"Look," said Gregg.
We were standing in the laundry room, divesting ourselves of wet outerwear after a quick walk around the block with Ray in the sleety, snowy, rain (rainy, snowy, sleet?).
I turned to look. Ray was standing stock-still just outside the gate, a large bath towel draped over his head. It hung to the floor on either side of him.
"He looks like the ghost of Christmas Past," I said laughing.
I led him to the stairs and sat on the bottom-most step as I dried his cold, wet head. The rest of him had remained pleasantly toasty in his sniffing-sweater.
Feeling frisky after his rubdown, Ray headed to the Christmas tree to rummage through the ornaments on the bottom branches of the tree, then into an empty shoebox that had contained a new pair of slippers for the man of the house. Ray had tried to eat the laces off them the previous day, but since they were now safely on the feet of the new owner, Ray settled for ripping the tissue-paper stuffing to shreds in the front hall.
I knew the short walk wasn't going to cut it for the big, blind dog. It was going to be a long day.