Let’s face it, January can be downright depressing. The Christmas trimmings are packed away until next December. The laundry from our vacation is piled up, reproaching me to get started on house cleaning. Not to mention the fact that it’s 10 degrees outside today and the world is blanketed in snow and ice. Even after four years in New York, this transplanted Southern girl has yet to completely acclimatize.

My black lab, Osborne, however, has had no such trouble adjusting to the snows of a blustery New York winter. Not so long ago, Osborne was the first member of the family out the door on a snowy morning and the last one inside. She shed her years to leap in the air to try to catch a snowball. She sped past the girls as they raced their sleds down Ski Hill. Sneakily, she’d wait until our girls went inside, then she’d ambush the snowman they had just created, stealing the vegetables from its face for a mid-day snack.

Lately, however, Osborne is beginning to show her age. She celebrated her 13th birthday yesterday, which makes her a staggering 91 in dog years. And those 91 dog years are taking their toll. These days, Osborne is more content to snooze away the day in the warmth of the sunroom, rather than roll around in the snow. Many evenings, my husband has to carry her up the stairs to her bed outside our door because her hips just can’t handle the nightly trip anymore.

This afternoon, however, a spark of the puppy Osborne returned. I decided to brave the cold and do a little cross-country skiing before I had to pick the girls up from school. Osborne, sensing my intent, followed me to the door, whining to follow. Unsure of how long Osborne would be able to keep up with me, I gave in reluctantly.

As I strapped on my skis, Osborne’s tail wagged happily. Age didn’t allow her to race ahead of me as she once would, but that didn’t stop her from padding along in my ski tracks. As I looked back at her from the top of Ski Hill, it suddenly struck me that it no longer matters to Osborne whether she is the first one up the hill anymore. She is content to stop and sniff the deer tracks in the snow.

I went out this afternoon to get a little exercise. And thanks to my 91 year old dog, I came back with a little wisdom. Maybe it doesn’t matter if I’m the first one up the hill. Maybe I don’t have to be the fastest person every time. Maybe the winter blahs aren’t sent to be my own personal purgatory every January. Could it be that the whole idea of winter is to slow down the pace of life, to stop and explore the interesting little byways on our path? Being old and infirm didn’t stop Osborne from attempting to follow me around Ski Hill today, so maybe I need to stop letting chilly weather and the feeling of being caught in a rut stop me from enjoying the good life I have. Perhaps I’ll take a page from Osborne’s book this evening and curl up on the rug in front of the fire with her, not doing anything in particular, just being grateful for all I have.