Sunday marked the first sunny spring-like day of the season, with temperatures soaring to the mid 40s. It was the first time I dared bare my wrists to the outside air in over four months. Joe took advantage of the "heat" by playing with the ice and puddles in the driveway, chipping at the glacier that had formed in front of the garage and moving pieces of it out into the dry, sunny part of the driveway to melt. We also took the dogs out for a nice long run. No hats, no gloves, no jackets. Our first run together in training for our relay at the end of May and I was pleasantly surprised to see that I was not panting as hard as Joe or the dogs. Secret treadmill training does have its advantages.
One of the unfortunate side effects of the spring melt is the slow unveiling of little brown dog bombs. This is not a phenomenon restricted to our backyard. It happens in the street gutters, along the sidewalk, in the middle of the sidewalk, and especially on paths in the park. The normal rule is that you pick up after your dog immediately after they go in areas other than your own yard, or else you are an asshole. There is nothing about this rule that can be left to interpretation, no exceptions. You pick it up. The end. I thought this was universal knowledge, common sense even. During winter months, some people believe that you can just kick a pile of snow over the turd, and hey, look, I can't see it so it must not be there anymore. Come springtime, the thaw reveals the discourteous' dirty little secrets. I guess it's just something we have to deal with until the April showers come and wash the fecal matter into the lake WHERE YOUR CHILDREN SWIM AND FROM WHICH YOUR DRINKING WATER IS DRAWN.
It would be nice if I could blather on about how much I love spring, but I am feeling less than inspired due in part to office gossip (and weatherchannel.com confirmation) of another winter storm waiting to strike this weekend. At least the skiers will get one last hurrah before the end of season.
