Skating with Patches

            As an adolescent, one of my most vivid memories was taking my dog ice skating at the local creek.  Patches and I were inseparable for the ten years as the family pet.  I grew up with three brothers but he was definitely my dog.  After picking him from the litter, he slept on my lap throughout the car ride home, and slept in my bed every night since.  He was a Beagle and typically very loyal.  One cold morning, after an impromptu sleep-over at a friend’s place, I woke to find him sleeping in the backyard doghouse.  I had no idea he was there.  I felt terrible but he never held a grudge.

            Every winter we would make the fifteen minute trek down to the winding creek.  I would gather my cold-weather apparel which gave Patches a chance to get excited about the adventure we were about to embark on.  His tail would wag in anticipation by the kitchen door and he would do a little dance as if he were walking in place.  Finally, I got my skates and stick and grabbed the snow shovel on the way out, almost tripping over him, and we were off. 

            We trudged across a field, through the wavy drifts, as he hopped into my fresh tracks behind me, his collar jingling with every jump.  He was determined to stay with me no matter how arduous it might have been.  The air was crisp and fresh.  I had to squint from the bright sun glaring off the new, white snow.  The wind would occasionally whip up and create tiny tornadoes.  Since the creek wasn’t stagnant, it had to be very cold for at least a week to be safe enough for skating.

            Now came the tricky part – descending into the ravine.  I usually slid at least part of the way down.  I hoped that I would land on solid ice at the bottom and not break through and get wet.  Then our day would be done.  Patches never followed me down but, somehow, always made it eventually.  I would search out a suitable spot as my little hunter would use his keen scent to scare up some game.  He’d follow every set of rabbit tracks going all directions, skipping from one to the other, before ever actually finding his prey.  He would come up with the occasional mole or mouse and eat it whole.  Two crunches and a gulp and it was no more.