Ode to Four-Legged Brats

It’s cold, freezing in fact, and like an idiot, I am outside. Jogging. My toes are gone, stolen by frost, my cheeks burn with the sting of winter, and my nose threatens to crawl down into my scarf. I shouldn’t be out here, but I am, because my dog needs to pee. Bolt out the door, ignore the first ten trees; sniff cautiously at pole. Don’t go. Runrunrunrunrun SKIDtoa stop. F i n a l l y go. Whine. Peer up at owner with soulful puppy-dog eyes and whine. Glance longingly at the park… down the block. I swear, I should’ve named you Sprinkles. It’s still subzero out here. I can’t feel my face, I’m convinced I no longer have fingers, but the moon looks nice. I guess you’re good for my cardio. Bear suits you, even if you’re only two feet tall.