“Fifteen degrees.”

“Aussie, what are you doing, pressing your face against the window like that?”

“Sixteen. You said you’re not taking me out unless it reaches 20 degrees (F), so I’m counting down. Or up, as the case might be.”

“It’s been such a cold winter, Auss. I can’t walk you in any temperature like I used to.”

“And what good is it when we do go out? We can’t get into the woods because of the mountains of snow and we can’t walk by the farms because that’s where the winds blow extra hard. Everywhere we go is like walking in the long trench just like in our back yard. There are no animals to sniff and pounce on, no one to make trouble to. All we do is go back and forth, back and forth. What kind of life is that? And now, look, it’s back to 15 degrees. Not fair!”

“You’re right, Aussie. Life in the trenches can be boring. But you know what?”

“Back to 16 degrees. Come on, up up up!”

“Walking back and forth in the trench that I dug up slows you down. It’s a bit like sitting, which we did for half of Saturday.”

“You did nothing for half the day?”

“Those things slow me down, Aussie. Walking you, in a trench or not, slows me down. When I know where I’m going and what I want to get done, I tend to hurry, like life is one big finish line I have to cross as soon as possible. When I walk back and forth in the trench behind the house just to get to the birdfeeders, I have to walk slowly in order not to fall on the ice. I listen to the occasional bird song and wonder how they make it through this winter. Watch my hands get patchy, red and white. There’s no reason to rush—I’ll be filling birdfeeders daily for another long while—so I just end up listening to the wind or the rustle of the squirrels or just to the silence.”

“Why, oh why, did I get a Zen human as my companion?”

“The song says that summertime is when the living is easy, but I find wintertime more like that. Nothing to do, nowhere to go if you want to stay warm. And suddenly the fear is gone, Auss.”

“What fear?”

“The fear of time rushing by, the fear of aging, as if your water bowl is emptying bit by bit.”

“Which it does when you forget about refilling it.”

“People say that when you’re older, time seems to go by much faster, Aussie, but for me the days themselves have a slow, rhythmic routine that I like, like walking back and forth inside a trench. Sitting, coffee, news and emails, writing, walking you, resting, writing again, cooking, online meetings later in the day. The monotony of it is nice. Right now, there’s a chickadee camping on the feeder right outside the window.”

“I bet they’re sick and tired of black sunflower seeds.”

“Maybe, but it keeps them going in the winter.”

“Oh good, seventeen degrees. Get your coat and boots. By the time you finish dressing up to go out it’ll be 20 BECAUSE YOU TAKE SO LONG TO GET DRESSED!”

“At first, I used to get annoyed with everything: the coat, the old boots it’s hard to slide my feet into, the Yak Trax on the soles of the boots, the scarf, the hat, the double gloves, but you know something? It’s become like a ritual. Time seems to stand still. Aussie, all my life I’ve rushed to get things done, and no matter how fast I went, I never felt I got enough done. Sitting began to slow me down. Our narrow walks in the trenches this winter also slow me down. Sometimes life feels like it’s going back and forth, forth and back, in a line, or maybe in a circle.”

“It’s still 17 degrees! At this rate we’ll never go out today. I think it’s time for me to go back home.”

“You mean, home inside, Auss? Inside time, inside the moment, inside the breath?”

“No, home in Texas. Warm, lots of beef, lots of Republicans. Speaking of which, when do we go see Melania? I hear it’s a big hit, and it’s playing indoors, so no excuses!”