The snow on the deck has drifted to spots over two feet tall. It lies against the door no more than six or eight inches high.

Too high for me. Or, as far as I’m concerned, the dogs. My shovel sits ready – but not for that!

Until now I could open the door and sweep out enough to permit relatively simple egress and entrance. (They are dogs, you know.) That’s hopeless now. I’d have a roomful of snow – and it’s hard enough just trying to keep warm.

This means all canine traffic must go through the garage – without, of course, the benefit of the dog door. (Call me dogmatic but I much prefer to keep the cold out and the warm in.)

Minor has been around long enough to understand the predicament – and routine. If he comes to the glass on the deck, I only have to point in the direction of the garage and he’ll be there by the time I reach the door. (My life does seem to center on the table near the glass doors.) He’ll still try the deck door about half the time but is “reasonable” about going where I want.

Quillow is something else again. He KNOWS the garage – as well as he knows he can’t always come in via the deck. This is after all his fourth winter here.

Only something in his brain – perhaps – has gotten switched off where reasoning and learning should be. He comes to the deck door and sits. Or lies. We’re talking zero now and way below these mid-February days. Even his gorgeous thick coat isn’t made to withstand that for long.

I obviously have no choice but to go get him. Yes, go outdoors.

That’s when it gets interesting.

This last time he saw me. He stood up, tail wagging happily, took three steps in my direction . . . and lay down. On the snow.

Five minutes later (all the time I dare give him) he hasn’t moved.

I struggle to get my heavy jacket on and go out again.

He reacts when I call his name. Often he doesn’t. He may look in my direction if I clap. Or he may not. I wave my arms like a madman. It’s useless. Totally useless.

I step out of the garage onto the snow. (I can’t possibly climb up and over to reach the deck and, even if I could, what would that gain me? We’d be two cold lost creatures futilely looking inside.

I step back into the light of the garage. It’s for my benefit alone.

I walk to the far end and outside. He has been known to come that way. (Actually, there are well-trodden dog paths to either garage door.) It’s slippery. I’m cold.

Quillow hasn’t moved.

Is he deaf? Blind? Or it is doggy dementia? A combination of all? (I’ve accepted all explanations in the past.) Or is he simply being terribly stubborn?

He can still hear my getting a bite of food two rooms away!

I know he is beginning to have trouble getting up the two steps from garage to kitchen. I watched him trip once and now he almost always insists I must not be in sight before he’ll come in.

But, my aggravation and frustration aside, he does end up – sooner or later – inside, near the heater . . . or me.

I use my final ace-in-the-hole when I’ve grown totally desperate to move the old dog.

“Hey, Minor; go get Quillow.”

More often than not, the younger dog, who certainly does understand, will go racing up to his older buddy. Somehow that is all the assurance Quillow needs.

He follows easily and obediently.

I’m glad someone has the moxie around here.

No, it can’t already be time to go out again.

Must you really?

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. Her Reason for Being was published in 2008 with Love in Three Acts appearing in 2014. Copies are available at Papaya Arts on the Boardwalk in Dunkirk and the Cassadaga ShurFine. Information on all the Musings, the books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.