Our backyard lies in the shade in winter. Snow is still two feet deep back there. The slow melt of day freezes into a hockey rink every night. Icicles the size of Darth Vader’s light saber flow off the eaves of the house like crystal daggers. Some are 5 feet long. Fifteen feet of steps leading to the cold ground are coated in 4-inches of polished ice.
Rudy, our Jack Russell, has had to become the Bodie Miller of dogs just to make it down. It takes practice and talent to navigate the frozen treachery, even on four legs. Rudy has mastered 4/5ths of it.
A few minutes ago he skated out the back door across the deck and perched at the top of the steps. He squatted in preparation before launching himself down the bumpy incline. He grunted on each 90º drop as step after step thudded under his 18-pounds.
If dogs have knees, Rudy’s are shock absorbers. At the bottom of the stairs, he leaned into the hard snow, downhill racer-style, stretching his four legs far to his right as his head and body curved left into the white, slanted yard. He moon-walked in a canine crouch, the pads of his paws gliding over custard frost in a diagonal until he was at the bottom of the backyard fence. Rudy’s grace and athletic ability ended in a skidding, violent, flailing stop. He has hit the fence or caromed off the trunk of a tree several times this winter, ass upturned, legs akimbo, gripping desperately at air and bark with teeth and toenails.
Once at his destination, he moved methodically and sniffed the area before dropping a steaming poopcicle. As it landed, he ran from it as if an alien has escaped from his puckering rear. More slipping and sliding followed. It was tricky. There are previous frozen brown deposits around and he slalomed an ugly course to avoid his previous meals that are splayed like shotgun shells across the corner that he considers his toilet.
The long climb back up to the steps pained him, his snout grooved into a rictus of determination. John Krakauer could write a novel about Rudy’s 6-minute journey. To a dog, this is Everest.
At the bottom of the steps, he clawed his way up the slickest surface I have seen since Apolo Ohno beat those two Koreans the other night in speed skating. He also knows how the Koreans felt because four minutes earlier he had hit the fence like they had hit the wall in Vancouver. Finally on the deck, his ordeal ended and he struggled through the door, collapsing on the carpet next to the fireplace, licking his paw pads.
To reward him, I filled his bowl with food. He ignored me. He knew if he ate it, the horrid decent to Poo Corner would happen sooner than later. He closed his eyes. I think he is dreaming of July sun.
