The days are getting longer, but the deep freeze is getting stronger. As I step out in the early light of day at my northeastern Vermont home, the hard packed snow crunches with each footstep, and Alvin briskly moves toward the road to begin our walk. The temperature is below zero but the air is eerily still. I bury my mouth and chin in the fuzzy lining of the high collar of my jacket. I feel the hairs of my eyebrows beginning to freeze together and pull my hat down over them. I command Alvin to go forward.

I form a mental image of the foot-deep snow on either side of the road—pure white, fluffy, and dry. The coniferous woods near the house give way to a mixed hardwood forest. A hundred yards down the road, Alvin pulls to the side, a sign that he wants to relieve himself. I remove his harness, extend his leash, and feel him somersault into the snow. He rolls onto his back and gives joyful grunts as he does his own imitation of a snow angel. I smile at his youthful exuberance and listen. Nothing. Not a sound beyond my own breathing and Alvin’s play. I place the harness back on Alvin, and we resume our walk down the frozen road.