Snow and the sheltie.

We got another six inches of light, powdery snow last night and when we had the driveway dealt with, we took to the little trails we had dug in the back yard and cleared them out, preparing them for my little buddy, my traveling companion, my little shetland sheepdog.

Opening the back door, I found the little buddy looking up at me in anticipation, almost as if he was asking me, “Can I come out there yet? Can I come? Can I? Can I? Can I?” Clipping the leash on his collar and stepping outside the door was my affirmative answer, and as soon as he reached the ground, we dashed out back and bolted for the trails. Round and round and round he went in all of his sheepdog puppy energy, rounding one corner, through another, and thumping into a snowbank if he couldn’t put the brakes on efficiently enough. As I was out in those little trails, visions of my childhood emerged.

Growing up in the Maritimes, we had winter. I remember the path stretching out from the basement door and winding around, around to the driveway. I remember the hill in the back yard, only a low one by my standards today but as a child, high enough to provide a good run on a toboggan. I remember our old sheltie, of whom my little buddy is the spitting image of, a big fella to three and four year old me.

Man’s best friend, they call them, and growing up, our canines were some of mine, and today, my little buddy curls up under my chair when I work and chases me around outside, does what I ask of him and provides many laughs. This man’s best friend, indeed.

Childhood Revisited

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