The leaves are yellowing in patches. The other night, when I went out late to do a final check on the dogs, the aurora was dancing across the sky like someone poured colors over a bowl. There’s a sharp nip in the air. In Game of Thrones they say it with dread: here, we say it with a manic grin. Winter is coming.
September 1 is usually regarded as day one of the mushing season– so it begins! Around the neighborhood, teams are out in force, pulling four wheelers and churning up mud. The dogs’ eyes are lit up with ferocious glee. As they go by my cabin, my own dogs howl and bark back and generally mourn their lack of participation. We don’t have a quad yet, but soon.
My brain counts off the things to do to prepare. Our cabin is heated with oil, so there’s no wood to cut, but the yard requires a million little tasks to be complete before the ground freezes and before the snow flies. It’s probably a while yet, but my excitement gets ahead of itself.
There’s exciting news at the kennel, again. Ophelia is back. I’ll make a big shindig of it later on all the social media, but for now, my heart just lurches sideways to see her again. I forgot how much I let that dog wiggle her way into my care and love. She’s a good one. My little kennel is growing. Three adults hang out at their houses or (more often) on the couches inside. More coming, but more on that later. And the four goofy pups.
Not a big post, but we have things to do today! Time for a puppy walk brigade– Gotta give that energy somewhere to go.
