It’s a dog party. A member of the informal fraternity of dog lovers who walk regularly in our local park sent us all invitations to this get-together, and by the look of it, at least forty of us have responded – along with at least as many dogs. The deck, the step, and the yard are a roiling, broiling mass of wagging tails and excited dogs of all sizes, shapes, and colors.

Naturally, I’ve brought Kiki, who’s among the smallest here, and in her third year of life showing a certain caution about the press around her. My daughter Martha has brought her new puppy, Maui, like Kiki a rescue from Texas. She’s about the same size, but in her puppyhood almost completely without diffidence in the presence of superior forces. She may have an inkling of what the size of her feet portends; on her, at present, they look almost like snowshoes.

Martha’s busily shooting the action with her phone, and I’m sure we’ll see the rushes on Facebook this evening. But if you were to shoot stills of this Sunday afternoon gathering of Vermonters and post them, the response from, say, North Carolina or Arizona would be uncomprehending and amazed. The deck where I’m sitting (in a latticed steel chair that’s letting the breeze get at me where I’m most vulnerable) is wet, but clear, thanks to the newly irresistible sun. But the memory of this week’s snowstorm lingers everywhere else. The loop trail that a dozen or so hikers and their dogs are taking is, as the host warns, “a little trippy;” and the half-mile driveway up to this lovely, rustic haven at the end is – well, let’s just say I’m very happy I didn’t bring the Prius. It would be semi-submerged somewhere along the way and plugging up the narrow drive between the snowbanks for everybody else. So folks from away, especially where it’s warmer, might question the sanity of people who’d sit chatting in the open amid such obvious wintriness. I’m reminded of our one-time neighbors in Hanover, the Gundersons, who like Swedes everywhere set up lawn chairs on their south patio on clear February days and lay there bikini-clad, poaching in the sun.

I’d respond to the Southerners that it’s a natural Yankee thing to act like this. This winter has been such a bear – snow on the ground since mid-November and, now that the calendar assures us spring is here, another dose, about two feet up north – we’re just sick of waiting, and will seize any occasion we can to celebrate the long afternoons and higher temperatures. This is one of them. If the haze weren’t slipping over the sun, those of us here on the deck would actually be getting sunburns instead of chills.

But it couldn’t matter less. The dogs are in a perpetual, roiling state of excitement: dozens of tails wagging above the mass. Their delight is palpable, infectious, and in spite of their obvious differences, I haven’t heard a single cross word among them. Our host dog, Yashasii (Blue to his friends), an immense, placid, short-haired presence, stands quietly amidst the turmoil, above it in more ways than one, accepting occasional pats on his substantial torso. Kiki keeps trying to enter the pack, but sort of bounces off the outside, and comes running back to jump up into my lap briefly. I’m going to need to wash these jeans.

An old North Country saying goes, “If it ain’t the black flies, it’s the snow flies.” This is the time between. We’ll probably get another inch or so tonight, but there’ll be clear weather behind it, and the south roofs will be bare by noon. The driveway’s a mess. The last heavy snow fell on mud, and the poor plow guy didn’t dare let his blade down loose. Driving the ruts is reminiscent of driving a bobsled, bouncing from side to side, just hanging on, and hoping the ice is melted off the last fifty feet down to the road. Shoes come off inside the back door. Kiki’s feet can’t, but she doesn’t seem to mind much being toweled off.

The aroma of boiling sap sweetens the occasional breeze on calm days. Kiki and I can walk as late as we like now in the park without fear of being caught in the dark. My firewood is going to last just fine; and as soon as there’s a bare spot to dump it, I’ll order next winter’s. Helga, the old roadster stashed in the back of the garage, is twitching with eagerness to do what roadsters do; and I even saw a newer version of her downtown today. But I will resist. Soon, sweetheart.

The antidotes to all the grousing on the internet about winter’s persistence, and the claims of depression, are only two: Like happy dogs, anticipate the joys to come. And be patient. Always patient!