Manny the Snowhound

I couldn’t blame my mutt at all. He was looking out the window at quickly accumulating snow and a world of white and whining like a little baby.

I had work to do, and his whimpers were getting under my skin. I’d give him the sometimes-effective “just relax boy” in a soothing but stern voice, and he’d glance at me as if to say, “You want me to relax? Do you see what’s happening out there?”

Of course, he was right. As last Friday’s squall kept depositing fresh snow it was becoming more and more evident that we were missing out on some genuinely powdery fun. My boy Manny is a snowhound of the highest order. That’s him in the photo with the shit-eating grin plastered on his face — this from a dog who actually does eat shit — following my buddy Chris last season in some April pow.

He knew exactly what he was missing. Problem was, I did too. And in my own way, I was whining right along with him.

When I was in his position — dependent on my dad to get me suited up and ready to play in the snow — I was a brat too. There were some mornings, new snow or not, when the entire family would be moseying their way through a pre-ski day breakfast, bullshitting about movies, mortgages, the Red Sox, whatever, and I’d be there all dressed up and just dying to get outside, tugging on my father’s sweater saying “come ooooonnnnn daaaaaaaad.”

I remember that feeling well. And now, the spiritual entities that dole out karmic retribution were giving it back to me in the form of my anxious, powder-loving shredhound.

Fortunately for him (and me) I finished up Friday’s work and made it out for some frolicking over the weekend. Things are on the up and up here in the Greens. Each of these small and medium-sized storms is burying that rain-freeze layer deeper into the past. Long-range outlooks keep us in a winter-like flow through the end of the month (read the skiing weatherman’s breakdown written on Saturday).

Good news for snowhounds of the four- and two-legged variety.