Dear Goddamned Dog,
Fifty-six. It is fifty-six degrees out, and you’re shivering hard enough to shake this computer as you lean against my leg.
I have some bad news for you: You now live in New England.
While this does mean certain very good things for you – beaches, lots of visitors, Things, training, sleep-away camp, an upcoming turkey dinner I’ll fill you in on at some point – it also means winter. Winter is a thing that makes it a whole lot colder out than fifty-six degrees. It also makes something called “snow” that I suspect will less than thrill you.
But in the mean time I’ve got you covered, literally. While the Swissies never required anything more than a couch for comfort, you apparently require a great deal more. I’ve got a fluffy blanket for you to Winter Burrito in, and a self-heating bed to keep by the fire (apparently the same people intent on tormenting middle-aged women have found an additional use for their oven-like bedding). I just ordered you a sweatshirt from Amazon. Thanks to you, I’m now a person who buys a dog clothing.
And if nothing else, a warm lap and a towel will have to do until they, and winter, arrive.
Welcome to the cold north, Beagz.