rain, rain, go away

High: 42
Low: 34
Conditions: Rain, Freezing Rain, Sleet

For a caninaturalist, rain can often be great fun. It brings out salamanders and spring peepers; it creates mucky puddles perfect for splashing; it enhances smells and redistributes snacks. None of this is true, however, during the January thaw. This rain is cold and enervating. To paraphrase our new husky friend Tubey, January rain in Maine is just plain stupid (http://worldofturbo.blogspot.com/) .

Ari and I set out to brave the sleet and freezing rain this afternoon, hoping we could find something redemptive about the weather conditions. It’s swamped our ski trails and made snowshoeing all but impossible, so we stuck to our favorite dirt road to see what we could find.

Not a single animal could be found: no new tracks, no scat, nothing. Anything with any sentience is hunkering down somewhere with a little bit of shelter.

We don’t blame them. There is beauty in a thaw:

But it’s the kind of beauty best appreciated from a distance. Up close and personal, the moisture seeps into your boots and hat; it mats dog fur; it threatens to destroy a new digital camera. On a day like today, Ari doesn’t stop to smell or explore, and she barely acknowledges even the domestic animals we pass on our walk. After 15 minutes, we relent. I take a few hasty photos and we head home, where we can work on some species identification in the warmth and comfort of the house.
Red pine (Pinus resinosa)



Japanese Hydrangea (Hydrangaceae Macrophylla)



Balsam Fir (Abies balsamea)

Litter Bug (homo sapien jerkus)

Ari doesn’t care about this part of our canine naturalism project. It doesn’t matter to her that a guy named Linnaeus devised a system of organizing organisms, or that people like Darwin and Mendel and countless contemporary scientists have been tweaking it ever since. Instead, she rests quietly—pensively even—on the back of the couch, staring out the window at all that rain.

Or at least that’s what I think she’s doing.

When I stumble out of my office and away from my field guides, I discover she’s been busy with her own scientific project: couch dissection.

In our house, a quiet dog is usually being a bad dog. I know this. And somewhere deep in my subconscious, I probably even reminded myself about this fact while I was thumbing through tree books. By the time I emerged from the office, however, the damage had been done. I know should scold her for this kind of wanton destruction. But to be honest, I know exactly how she feels. January rain is stupid: we just choose to respond to that stupidity in different ways.