The first step was a mistake.

Sheldon sank straight down.

For a moment, he just stood there, frozen in more ways than one, snow packed up around his chest, clinging to his fur, dusting his nose like powdered sugar. This wasn’t rain. Rain he understood—wet, annoying, something to shake off and move through.

This?

This swallowed you.

He looked back toward the house, eyes wide, as if to say, You knew about this, didn’t you?

But then something shifted.

Maybe it was the cold tickle on his paws. Maybe it was the way the snow gave just a little when he pushed. Or maybe it was simply who Sheldon was—curious, determined, and just stubborn enough to turn confusion into a game.

He took another step.

Then another.

Instead of going over the snow, he went through it.

Within minutes, he had it figured out. Head down, shoulders forward, he burrowed like he’d been designed for it, carving neat little tunnels across the yard. Every few feet, he’d pop up—snow clinging to his whiskers, eyes bright with discovery—before diving back under like a golden submarine.

Soon the yard was crisscrossed with his handiwork: a maze of soft trenches and looping paths, proof of his work written in white.

The valley dog had met his first big snow.

And decided it was the best thing that had ever happened.