March Madness

People used to plan their lives around the weather report, but I’m sorry to announce this will no longer be possible. All the forecasters have entered the witness protection program. 

In the past week alone, we’ve experienced all four seasons, sometimes speed-racing through two or three in a 24-hour period. To bastardize Bill Bryson’s famous quote, the "forecast" on any given day reads something like this: Dry and warm but colder with some rain and light snow. Possible accumulation of 1 to 24 inches. SW winds of 5 to 65 mph with gusts from the NE up to 90 mph. Flash flood warning in effect for…oh, who the hell knows? At this point, forecasters just throw up their hands and start drinking scotch straight from their anemometers.

Mother Nature’s alarming mood swings haven’t mattered much to Riley and me since I’ve sworn he'll walk come rain, snow, sleet, tornado or apocalyptic hailstorm. Monday worked out beautifully. School closed on account of snow so I made #2 daughter do it. 

I paid for that Tuesday when we were forced to go out in a torrential downpour. Five seconds into the walk, Riley’s fur was soaked through. Raindrops bounced off his coat in cartoonish arcs, like transparent fleas in a hedonistic feeding frenzy. Wednesday, a cold wind blew with such gusto, Riley’s ears projected from the sides of his head at 90-degree angles, giving him enough lift to float along over my head like a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day parade. And then came Thursday, a day so warm #2 daughter put on shorts and joined Riley and me in the park where we played amongst other dogs, joggers, moms with strollers, and a smattering of individuals that inspired one to keep a hand free for the pepper spray. Who can predict what today will bring? Not the weather forecasters, certainly. They’re all in line at the U.S. Marshals Service, receiving their new identities.