pre-blizzard

As much as I scoff at snow rumors -- always delivered by overexcited weathermen who look like they're skating at supersonic speed on meth -- there is, apparently, a blizzard-like something-or-other headed toward my little slice of neighborhood. In anticipation, I have buried a number of bones in the backyard, using my formidable snout to pack the ground over them. I have every hope that in the spring, there will be bone trees, where pizzles drop like overripe lemons and the bark smells faintly of poo and rawhide. Until then, I hibernate.