El Burro Volador

It’s time to put a stop to the importunate emails and death threats from our neighbors to the south, who have been clamoring for more stories about Clementine.

Yesterday there was a pretty stiff winter storm here – not a blizzard, quite, but the worst of the year nonetheless.  Clementine, a very spoilt dog, trotted obediently to the back door yesterday morning, ready to do her morning potty run.  I slid the door aside to reveal the cold snowy expanse of the back yard, accompanied by a blast of frigid winter air, whereupon Clementine skittered back behind me.  I laughed, but left the door open and looked at Clem expectantly – the snow hadn’t really piled up near the door, maybe an inch or two, and it seemed like a quick trip might be doable.  Clem looked back at me anxiously, then skittered another couple inches backward.  I resigned myself to cleaning up a little yellow puddle and slid the door shut.

Several times throughout the day, Clem wandered to the backdoor, even groaned plaintively as though she wished to go outside, but always made herself scarce when that cold air blew into the room.  At some point, however, the snowfall stopped, and the more ambitious denizens of the neighborhood emerged to shovel their driveways.  One of them let his big shaggy dog out into the snow, where it bounded around gleefully barking to all the other dogs in the neighborhood.  Including Clementine.  The small terrier instantly interpreted this as a challenge to her dominion over the fenced-in yard which no other dog can get into.  She shot furiously to the back door, yapping maniacally.  This prompted her bemused keeper to pad into the kitchen and open the door, anticipating another abject flight from the wintry cold.

When the door opened, our yard’s small berserk defender sprang out into the snow, which was now chest height for her, and plowed across the back patio.  While I stood there aghast, Clem plunged off the patio and into the deeper snow in the yard proper.  Now up to her neck, she forged onward to the back fence still yipping her fierce, fierce challenge to the big, goofy-looking dog who sported, unconcerned, around his shoveling masters.

When she reached the back fence she rose up on her hind feet, still covered in snow up to her middle, and apparently settled in to bark until all potential invaders left the field.  My head was filled with visions of my tiny frozen dog as an impromptu icy gargoyle, a small vigilant statue against the fence, and I called for her to come back.  As usual, Clem ignored me, her canine pride was involved.  Thinking quickly, I went to the cupboard and unscrewed the lid on the jar of peanut butter, scooping a small dab onto one finger.  Waving this enchanted digit while I called overrode Clem’s warrior instincts, and brought her barreling back through the snow and into the kitchen for the presentation of her commendation for bravery.  She arrived spattered with winter, and as I dusted her off with one hand I pondered once more the consequences of loving the fragile, crazy things of this world.