Cooooolllldddd Feeeeeeettttsss!!

This morning, the guy on the radio said the air temperature was seven-below-zero F.

Llewellyn and I went out to the alley so he could take care of his business. After he'd done his wee, he started looking around for the best place to deposit his poo. But before he'd made even one complete pass over the available ground, he was lifting up one paw, then another, then another. Then he tried to lift several up at once.

"Hurry up, Llellyn, hurry!"

He veered away from the snow-mounded grass strip by the fence and headed out into the ice-packed alley. It only made things worse. If my poor dog could have found a way to levitate, he would have.

That does it. No waiting for a No. 2 this trip! So I called him back inside the gate to return to the house. But he couldn't even walk the length of the backyard, his pads were so miserably cold.

Well. When I adopted Llewellyn, I was looking for a dog that would be a) big enough to hug, b) big enough to intimidate strangers who arrived with dubious intentions, and c) small enough for me to pick up and carry if it was ever ill. At 45 pounds I figured he fit all three criteria. Now, obviously, I'd have to test assumption No. 3.

So I picked my dog up and carried him back to the house. He wasn't as heavy as I'd expected. And as I carried him, he turned his head and looked into my face with relief in his big limpid red-brown eyes. If dogs can say Thank you, I think mine just had.