Puddle jumping

It was a cold day when Bear found the puddle on the trail beyond our woods. Our feet crunched over damp, slightly frozen leaves as we wandered past small patches of snow still dotting the forest.

The puddle must have been ice-cold. I watched as Bear trotted up to it and stepped carefully into the deepest part, stirring up the leaves that had settled to the bottom. And then a slight change in posture, a bend of the knee, a sheepish glance over her shoulder and I knew what she was thinking.

“Bear,” I said, thinking of frozen toes and soaking wet knee braces. She straightened up, looked right at me. “What?” her expression seemed to say, “I wasn’t going to lie in that.” And she walked on slowly as I pulled my toque down a little further against the cold.

The next day she didn’t hesitate. I knew where she was headed as soon as we left for our walk. Bear marched along the trail straight for the puddle, and flopped down into the water before I could say a word. Leaves floated up, flat and featureless, as she wallowed in the icy soup. I cringed as she dunked her nose beneath the surface and then stood up, throwing water over her shoulder like an elephant taking a bath.

“Bear! It’s freezing,” I said.

“So?” She replied by lying down again. “What else would you suggest I do with a puddle in the woods?”