Fido hates the woodstove.
Go figure. Dogs are supposed to love them, if you believe the pictures in the L.L. Bean catalogs.
“Get me out of here,” he pleaded. “What is this? Aruba?”
This was on one of those really cold days in early November, when the wind howled and the temperatures dove. Outside, our street was frozen solid, with icy spots all over the place.
I built a fire in the woodstove and things were darned cozy at our place, at least for me.
Fido retreated from the living room and took up a post under the dining room table. He panted.
“It’s not like I can take off my coat or anything, you know. And this isn’t natural. November is supposed to be cool, not hotter than blazes, like you’ve got it.”
Fido is kind of amazing like that. He has a big red coat, to be sure. And he’s right: it’s not like he can unbutton it.
The poor thing.
This last week has been murder for him. A nice, warm weekend a week ago, with unusually warm temperatures throughout the week.
Fido moved from under the dining room table and over toward the front door — the coolest spot in the house.
“Don’t worry, Fido,” I intoned. “Howard says the temps are going to dive, and we’ll have cold weather again soon — starting on Friday. A storm pattern is going to develop and we’ll have winter again.”
Fido lifted his right ear.
“The weather service says so, too.”
Last winter, on one of those powdery days where the snow falls almost straight down, I found Fido on the deck, lying on his side. He was covered with about a quarter inch of snow. His black, leathery nose stuck out. He was fast asleep.
I inched backward and crept toward the table and my camera. He was still asleep.
I lay prone and elbowed by way toward the deck, hoping for a perfect picture. Fido caught me, though. He stood up and shook the snow off his back.
Oh well. So much for the picture.
“I got the message, though,” I said to Fido.
“Yeah,” he said, “and the message is, ‘Turn down the heat already. Let winter do its thing.’”