Kickass, the doorstop dog, joins the keeper in watching an occasional snowflake waft down from a cloudless sky as snowplow and sanding vehicles patrol the cold morning streets like giant predators.
In doing an anthropomorphic cartwheel, the keeper gives voice to the slowing descending snowflake:
“Oh, my god! Where did I come from and where am I going? There are so many of my kind down there–but none just like me,–and it looks like I am destined for the parking lot where the mechanical predators will imprison me in the big snowbank that won’t melt until July, and I will be stuck with millions of the commonest of snowflakes, and I will never know the joy of being part of a snowman or a snowball that scores a hit on a narcissistic yahoo. I can only hope that when I melt and evaporate and come back as an April-shower droplet that I fall in a flower bed and not in a gutter. Well, things could have been worse–I could have been falling as a damaging hailstone, which, I understand, is sometimes defined by meteorologists as Republican precipitation.”
If you cannot accept talking snowflakes, the keeper suggests that your SAD may be out of control and you need the kind of seasonal therapy that he gets from long cognitive sessions with Phyllis.