Morning Snow
Inspired by several true stories, none of which happened all together.
When I had gone to bed, a winter storm was in full swing. The wind rushed, rattling windows, while heavy snow dropped to the ground. It was still very early, nearing 6am, when our Old Man Pup decided he needed to venture out to do his morning business. Being a senior pup and a 92lb mix of Australian Shepherd and Woolly Mammoth, his joints aren’t what they used to be and he requires assistance with our home’s many stairs. I heard him scrabbling to get up and decided I would guide him down, allowing my husband to stay-toasty warm under the covers.
I should have known something was wrong before I opened the bedroom door. A chilly slice of air attacked my ankles before I could turn the knob, and I was greeted by the bitter cold that would have been expected if I were opening a door to the outside rather than one leading to a hallway. Our Old Man Pup fluffed the air with his nose and pulled back in obvious confusion.
When we got to the landing, the smaller of our spry cats dashed up to greet us with an excited mew and hurried back down. The Old Man Pup settled on the floor and glanced at me as if to say, “I’ll wait right here while you go check it out.” In the span of a few steps, my mind danced with possibilities, its favorite being a branch came down through a window. By the time I reached the ground floor, meaning only a few seconds later, I was convinced I’d encounter shattered glass. What’s more, I imagined the troublemaker sibling of the excited cat balancing on the branch and in desperate danger of encountering a sharp shard. I’d have to wrangle both cats, sweep glass, pull a heavy limb back to the outside, and staple a tarp over the damaged window. All in the bitter cold while being shoeless. All while our senior pup held in whatever he wanted to let out in the yard.
The reality of the situation was quite different.
A door had blown open.
Let me explain a little about the doors in our house. None of them latch without extra attention. They look closed, but they are always teetering on the edge of open. The deadbolts turn just enough to appear in place, when they are really resting in an indentation rather than the proper slot to engage the lock. When the house is closed up for the night, it’s customary to tug on all the swinging doors to check for stability, curse at the ones that open, and repeat the dance until the damn thing is solidly locked. This early morning, I was taught that sometimes even that sequence of steps aren’t enough to ensure we are locked up tight for the night.
It was the mudroom’s door that had opened, one of the few without the added feature of a storm door. The wind had blown a good two to three inches of snow into the room. The smaller cat sat at the threshold connecting the mudroom to the interior of the house, her tail curled around her paws and her yellow eyes watching the snow show. Her brother stood on a nearby cabinet, body and tail stretched into a runners stance with one paw raised and curled in anticipation of the race to the begin. The Old Man Pup woofed a light reminder that he was waiting patiently and that his bladder wasn’t as reliable as it used to be.
If you’ve ever seen snow blown into your home, you know that it’s deeper by the door and slowly peters out further in. My eyes focused on the thicker of the layer until the cat on the cabinet dropped lower into his crouch. I tracked his sight into the mudroom. That was when I first spied the paw prints in the shallow end of the snow. They were traveling inward and not shaped correctly to be of the feline variety. Beyond the blanket of snow lay holiday packages of cookies and bread that were set to be mailed when the morning was a little older. Two boxes were torn open and a gaze of raccoons were enjoying the holiday treats meant for human consumption. The four had liberated a loaf of sourdough, a pan of cinnamon rolls, and too many cookies to count. I blinked at the furry family feasting on their holiday banquet while warm(er) and cozy in the corner of their new den. The presence of the cats were not enough to deter them, and the scene was too foreign for either feline to formulate a plan of defense. The smaller cat looked up at me as if to say, “we’re outnumbered.”
From the doorway, I couldn’t reach my boots, but my fingers could just graze the handle of an umbrella. I reached lower to grasp the canopy. No sooner did my fingers close around the fabric, the entire umbrella fell open. While I intended to open it to scare the animals, I wanted to be in control of the surprise. The four critters stopped chewing long enough to take notice of me and the cats, but they agreed with our smaller cat’s assessment: despite me towering over them and the possible weapon in my hand, there were still more of them.
The Old Man Pup woofed again, this time with some urgency. The raccoons silently conferred, reassessing their options. It seemed that two cats and an armed giant in the doorway were fine, but the woofing of a mysterious fourth threat was deemed too much. They stuffed as much of my kitchen labor into their mouths and waddled one by one in a straight line to the door.
The final and smallest of the raccoons stopped half way and came up on its hind legs, looking back at the treats. A raccoon that had already left stuck its head back in to urge the last one on, finally turning and leaving in disgust that its friend wasn’t listening. The interloper spun around and grabbed the remnants of the sourdough loaf. It made a break for it on its hind legs, slipping and sliding over the slick tile, and at one point running in place like a cartoon, never letting go of the bread. I pulled the umbrella closed, flipped the tip to face me, and used the hook of the handle to guide the cartoon wannabe out.
Both cats crept into the mudroom and stretched their necks to sniff where our holiday house guests had been. Still curious, as cats are, they tiptoed toward the open door, only to recoil in horror as their paws touched the snow. “Some help you are,” I said to them. They only returned a wide-eyed look in my direction and sauntered off to warmer parts of the house.
Still barefoot, it was my turn to tiptoe around the frosty fluff. After securing my feet in cold boots, I grabbed the shovel and scraped snow off the tile and out the door. The raccoons didn’t get very far. They stood in a valley of snowdrifts, watching me put the outside back where it belonged. The little one was still on its hind legs, clutching the bread and nibbling on its edge. I turned to look at the destroyed boxes and cookie crumbs, then back at my visitors. I gathered the remaining treats back into an open box and set it outside. “Happy holidays,” I said and shut the door.
I returned to the staircase to help the Old Man Pup down, but he wasn’t on the landing. I climbed back up and found the bedroom door ajar. I stuck my head in and squinted. He was back on his bed, curled up, his chest rising and falling with the deep, even breaths of sleep. I wondered for a moment if the Old Man Pup had heard the raccoons and only got up to investigate.
Though I was now fully awake, I slipped back into bed. My husband stirred and turned, draping an arm over me and mumbling some kind of thanks for taking care of the dog. I wanted to put my half frozen toes on his nice, warm legs, but decided that would ruin the story I’d surely tell to disbelieving folks for years to come.