting of cloud cover dropping snow as if a giant ogre had turned an open bag of granulated sugar upside down. Of course, Olive wasn’t the one who had to shovel the snow the next day. Since I didn’t feel like doing it at 7:30 this morning, I waited until lunch time. Big mistake. It was like shoveling a pool full of wet cement. Olive stands in her pen laughing at me. I can see it in her eyes. The only thing she was shoveling was snow into her mouth faster than a diabetic who just found a bag of M&Ms under a couch cushion. I was certain that the minute I turned my back to her, she was going to start mass producing sno-cones in flavors that I’m sure you won’t see at your local Rita’s Ice stands.  Boy, this dog is going to miss winter when it’s gone. (Assuming it ever leaves of course.)