The first month of the new century brought the deepest accumulation of snow in a decade. All day, fragile flakes of white piled up on ground and outdoor structures. Filigreed fluff turned to liquid upon contact with my hands, but clung tenaciously to everything else. An ever-growing depth of white padding quickly covered my succeeding attempts to provide bird seed to a frustrated feathered mob. An active breeze kept snow from building up on power lines, but whipped the falling flakes into drifts that reached 15 inches in depth. In Maine, this might not have counted for much of a snow fall. In Williamsburg, Virginia this qualified as a blizzard.

     It was a wonderful opportunity for writing. My canine fur-children, collectively known as the Astra gang, had no interest in going out after their encounters with the first four inches of the squishy stuff. And I certainly wasn’t going to drive in the mess. Besides, I was two months behind on my book. Logical arguments aside, I failed at any productive effort. I frittered away the day, enjoying nature’s beauty but creating none of my own. It was after nine in the evening when I realized HE had entered my life.

     His dam finished her championship last year, but this was her first litter. An x-ray the previous day had found two puppies. I expected their arrival in two days, to coincide with the 63rd day from the first mating. The small, four ounce male didn’t wait. His soft squeaks charged my energy banks and brought me to the whelping box quickly. I sat transfixed at the sight of his tiny body, wide white blaze and nose band. I marveled aloud to dam and pup at the resemblance of this wee mite to his great-grandfather, my constant shadow for 16.5 years. Like the snow which still fell softly outside, he was fragile but resolute. He crawled vigorously to join with his mother for support and sustenance.

     Two days later he was still trying to nurse but losing ground. Patient and tenacious, he clung to life. I marshaled friends with four-wheel drive to take mother and baby to the vet through piles of snow that thwarted efforts to clear roads and parking lots. His mother’s milk was insufficient, but substitutes were feebly rejected by a tiny paw he attempted to put between my feeder and his mouth. The snow which preceded his birth clung to the landscape as determinedly as he did to life. Through the weeks to come, we battled swollen lymph glands and a reluctant appetite.

     After a week, the lymph glands returned to normal and he gained to five ounces. I cautiously named him in keeping with Astra Kennel conventions. His was the ‘W’ litter so he became Astra’s Winter Wonder. It seemed fitting considering the piles of snow that still covered everything. Of course, he needed a call-name, so I dubbed him Shadow after his beloved great-grandfather. 

     My Winter Wonder, my Shadow, had to be supplemented every two hours, and I watched the wonder of life unfolding within my hands. He grew from the 3.5 oz weight at two days to a fluffy bundle of 16 ounces. Each quarter ounce gain was recorded and greeted with joy and celebration, as ear flaps unsealed and tiny eyes opened to deep blue pools of curiosity. His little paw still sought to plant itself between his mouth and my eye dropper of milk supplement, however. He wanted his mother’s milk, but he couldn’t compete with his larger sister who got most of his mother’s limited supply and licked his face clean of any extra supplements that missed his mouth.

     I carried him in my hand and against my shoulder or tucked him into a sleeping ring with hot water bottles so that he slept inches away from the keyboard on my desk. I would talk to him about the quiet scene of white outside, the strength of the tiny snowflakes that clung to landscape and structures despite temperatures that reached into the mid-40's during the day, and all the reasons I never seemed to be tenacious about my writing. “I have this rental house, Shadow, and it takes up so much of my time that I don’t have time to write.” He’d gaze steadily at me with his dark blue eyes and yawn. Or, “I really have to finish my taxes before I can concentrate on trying to write.” Another yawn. 

     By four weeks he was bopping around on the floor of the play pen he shared with his sister and dam, and learning to manipulate me, a Papillon’s favorite chore. He’d run around his crate between it and the wall of his play pen until he couldn’t go forward any more. Then he’d whine and look at me to come move the crate. As long as I stayed within his view, he’d whine for my help. When I’d leave the room and watch him from hiding, he’d easily reverse his path and return the way he’d come to his play or sleeping area. 

     He still spent many hours on my desk, yawning at my excuses. Between feedings and petting sessions, I managed to deal with putting the rental property on the market. It sold the next day. 

     Just before his fifth week of life, his breathing became more rapid. As usual, he fought against any of my food offerings, that same dainty paw always raised to push away the baby food or puppy mush I forced upon him. His vets were very guarded, suggesting that his lungs were not functioning properly and might indicate pneumonia. He lost interest in playing and spent more and more time within the warm circle of water bottles in his sleeping ring on my desk. We went back to two-hour feedings, and brief outings of walking around the surface of my desk. He’d sleep for brief spaces of time as long as I remained near. There was no excuse for not working on taxes while I waited for him to nap before accepting more water and food supplements.

     He’d stretch and whine when he wanted attention, and I’d often give him an update of the completion of this or that part of the tax information. He’d push his little pillow [shaped like a dog bone] into a more comfortable position and go back to sleep. 

     On his 40th day of life, I finished compiling my tax information and put it into a folder to take to my accountant. The minute I finished, Shadow opened those beautifully expressive blue eyes, gathered himself up and jumped out of his sleeping ring directly into my hands. Suddenly he seemed too weak to stand or to hold up his head. I caressed him gently and tucked him under my chin. That tiny paw patted my chin one last time and he was gone, softly and quietly, like the snow that fell the night of his birth. 

     That snow is long gone now except for the lasting memories that exist in photographs and stories of Williamsburg’s blizzard. Winter Wonder’s brief passage through my life is over too; only a few photographs and his story remain. 

     Like the great-grandfather he resembled so much, he’d reminded me that tenacity and quiet strength can accomplish almost anything. He’d done his job in only 40 days, returned my efforts to writing the story of the Astra gang, and caused me to wonder. Did the spirit of his beloved ancestor come back in this tiny body to touch my life again, to remind me that I have things to do before I join them all at Rainbow Bridge? 

© 2000 Jean Keating All Rights Reserved. 
Reprinted with permission from Pawprints on my Heart. 
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