Seasons Are For The Birds

Dear Goddamned Beagle,

My apologies. A mere few days ago you were in the hopeful throes of your first New England spring. The days had been getting longer, and the temperatures had been rising to nearly-acceptable levels. The critters had been coming out in droves, laying a magic carpet of scents for you to follow blindly as your human anchor trailed behind, keeping you in a vaguely circular arc around the town and out of traffic.

While I was away threatening our elected leaders with science and the will of the people, your chaperone introduced you to modern art. We live in an extremely art-rich community, Beagz, so it’s good that you’ve begun your more formal education. The birds sang, your soul was enriched by creativity and exposure to the delights of local culture, and you were enjoying the resurgence of what I believe you’d call “tolerable conditions around here.”

But then I returned and the cold rains came.

We didn’t even bother going out today, the horror and dread so obvious on your face that it seemed best to just keep you as warm as possible while intermittently offering you food snacks and affection. You were more interested in the snacks. I don’t want to say that you were being spiteful, but when you did come out of your Burrito of Betrayal to play a few rounds of tug you bit me five times before spitting out the faux squirrel carcass and going back to bed.

It’s not my fault, Beagle. Your withering glances and pointed snoring are being wasted – I do not control the weather, nor did I bring it with me from D.C.

Yes, it’s supposed to be like this tomorrow, too, but then we’ll be near the 80s in the muggy sun – perhaps a sentimental reminder of your Southern roots. This, too, shall pass, dog. Never fear.


Your Person


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