Rumbling crept into my mind, sliding in surreptitiously.  My eyes drifted open, before  my mind really caught up.  The diffuse sunlight scattered across the snowy ground, throwig sparkles onto the ceiling.  Morning sun lit the room gently from this side of the house.

The cat sat on the bed, regarding me steadily.  Purring.  When she saw my eyes flicker open, her purring intensified, and her little paws started kneading the bed.  I smiled, and saw her lean forward.

“Oh no you don’t Fat Kitty.”  I scolded the cat as she made a move for my pillow.  This cat was obviously used to a little more cuddling than I was dishing out.  I hate to bruise her tender feelings, but my idea of a good time does not include cat hair all over my face.  Nor being smothered.  Fat Kitty looked somewhat crestfallen, but stayed where she was.  The first night I stayed here, at this house I am caring for, she seemed shocked at the abrupt manner in which I dumped her off my pillow, with a scolding.  Clearly she was used to much better treatment than that.  Since that incident, she has responded to my scolding fairly well, avoiding sleeping on my face.  Considering she is roughly the size of a beachball, I appreciate her restraint.

I roll over, and grab my mobile.  Bringing up the weather app shows the temperature to be about -26 celsius in Calgary.  Not really encouraging, but it could be worse.  At least it isn’t 30 below.

I stumble out of bed, nearly tripping over the rottweiler on the bedroom floor.  He merely groans at me, as if he can’t possibly move, so I better not step on him.  Old dogs can be such doorstops.  Shuffling my way to my clothes, I ponder my outfit.  Seems like a good day for merino wool long johns, and flannel lined pants.  As I bundle into my clothes, I meander into the kitchen.  Looks like a nice sunny day out there.  Peering out the frost-rimmed window, I take a look at the thermometer.  I blink, and look again.  Nope, the mercury stays stubbornly at the -36 mark.  I groan, and move back.  I guess it is a thirty below day out in the country after all.

The horses will need feeding soon, and will be expecting to be taken from their paddocks to the field.  They have nice thick coats, so I am sure they survived the night just fine.  My soft human skin is gonna need some help, however.  I stand in the entryway, contemplating my outer layer choices.

The people whose farm this is have left me with a fine selection, along with instructions to help myself.  I choose a onesie, quilted insulation on the inside, canvas material on the outside.  It zips down the legs, like a snowmobiling suit, over my boots.  I zip the hood up, over my toque and facewarmer.  pull on thick leather gloves lined with sheepskin, and I am ready to go.  Dog blinks up at me, tail wagging.  She has been waiting patiently, as I pulled on more layers, until only my eyes and the bridge of my nose were visible.  I have a childhood memory of my father dressing up like this, layer on layer, and topping it off with ski goggles, so not one inch of his skin was exposed.  He had to go plow the driveway with a bobcat, so we weren’t snowbound.  The temperature was nearer to 50 below then, if I recall correctly.  It was the coldest I have ever seen it outside.

I pull open the door, and Dog bounds out into the snow.  It squeaks below my feet as we walk down to the barn.  I marvel at how she can go from the warm house to extremity-freezing cold with no discomfort.  What would it be like to have evolved with luxuriant pelts, instead of our fragile human skin?  I bet there would be a much larger hair tinting industry.  Or would that be fur tinting?  I could just imagine the fashionable ones with gently frosted tips, while rebellious teenagers would color their fur like the rainbow, and shave patches of it off.  Not so different from now, I guess.

I dismiss the mental wanderings from my mind as I arrive at the barn.  All my charges seemed to have weathered the chill night.  Even the barn cat is here, sitting on a bale of hay in the sun.  I marvel at how this tiny life can cling to existence in the freezing cold.  The barn is not heated.  Nothing down here is heated except for the auto waterers.  There is a shed of hay and straw for him to curl up in, and he can get into the cold barn for food, but still.  Life is tenacious.  I reach over to lightly scratch his cheek.  I don’t want to pet his back, cuz that would flatten his fur and puff out the slightly warmer air he has trapped in it.  My mittens are no warmer than the snow right now.  He turns his face towards me, eyes closed.  Frost clings to his whiskers.  His ears have long ago been frostbitten off, but the stubs point in my direction.  I pet him gently, and he soaks it up.  For all that he loves occasional human attention, he would perish in the house.  He doesn’t like it there, and the one time they had to keep him inside to recover from a wound being patched up, he escaped after day three.  lord, he just can’t change.

The horses nicker in greeting, as I putter around the food containing barn.  Their coats are tipped with frost too.  On the black horse, it looks particularly contrasting.  I wish I had a camera.  I spend a moment looking at them, these creatures with small brains and long legs.  Both the horses in the paddock are staring out into the nearby field.  Trusting their superior senses, I turn to look.

There, not 200 meters away, a moose stands, dark on the perfect white of the snowy field.  The bushes behind her give me a bearing, and the trees standing near in clumps do not impede my view.  I have ridden horses under those trees.  The moose is huge, as most moose are.  As I stare in open mouthed astonishment, I see the moose youngster by her side.  He must be nearly a yearling by now, almost as large as his mother, but not yet independent.

As far as wildlife goes, I am surrounded at this moment by some of the most statistically deadly.  Moose account for more human fatalities than bears or cougars, with sow moose accompanied by a calf the most dangerous.  You don’t wanna mess with this momma.  She will run you down, and then trample you to death.  Mostly, people die from hitting moose with their car.  When the car hits the moose’s legs, the moose just falls over on them, killing everyone involved.  No one wins.  As for dangerous animals, I have no idea how many horse related deaths there are every year, but I am willing to bet a few.  The injuries alone make it sensible to have a medic on hand for every horse show.

I feel at peace, however.  The moose is quite a ways away, and I can clearly see her calf, close by her side, and unthreatened.  There is a chainlink fence between us, albeit with a big gate that I just opened, but she is not likely to take the trouble to come closer.  I climb up on the paddock fence to get a better view, steadying myself on the neck of the horse who has come near.  I enjoy the sight of the majestic animal from here, framed by the frosted trees, and accented by our pluming breath in the still cold air.  The morning sun slices into the field, into the barn area alike.  The light illuminates the moose, and sparkles on the snow, small frozen particles thrown up by the breeze.  Dog stands nearby, nose pointed towards the moose, ready to spring into action.  The horse is steady beneath my hand, his warmth soaking thru my mitten.  It is almost painfully beautiful, this moment.

I can see that the moose has her head turned towards me.  She has been watching me since I got to the barn, no doubt.  I can see her breath on the chill air.  Her calf stands still, soaking in the sunshine.  We are all here, breathing plumes of moisture out, taking in the cold air, and soaking up the sunshine.  I think fondly of Barn Cat, warming up after a long cold winter night.  In this depth of winter, I feel the promise of spring.  I know grass will burst forth, green and nourishing from the field where the moose stands.  I know her droppings from this night past will feed little green shoots.  I know the trees will awake, sap running again, to push forth green leave to shade all life, make the very air we all breath.

In this coldest day yet, I feel new life just around the corner.

The moose turns her head, looking off into the nearby bushes that line the course of a now frozen stream.  She looks once more at me, and lopes off, unhurriedly.  She displays that bouncing awkward gait that characterizes a moose, and her yearling follows right behind, a smaller awkward version.  I look after her for a long moment, and then even the horses decide she is gone.  Jumping off the fence, I plant my feet on the frozen dormant ground, renewed.

Dog brings me a stick, looking up hopefully.  What can I do?  I laugh at the sheer beauty of life, and pick up her stick