There are so many things that my husband has to do in the course of a day, that sometimes he leaves the clearing away of the accumulated day's snowpack to evening, when it looks beautiful out at night, the snow softly cushioning the landscape, and illumination from the street lights and our own night-time lamps cast a lovely glow over everything.

Which calls, in turn for comfort food. And in the winter, on these really cold, windy days, damp with snow in the atmosphere and frigid nights when the temperature plunges even further toward Arctic level temperatures, a good hot, nutritious soup really fits the bill. I make my choice from a variety of soups, from lentil-tomato to split-pea to beef and barley and beyond, and last night's choice was split-pea soup.

We had a brief respite today, however, from the incessant cold. The temperature reached all the way up to minus-7-degrees Celsius, under a clear, blue sky and blazing sun. The micro-climate in our backyard suddenly felt like spring was on its way, an illusion that often occurs in February, when we can almost imagine spring elbowing winter out of its overlong residence.

Our ravine walk with Jack and Jill has not yet become a peaceful, enjoyable part of the day. They're far more intent on scrutinizing closely every centimetre of the trail, so they don't miss the merest speck of woody detritus that happens to have fallen from the trees onto the snowpack. They're consumed with fascination for everything that might conceivably be edible. And 'consume' is the operative here. Everything makes its way into their mouths, and the result is they'd prefer to remain where they are, gnawing happily at whatever they've scooped up, rather than continue trotting alongside us. The very phrase 'alongside us', is in and of itself delusionary, but may one day occur.

They're either ahead of us, pulling on the leash, or behind us, stalling, and pulling back on the leash. Just occasionally, as though offering us a glimmering of hope for the future, they do walk alongside us, but no more, it seems than an instant, lest we be spoiled, ingrates that we are.