I am going to have to go out and slog through the snow this morning to search the interior of my car for Bluie. Bluie became separated from my right ear somewhere between sliding into the snow drift and careening towards the trees last night. Let me back up (if only I had been able to...)
I knew there was "weather" coming our way for my evening commute last night. The forecast was for rain that would eventually turn to sleet, and then to snow. So, having gone through this routine a few (thousand) times, I planned my trip home accordingly. Which was fine until I got a call on my cell phone on my way home and chattered away - oblivious to the sensible part of my brain which was yelling - DO NOT TAKE THE MOUNTAIN ROUTE! I did, indeed, take the mountain route because it is the rote route. In doing so, the eventual change to snow happened a lot faster because of the elevation (what happened to 'hot air rises'?) By the time my focus kicked in, I was past the PONR (point of no return) and had to forge onward. I still chattered away, although my teeth were beginning to clench. As I crept along where no car had gone before me, in driving snow, twisting roads and no light or clear road markers, I finally shrieked into the phone - "I've got to go - we've got FOG!" I will spare you the gory details, but the final, very steep descent to level ground and my farm-sweet-farm, was made by inches, brakes to the floor, with the car sliding sideways - luckily into the high snow banks - then toward the ditches and trees, then back and forth, until I finally reached the bottom. This is where a utility truck met it's demise (along with the driver, very unfortunately) a very sobering thought that was constantly in the back of my mind. By the time I reached my mailbox, my hands were shaking so hard, I couldn't get it open. I'll tackle that this morning, too.
I have just printed out a little sign to be taped to my dashboard: NO MOUNTAIN ROAD UNTIL APRIL. I owe my safe arrival last night to a combination of the skill that driving for years in Cleveland and in this mountain area during winters has given me - and to divine intervention.
Since I was so completely wired, I didn't make it to bed and to blissful sleep until much after my normal bedtime. And then, clearly and distinctly, do-wog retching woke me abruptly from a sound sleep at 3A. Bernie had been eating the rug again. Out they went - hopefully, Bernie brought up her early breakfast by herself - there was too much snow and darkness to tell - and I went to work duct-taping every exposed edge on the rug. I didn't bother to go back to bed.
I sit here, with my fourth cup of coffee, contemplating giving up my job and do-wogs.