It's a beautiful, early spring day. The sky is a huge, wide bowl of blue. The sun is fiercely bright, just managing to tinge the air with a bit of warmth despite the crisp iciness of the atmosphere.

We dressed our two little dogs against the cold in their little jackets and set off into the ravine for our daily ramble. It usually takes us upwards of an hour and more to negotiate the hills and the trails. More, when the trails are ice-encased and the dogs are hesitant to commit to too-speedy advances where they'll slip and slither. We're fine, because we wear cleats strapped over out boots.

We hadn't got very far before we saw Stumpy. He was the only squirrel out and about. We haven't seen him in a week, and before that for several weeks. The squirrels go into semi-hibernation throughout the cold winter months, coming out occasionally to poke about. They're also accustomed to our leaving peanuts for them in caches they've been aware of for years. And while Stumpy knows all of those places throughout the ravine on our daily circuit, if our times coincide, he prefers to confront us directly.

And then stand, waiting for us to acknowledge him, which we're always delighted to do. He knows our voices. When we call him he invariably comes running lickety-split to await his due. And his due consists of three-chambered peanuts, more generous in size than those we place out for the other squirrels. He will remove himself slightly to begin eating the peanuts in his methodical fashion, checking before discarding the final outer shell that he's got them all. And then re-approach us (we generally wait until he's finished the first one for the opportunity to offer him another) for a second, repeating the ritual sometimes for a third peanut.

By the third peanut he's ready to make off with it, rather than stand around eating it, having filled his little tummy with the previous offerings. On one occasion I shall never forget I ventured into the ravine with no peanuts, meaning to do a quick circuit, awaiting my husband's return from a mission that took him elsewhere. Poor little Stumpy approached me time and again at various points in the circuit, only to have me apologize that I hadn't brought anything for him. He was puzzled, quite obviously, and I felt dreadful.

I've never repeated that error. We never enter the forested ravine opposite our house without Stumpy's due share of daily treats. And when we see him, then that becomes our treat.