seven years of spring

Maybe it's because Punxatawney is situated in the place I adopted as my own home state (okay, commonwealth). Or maybe it's because Phil is just so darn adorable, but every second day of February I seek out the latest wisdom of Pennsylvania's precious prognosticator. Is it that I truly believe a groundhog even recognizes his own shadow, or that, if he does, he assigns its presence--or lack thereof--some sort of Druidic divination (minus the bloody sacrifices)? No. These animals are roly-poly balls of cuteness, without a doubt, and I miss the sight of them terribly. But they are also intelligent, smart enough, in fact, that, if they could speak, I imagine they'd evoke Sigmund Freud and say, "Sometimes a shadow is just a shadow."

Nonethless, Phil has once more played his part to perfection, his handlers announcing that the savvy Sciuridae has foreseen six more weeks of winter. Phil merely rolled his eyes at the declaration, though amongst the groans and cheers, as usual, no one seemed to notice.

It's a funny thing, the word more. It indicates an amount greater than, but until this past Saturday, winter had not even shown its frosty face in our Northwestern neck of the woods. The date on the calendar may suggest otherwise, but we've experienced only a prolonged autumn up until now. Now we're freezing, shivering inside the house and out, listening to the winds blow, watching the snow fall, layering up against the fury of February. If there are six more weeks of winter, for us, that will be a winter of merely six weeks.

Despite the merciless bite in the air, joy abounds in freshly fallen snow. Joy, I should mention, looks very much like our dog. Thrice over the weekend, and every morning since, Maisie has dashed through--and flown over--the plush white yard like an exuberant reindeer in training for Santa's team. I only regret that I hadn't taken my camera out during those earliest runs, though, if I had, the three of us would not have played so hard--together--for so long. We chased. We pounced. We laughed. We woke hibernating bears with our frivolity. (Probably.) Maisie even carried on quite the conversation with a particularly vocal, scampering squirrel. In truth, the squirrel did most of the talking, but our girl followed him, head cocked to one side, her rapt attention clinging to every chittered word. And, in these quieter moments, before the snow deepened to what it is today, I also managed some sweet, cuddly snaps of my fam amongst the flakes and the freeze.

The commencement of February was special--because of the snow, yes, but also because Groundhog Day is a holiday more charming than, say, No Socks Day, yet not nearly as gratifying as Gotcha Day. Sunday, February 2nd, was Maisie's, the anniversary of her adoption. Dennie and I reminisced about some of our girl's amusing antics in her earliest weeks as a Fitzgerald, but, mostly, we dedicated the day to spoiling our already pampered pup. Her latest snuffle toy, Clarence Crabtree--a colorful hermit crab whose Velcroed shell unfurls to reveal numerous treat pockets--made his debut, and he was such an enormous hit, we didn't think we'd ever part the two of them. Maisie not only retrieved multiple training bits from each pocket, she extracted and devoured the entire second round, then tried to rip the pockets free in case any particularly crafty morsels had hidden themselves out of reach. Maisie swiftly transitioned from feisty forager to avid annihilator, at which point we resorted to emergency protocols so that Clarence might live to see another day.

"Do you want some ice cream?" I said.

From her dogged pursuit, Maisie's head whipped upward so abruptly, whiplash seemed inevitable, though, thankfully, no such injury came to pass. Clarence was forgotten, temporarily, spirited away while our frozen-treat-loving pup eagerly surrendered to a delicious distraction. The crab will come back, coaxed out of his shell again and again, filled with tempting niblets and, for our brilliant beagle, the physical and mental stimulation of extended snuffling glee. And, during his hermitic hiatus, an impressive amount of slobber accumulation eventually dried, providing indisputable evidence that our little cutie had decidedly put the crust back in crustacean.

So, that was our weekend of changing seasons and cheerful commemorations. As Punxatawney Phil pondered six more weeks of winter--as winter, indeed, did, at last, come calling--here in the Fitzgerald household, we celebrated what our own furry friend has gifted us thus far: seven years of love, seven years of laughter...seven sweet and sunny years of everlasting spring.