Not Again?!!?

So, it’s brain-numbingly cold again. The kind of cold that freezes your nostrils shut, and makes your eyeballs scream at you for leaving only them uncovered, while the rest of your face enjoys the blissful warmth of entrapped breath. Having been born and raised in Wisconsin, I don’t often whine about winter. I more often whine about heat and humidity in the summer. But this winter…it’s starting to wear. Don’t get me wrong, like Quinn, I love snow. I don’t mind crisp nights when the snow crunches underfoot. But this lovely Polar Vortex thingie…it is one huge bucket of suck. (Ha! Got to use that in a Blog post, too. Awesome.)

The dogs are going absolutely buggy. They can’t be out for too long–though they’d stay out until they were frozen solid if I gave them the option. There’s no working them in these temps, except to do chores, and then I’m bundled up like the kid from whatever that movie was. I consider that a work-out. All those extra pounds of clothing has to count as passive weight training.

Jig loves to play Frisbee so that’s her exercise. She has to play alone 1) because she’s in heat and 2) because sharing is not something she’s good at. Although sometimes Rowan comes out with us. But Jig sees Row as the Queen so there aren’t any arguments there. Besides, Row tends to just stand in the middle of the field and watch as though planning some great stratagem to steal the Frisbee. Occasionally she breaks into a trot but it quickly goes back to a walk, then a stand. She’s not very motivated these days. We use a soft Frisbee, and after the first toss Jig’s slobber has frozen on it. What’s truly amusing is when she manages to get slobber on the top of her head and that freezes as well. Okay, I find it amusing.

“Let’s go already. I’ve been out to the field and back four times!”

The spectators.

“Throw. The. Frisbee.”

She’s a header even when we’re playing Frisbee. First you catch it…

…then you kill it.

Rowan’s opinion of the entire matter.

The boys come out to do chores with me because I don’t have to pay attention to them. They supervise while I fill the burner, then follow me into the barn to feed and water. They have one job; push the sheep outside and keep them off me while I’m feeding. Grady and Quinn handle that. Murphy tags along in his old man’s bliss, occasionally kissing someone on the nose. I have to keep a close eye on that. Several of my ewes will ram a weak dog, and they make a bee-line for the old man if they get the chance. If I’m not close enough, Quinn usually handles it. Or I can send Grady. That’s fun. He bounces, barks, bounces some more. He’s such a big goof-ball. But he’s a happy goof ball.

The long-range forecast isn’t looking all that cheery. It’s not supposed to warm up much in the next week. This is definitely one of those times I wouldn’t care if the forecasters got it absolutely wrong.

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