If you’ve been lucky enough to experience the Blizzard of 2026, then you understand the struggles of tundra living.
Over the past week, it feels like we’ve been confined (or imprisoned depending how you look at things) in the house for the last 107 days of January. Not only did I clear off over a foot of snow from my driveway in order to create six-foot-tall igloo mounds for the squirrels, but then I had to slide down the driveway the next day to scrape an inch and a half of ice off the asphalt.
Good Times!
The snow piles are taller than I am. The plow truck covered my clean driveway with all the neighborhood’s chunks of ice that only a flamethrower can melt. I’m too old to shovel, which led to a sprained and strained ankle. And to top it off, my dog keeps getting lost in a foot of snow blanketing the backyard.
Here’s the dog deal. I’m a helicopter mom. There’s no way to avoid the reality. I love my little pooper and want to make sure she’s comfortable in her old age. She has a warm winter coat, but sorry, no shoes. Why? Because she has a metal rod in one leg and lots of arthritis and cartilage damage in the other (which she’s been going to acupuncture and laser treatments for). Told you…helicopter mom.
For those non-puppy owners, when you put shoes on a dog, they dance the jig, the tango, and the waltz all at once. Her poor legs don’t need that kind of exercise. Needless to say, I worry about the old lady in this weather. Here’s our preparation techniques.
We laid out a large tarp on a section of snow-covered grass before the big storm. The uncontrollable laughter came when a foot of snow later, we tried to roll the tarp out of the way. I might have fallen on the snow pile face first, and I’m pretty sure the crows joined in the fun, cackling in enjoyment as well.
Okay, once we get the snow and ice off the tarp, boom, there’s a place for my dog to poop—except—apparently, that spot wasn’t a good spot. Remember her bad legs? Yea, well she wanted to poop over yonder instead. And guess what happened? Yep. She falls through the inch of ice covering twelve feet of snow and struggles to wiggle her way out, all while poop is falling out of her butt. Remember how I sprained and strained my ankle? All I could do was cheer her on to get back to the tarp laden area.
After a week of this white precipitation nonsense, Abby’s finally figured out her safe spot and we’re all excited for the next snow storm to pummel us again.