Every week now, Daddy looks at a paper and uses his hopeful voice to say a bunch of numbers. "Wind chill today is 11, but temps'll be 52 by Wednesday, maybe 60 by Friday." And he wears his very frowny face when he sees snow out the window.
Me, I like snow. I am Snow Dog. The deeper the snow, the better to burrow my face in, although I can nose around pretty good in even a dusting. And Daddy's numbers don't mean much to me. My ears tell me how cold it is when I am out walking. In a recent snow-packed week, one day was a squeak-squeak day, another day was a squeak-crunch day, and another day my paws only made crunch-crunch sounds.
Today Mom and I heard a different sound. It was not from the snow under our feet. It was from someplace high up. Thump, crackle, thud. We both stopped and turned our faces up toward the sounds. Nothing moved. We couldn't see anything making the noises. But Mommy figured it out. "Icicles," she said. They were falling from the roof. I don't know if that means it's warmer or colder.