Age contrasts present themselves in abundance. You can tell a young dog, say just reaching a year, by its robust enthusiasm and energy to spare. Older dogs tend to distance themselves from the obstreperous puppies, they don't relish being harassed and begged to play. They'll ignore them or exhibit a bit of temper to drive the message home. Could be some mature dogs find the antics of the young amusing, who knows?

When we were out this afternoon in the ravine with Jackie and Jillie before we wound up our circuit on what has been an icy-cold day with the temperature reaching no more than -5C, exacerbated miserably by the probing fingers of a rude and blustery wind, we met up with a youngish man we've seen often, and with him for the first time, along with his springer spaniel were his two children.

A little boy around ten and his younger sister. The little boy was blase about the cold, jacket completely unzipped and open, the better to display his oversized Montreal Canadiens hockey jersey, its flaming red against the sere, dull, background of the late fall forest shouting to the world at large: "Hey, look here, aren't I COOL!? 

And nor did his little sister appear to feel the cold, though her jacket was zipped up tightly to her throat. Mittens in hand, she juggled them along with a little bag of edibles, her little bare hands occasionally shaking something I couldn't make out, out of the packet and popping it into her mouth. Jackie was curious, trying to make out just what she was eating, leaning on her legs, waiting to be offered a treat.

The little boy had two bright green tennis balls in his hands and was lobbing them off, one after another for the spaniel, more than equal to the task. Leaping like a boomerang after the balls to retrieve them and bring them directly back for another throw. Little boys get bored with repetitive action far more quickly than expectant little dogs, so while Irving and his father were deep in discussion, the little boy wagered with his dog that he could win a race between the two. Not even close.

Earlier, in the morning, while Irving was busy measuring and doing the mysterious things that men engage in when they've got a mission to complete, I decided to bake a cheesecake for dinner dessert. And then I remembered I'd bought a pint of blueberries, and I thought why not a blueberry-glazed cheesecake? So that's what we've got for tonight. And a few times after tonight, since we cannot possibly eat all the luscious cream-cheese and white-chocolate ingredient-blend in one sitting.

Each time I went out to the backyard with Jackie and Jillie, Jackie challenged me to a race, come to think of it, as he often does, crouching low, tail like a metronome, waiting for my response. He's the racer, I'm the cheerleader. Eventually he gets the message, and then he and Jillie have a frantic run-about, under the deck, over to and around the garden sheds, up the deck stairs where the race turns into a boxing match.

But we did decide eventually to get out for a hike. It had been sunny all day, which did little to mitigate the ferociously icy wind and the bone-chilling cold. Even dressing with care, ensuring there are layers and putting on the thickest of turtle-necks and my windproof, down-filled winter jacket, it didn't take long in outdoor exposure on our way to the ravine to feel the cold too close for comfort, actually penetrating my defensive clothing.

I wore no iconic sweater I was anxious to reveal to the stolid, dark forest giants, so I kept my zipper up close to my chin, and shivered.