Saturday, January 9, 2010
There's a rhythm to writing that must be practiced regularly for maximum effect. Failing to exercise your instrument is to risk loosing your tune. Let's just say I've been whistlin' Dixie, when Wynton Marsalis is more to my taste. But I'm determined to change my tune and get back into the swing of it.
Me and Max have struggled this week with subterranean temperatures. Atlanta is experiencing unusually cold winter weather; the kind that sent people from Northern regions flocking to Atlanta to get away from. For nearly a week, we've been shivering well below the freezing mark and Friday ushered in an arctic chill of snow and ice. Atlantans have been greeted by weather days that even a good Alaskan would find frigid and, indeed, news reports informed us that our teen temperatures dipped below those of Alaska on the Fahrenheit scale. What a dubious distinction!
Needless to say, it's not good walking weather. Neither woman nor woogah should have to brave these conditions! But brave them we did. After the initial shock of paws to rock solid pavement, Max adapted rather quickly to the inhumane conditions. The only noticeable difference being an added pep in his step. He moved more briskly than usual, like skipping across burning coals. The ground is so cold it must feel icy hot to the touch. But Max is a real trooper. He's like the mailman; nothing can keep him from his appointed rounds.
He must have sensed the danger of the first snow's icy conditions. As we tried to make our way down our little neighborhood street, ducking and dodging icy patches lurking in shady spots beneath a light dusting of snow, Max suddenly turned around and headed back to our house. He picked up one of his tennis balls left out in the yard for me to throw so he could get a little exercise. I lobbed it his way, and it hit the ground with a leaden thud! No bounce, just rock solid. Thwack! Max rolled it around in the snow for a while, pushing it with his paws and snout, before giving up. Oh well, tomorrow's another day.