Brrr.

Confession: I don’t take Chewie to the park every morning. It’s only a short walk away, but her warm, snuggly body makes it tough to get out of bed early. And now that the temperatures have dropped below freezing, morning morale is very, very low. The weather headlines have been grim: “Cold puts East in vice grip,” “Frigid, arctic-like weather,” and “Bone-chilling cold!” But this morning I decided I’d been lazy long enough. I bundled up, pocketed a few dollars for coffee and set out.

At first, it wasn’t that bad. Central Park looked pretty with a slight dusting of confectioner’s sugar-snow. There were a few other intrepid folks out, and I felt like I had joined a Polar Bear club. “Arctic” freeze? Ha! The 8-degree wind chill is refreshing! After about half an hour, the wind chill crept under my parka and through my jeans. I tried to shake it off, and noticed a woman looking over with a raised eyebrow. What? Was she making fun of me? I hadn’t spilled any coffee on myself, that I could see. It had cooled so fast I only drank about half the cup before tossing it. No—it was Chewie.

Shivering and dangling a raised paw, she sat at my feet with a pitiful expression.

“Ooh, she looks cold,” the woman ventured. “Maybe she needs a sweater?”

“She’s fine. She just needs to run around,” I replied, with the crispness of a mother whose parenting has just been judged. “Go and play!” I gave Chewie a gentle push, and realized I couldn’t feel my fingers. She tucked her tail under and glared at me.

“My dog loves his sweater,” Ms. Meddler continued. “He’s worn it since he was a puppy and it doesn’t bother him at all. How old is your dog? When they’re older they really need extra warmth.”

Okay, lady. My dog is clearly miserable and now I am, too. I turned to walk toward home, and Chewie came motoring down the path like she was escaping a prison camp (dramatically limping through a few piles of rock salt along the way). With my hands and legs somehow numb and burning, I admitted the obvious: it was too damn cold.