Winter Habitat

Peter and I have been worried about Nyssa. She's a desert dog, without much of a coat to protect her from the cold. Although she is happy to tear around like a wild beast in the snow in moderate temperatures (anything over 20 degrees F) she doesn't enjoy the temperatures outside when her needs are a little more ... fundamental. When we lived in Homer, she was in the habit of running back into the house and sticking her nose into the heater vent, letting the hot air blow across her shivering body until she was warm enough to resume her difficult couch-guarding duties. It is not uncommon for her to indicate a need to go out, but on testing the air with her nose, turn tail and run back to her warm spot on the couch. Her face says, "Oops. I guess I didn't need to go that badly."

With the recent cold snap we've had ... one that doesn't look like it will end until April ... Nyssa has been inside our one room cabin for two weeks. I have been growing concerned that cooping her up like this is weighing on her well being. Peter has wondered out loud if all this cold and confinement will send her into a "doggie depression" that will last through the winter. (He has noted that Doggie Prozac is available, and has been for years. Not that we'll be resorting to this. Ever.)

Yesterday, we made an ill-advised attempt to get her out for a walk. It was cold. I won't say how cold, exactly, for fear of having the SPCA called on us, but we booted her up and headed out the door, figuring that as long as she kept moving, she'd be fine.

First of all, there was no frolicking with her boots on. She hates boots (she is a true Diva, despite her hardcore lion-hunting heritage) and instead of running around in the cold, she trailed behind us with her ears down and her tail tucked. She walked slower and slower as we cajoled her to follow, never straying away to smell or check any of her usual spots. After about a quarter of a mile she had fallen well behind. We finally turned around to where she stood resolutely in the middle of the road, shivering. I called her, and instead of bolting towards us in her signature sight-hound gallop, she slunk towards us, stopped, lay down and began to cry.

I don't know if you have ever heard a dog cry before. It is not a bark or a whine or a howl, but a sad, plaintive wailing that will slice you to pieces. I thought maybe the boots were too tight, so I took them off. They were frozen solid (these were duckhunting boots that I bought to keep sticker-burrs off of her in Texas, not soft fleece racing-dog boots made for the cold.) We called her. She refused to move, get up or even follow us back towards home. She would not stand up. She was shaking.

Peter picked her up and threw her over his shoulders. I was glad, in that moment, that I taught her as a pup to accept this sort of handling as a precaution. He carried her all the way home.


We got back and thawed her out as quickly as we could, and she seems none the worse for our misadventure. She will still go outside when nature calls, but she could probably win speed records if there were such a thing for dog-duties in the yard.

Ultimately, the addition of Duncan to our crowded little cabin has done a lot for her. She has another creature to interact and play with, and keep company if we are both gone all day. I will probably still buy fleece boots and a heavy dog-coat, and give this another try at some point. It is supposed to be warmer this week. (As in, closer to Zero.) But I've learned my lesson about forcing the issue.