Mulling things on my morning ramble
with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
If Jim Mora can use his infamous screeching "Playoffs?" to hawk a watery beer, I should be able to lift it to talk about our lack of snow and ice.
Something--frozen enough to whiten the ground but not to slick up the roads--was falling from the sky this morning as the meathead and I set out.
Out of town, the snow had stuck enough to seriously whiten the grass and weeds.
Flakes or pellets of a snow and sleet mix dotted my brown fleece as we circled the edges of cornfields.
What a weird winter. This is the fourth measurable snow and I am not sure if our total for the four is much more than an inch.
I thought there were dire warnings of an impending bad winter.
Apparently not. Looking at the long range forecast, I don't think we will have ice fishing again until the new year.
I feel a screeching "Ice fishing?" welling up inside my chest.
Not really. That's more of poetic license.
Winter will get here in all its glory, eventually. I think.
Should stick with Storm's Lab sense of enjoying what we have at the moment.
But I'm not a dog.