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Snow has a smell.
Most people don’t know that. People notice how it looks - white and blinding and rude to the eyes - but snow smells like cold iron and old memories and fun.
This morning, the smell sneaks under the front door before anyone else is awake.
Snow.
I lift my head from my bed near the radiator (best spot in the house, fought hard for it years ago) and thump my tail once. Then twice. Then - well, my tail gets ahead of me and starts wagging like it’s twenty years younger.
Peter comes downstairs, followed by El. They walk into the kitchen where Peter starts to make coffee. I haul myself upright and walk into the kitchen.
Peter looks down at me. “Morning, buddy.”
I sit. Very straight. Very polite. I angle my head toward the door, just enough to be subtle.
El laughs. She always sees everything. “He knows it’s snowing.”
“I know,” Peter says, glancing at the window and then back at me. “And no.”
I blink slowly at him.
People think dogs don’t understand words. This is incorrect. I understand tone. And Peter’s tone says “it’s freezing outside and don’t want to pull you out of a snowbank before work.”
I sigh. Loudly. I put my chin on El’s knee.
Peter pretends not to notice.
That’s when the doorbell rings.
It rings in a particular way when it’s him. My ears perk up, my tail starts up again, and I bark happily.
Neal Caffrey stands on the other side of the door. I can smell him through the wood - wool coat, snow, and friend.
“Satchmo!” Neal says the moment he steps inside, crouching down to my level immediately. “There’s my favorite co-conspirator.”
I wag so hard I have to widen my stance to stay upright. Dignity is overrated.
Peter gives him a look. “Don’t encourage him.”
Neal glances at the window, where snow is falling in thick, lazy flakes. He grins. “You mean you’re not taking him out in that winter wonderland?”
“Most definitely not,” Peter says, his voice full of conviction.
I straighten up again and give him a baleful glare.
El crosses her arms, smiling. “He does love the snow,” she points out reasonably.
Neal looks down at me, smiling brightly. “How do you feel about an adventure, Satch?”
Adventure. Yes. That. I bark once.
Peter opens his mouth.
“I’ll take him,” Neal says smoothly. “He can show me all his favorite spots.”
I do have favorite spots. Neal knows this.
Peter sighs, already defeated. “Fine. But don’t let him--”
“Overdo it,” Neal finishes. “I know. I’ll be careful.”
He always is. With me, at least.
Outside, the world is white and new and perfect, like someone reset the city just for me.
The snow crunches under my paws, cold and thrilling. I bury my nose in it immediately. Neal laughs, a sound that feels like sunshine even in the cold.
We walk slowly, leisurely, enjoying the quiet. Snowflakes land on his fedora and my nose alike. I chase one for a moment, then think better of it and focus on more important matters, like leaving messages for other dogs and investigating an especially interesting lamppost.
When we get to the nearby park, Neal makes a few snowballs and throws them for me. I chase them and try to catch them but they dissolve in my mouth, making me sneeze. Neal laughs - not at me, but with me. I throw myself into the pristine snow, rolling around in it, wiggling happily. Neal lies down next to me and makes what he calls a snow angel.
After spending a good long while just frolicking in the snow, playing fetch and chasing the lone squirrel that braves the weather and digging for hidden treasures in the snowbanks, Neal calls me. I trot over and he kneels, brushing snow from my back, warm hands gentle and familiar. “Ok, Satch, let’s head home.”
Home is warm. Home smells like coffee and El’s lotion and Peter’s worry. When we come back inside, Peter pretends not to check me over too carefully while giving me a quick rubdown with a soft towel.
I collapse onto my bed, exhausted and happy. Neal scratches behind my ears just right. “Good adventure?” he asks softly.
I thump my tail once and give him a happy doggy smile. Best adventure!
THE END