Kickass, the doorstop dog, reports that the keeper is big on accepting things but is sorely challenged this morning as a few random snowflakes drift down out of a gray sky with the obvious message that there is more to come, a lot more.
Given the keeper’s age and mental inventory, a revised snowflake attitude is essential: a snowflake is not a geometrical design made up of 10 quintillion water molecules having fallen through varying degrees of air layers to become a little thing of beauty, it is a small white butterfly that has gone bad and been condemned to insect hell, otherwise known as Winter in Wisconsin.
Do not ask for detail on why the keeper finds it more acceptable to slip and slid through the next six months thinking that he is dealing with trillions of misguided dead butterflies as opposed to plain old ice and snow. If he could explain that, maybe he would not be so nervous about the possibility of Phyllis running away to her former digs in Arizona.
“It’s only butterflies, Sweetheart. Don’t fall on them.”