Peace, Puddles, and a Very Dirty Dog

There’s something sacred about spring rain. Not the flash storms or the icy drizzle of late winter, but the soft, steady kind that falls like a benediction—quiet, cleansing, persistent. The kind that turns the sidewalks into mirrors and the earth into a sponge. The kind that whispers, “Slow down.” And so I do. Or at least, I try. Because one of my favourite things to do is walk my dog. She, however, has other ideas about “slowing down.” If you've met her, you know. She’s a vision—I call her a bull in a china shop. There is nothing graceful about her except her fluffy white and grey fur. People often remark about how amazingly white her fur is—until it rains. Or, more accurately, after it rains. Because then, her favourite pastime is transforming into a high-speed bull charging her way through the bushes. After a gentle spring shower yesterday, I thought: Now it’s safe. The sun peeked out. The ground looked... well, not dry, but dry- ish . I clipped on her leash with cautious opti...