Apparently, kids aren’t the only ones who love fresh snow. Akitas seem to love the stuff. Just a little. We, being new akita parents, didn’t know just how deep that connection to the white stuff went. We found out today though.
We let Ocean out just after it had started snowing with the intention of letting her in before we left. At least, that was the plan. When the time came, I opened the door, called her and…no dog. I called again and…no dog. I cursed (I didn’t have my coat on) and I shuffled outside in my slippers to try and find my missing pet. Immediately, two things became crystal clear. One, my slippers absorb snow, they don’t repel it. Two, Ocean wasn’t coming in not because she was dead or kidnapped by aliens as I feared but because she was having the time of her life and she didn’t want to come inside.
I spotted the full-ball. She was running full kilt from one end of our enclosed area to the other, digging in the mounds of snow, ‘finding’ lost toys under the flakes and discovering new smells here and there. Her usually black nose was white with snow and she barely stayed still. I literally saw her jump into the air before galloping to one corner only to run after a fat snowflake into the complete opposite corner. That white tail of hers was waving in delight and she wouldn’t come near me in fear I’d drag her inside.
We gave her another half hour and then tried to get her inside. When she refused, we accepted reality and went shopping. We got home two hours later, with groceries and, after dumping them unceremoniously in the kitchen, I ran outside to check on my baby.
Ocean was still running around, still chasing snowflakes with her tail still waving in delight. I think she had lost a little of her energy but I might be wrong. It still took a couple of calls to get her inside…and a wee bit of cheese.
I was still a little concerned and checked her over from head to toe inspecting her carefully for any booboos. She inhaled her supper with incredible speed and, after a few kisses, stretched out on her cushion. She was out like a light.
Two hours later and she still hadn’t moved from her cushion. The intensity of her sleep (probably aided by my overdeveloped imagination) worried me a little. Was she alright? Had something happened to her? Should I call the vet? My husband took a look at the sleeping dog, called me a worry wart and sent me to bed.
The next morning she was up earlier than usual, dancing in excitement, asking to be let out. It was a cold morning, minus 12, and windy and the snow had frozen. I shivered and huddled protectively behind the door. She dashed by me, mad with joy.
Winter is a dog’s wonderland.