This afternoon, we decided to go down to the lake to shovel off a rink.
It wasn’t too cold with snow pants and jacket on, and the lake was vast and littered with icehouses. Across the way, we could see bodies moving back and forth, no doubt passing beers and measuring catches. Every so often, a snowmobile would go by, vibrating on wide skis. Sometimes the driver would wave to us, but often he wouldn’t.
We carved out a huge rink, plus goals, plus Amy, dope that she is, spelled out “—- [our last name] Arena” with her small shovel.
Ruby ran back and forth with her toy, only pausing to let us pick clods of snow off of her paws. She pretended to balk when I dumped shovelfuls on her back, but from the way she pranced afterwards, snow sifting down her sides, I suspect she liked the attention.