Conference over yesterday afternoon, our younger son is preparing to fly back to Vancouver this afternoon. Next year's in Newfoundland. Last year's took place in the Yukon. Meanwhile, he's gone out for a ski run in the ravine, much as he did last night. It was he who observed, quite correctly, that those two little trouble-seekers physically resemble Button, but their movements are like Riley's, and he is quite right.

That isn't one puppy, it's two, together.

They are so accustomed to being together, so focused on one another, so involved with gamboling, challenging, tossing and tumbling with one another to imagine them separated seems like an offence against nature.

Jill's white chest-blaze

We can readily tell them apart, because Jill has a white blaze on her chest, and Jack has the merest bit of barely discernible white on his chest. Jill is more fully-packed, closer to four pounds, to Jack's more slender appearance and slighter weight. Jill will settle down more readily than Jack, but she's as much of a devil as he is for the most part.

At three months of age, their bladders are more mature than when they were younger, so we're having great success in communicating to them that the outdoors is where they do their business. Out in the snow it's a signal for them to romp and tussle, leap into the deepest parts of the snowbanks, and discover bits of gnarly plant matter presenting as excellent chewing matter.

My husband has already had to block off entry to the underside of the large shed by placing boards over the gap, but that doesn't stop them from making the effort to gain entry, regardless.

They've been sleeping right through the night without a murmur of unhappiness for their first two nights with us. Out they come at 7:30 for their first outdoor foray of the day and their performances are excellent. The family room is scattered with their toys. They can enter the enclosure we set up for them for those times when we're not around to watch them, and they do so freely, though they haven't yet been confined to the area.

They're a restless whirr of action

No problem getting them to eat their puppy kibble, they simply devour it for their three-times-daily schedule. In short, they're perfection personified. They know their names and come running immediately they're called. They are squirmy-affectionate and constantly underfoot.

And they are a source of constant entertainment and humour, honouring us as witness to the wonders of new life.

They're time- and action-omnivorous, focused on frenetic movement, not still for a moment, eager to explore, to play, to rumble and ramble, and all in one instant of action following on another at dizzying speed. Their traction carries them swiftly around corners, tumbling over one another in a frenzy of motion, their tiny bodies becoming a blur of black haircoat, fluffy little tail following.

Trying to take photographs of them is a mug's game. Most snaps simply turn out a blur of speed the camera cannot deal with. A second of stillness is about the most that can be hoped for, but that's still not enough to enable the capturing of their still essence, because there is little 'still' about them. Their devotion to movement is complete and non-stop.

It's cold, averaging at the warmest parts of the day around minus-ten degrees. Happily our backyard has its own micro-climate, usually without the harshness of wind that strikes everywhere else in our great out-of-doors, a nuisance during the hot summer months, a blessing in winter. Still, the snow accumulates, and they appear to consider it a challenge to leap in amazing feats of acrobat-level talent into the still-low and fluffy snowbanks that remain on either side of the many areas that have been cleared throughout the back to give them ample room to roam.

They delve deep into the snow, their fluffy black coats welcoming a sheer veil of dry snow dappling the ebony, digging their sharp little snouts into the stuff, eating it voraciously, the cold and the snow itself seeming to goad them into ever more frantic movement as they begin to 'swim' their way through the deepest parts, tunneling  their way through, all four pounds of musculature each, then tumbling over, around and under one another in a scramble of peerless joy in motion.

To witness that sheer love of life and curiosity of its elements is a renewal of one's own.

Now that the extreme frigid air we were assailed with last week has departed to our gratitude, constant episodes of snow have gradually replaced all the accumulated snow that melted when, before the cold struck, we had several days of really unseasonable mild temperatures that we weren't able to appreciate because those were days of constant freezing rain followed by heavy rainfall making quick work of the snowpack.

The prevailing atmosphere has now returned to one we're most familiar with as a typical Ottawa Valley winter with ample snow and cold, but not unreasonable daytime highs in the minus-6-degree to minus-11 range we can live with. The snow has levelled off some of the really awkward parts of the ravine trails that had been left by the construction work of the bridge replacements in dreadful shape. So that's all to the good.

Snow, falling in episodes of two to five centimetres at a time after our larger event of plus-15 centimetres a few days back has managed to recreate the visual winter landscape we are most familiar with and tend to appreciate for its beauty. Enhanced, when the sun is out, glancing off the now-bare tree canopy, by the covering of ice remaining under the snow, with the rays of the sun making it look quite spectacular like a diamond-dust covering everything.

The local bird and squirrel population have been visiting regularly to take advantage of our offerings of seeds and nuts. When the cardinal lands on the tall bird feeder its colour blends in perfectly with that of the feeder; the female cardinal tends to prefer the roofed feeder. Goldfinches have been hanging around, along with the occasional sparrow, plenty of chickadees and nuthatches.

It is the mourning doves, however, whose quiet resting habit and relaxed and trusting presence tends most of all to send a message of the possibilities of serenity and goodwill in their presence. Most often when they tend to settle in for a little bit of slumber believing it seems, that the little red squirrel busy in the seed tray just adjacent where they're dozing won't presume to impose upon their peaceful presence.

It is quite the all-encompassing enterprise, changed in the twenty years we were there last. There are so many other pet supply 'supermarkets' that opened closer to where we live, in our more immediate neighbourhood that we tended to go to them as reasonable alternatives to driving a little further. This week we drove a little further, re-visiting the original large pet supply place that we had gone to when our miniature poodle Button was just a pup. It was there that we had taken advantage of a clever machine that uses laser technology to print a personalized name tag complete with address to be worn at all times on a dog's collar. In case they ever get lost or anything remotely similar when identification is critical. We also had one done for Riley, seven years later. That would be almost fifteen years ago.

The place has changed in the sense that it offers now so many services to people with dogs. It operates what it calls a "pet hotel", otherwise known, one supposes as a temporary kennel, where dogs can be left when their owners go off somewhere. There is also a dog-sitting service, two large areas fronted by plate glass where dogs of all shapes, sizes and breeds can be seen milling restlessly about, the sorting done by size, and perhaps temperament. There are young women in each of these areas to ensure that all is well in those large 'pens' resembling hotel lobbies. They obviously must clean up any messes that ensue when any of their temporary charges inappropriately, but somewhat understandably decide to evacuate or to pee.

There are shelves groaning with a multitude of choices in canine and feline kibble, food tins, shampoos, grooming appliances, (oh yes, of course, they also operate a grooming studio where pets can be taken to look well-kept and stylish for a price) beds and cushions, crates and fences, toys and clothing, jackets, boots, anything a pet owner might think of complementing their responsibilities to their pet with. 

The place was quite full with shoppers, many people arriving with their dogs, large and small, and generally extremely well behaved, on leashes trotting along beside them. We were there to make some purchases of our own. And among those purchases two small collars and two name tags.

Even for those who like us have grown up and spent their lives in this northern climate, the weather we're now experiencing is exceptionally brutal, and we feel it. Part of that is because it is, of course, the now-prevailing temperature seems a little out of the ordinary in the intensity of the cold, exacerbated by a whipping wind, and part of it is the fact that we're no longer young. Yesterday was extremely miserable. I did read that people on beta blockers are more susceptible to the cold.

I've taken to pulling on ear warmers and using the hood of my winter jackets even when we're just out to do some local shopping. Yesterday we dropped by the library, then went into a few shops, and of course where these places are located there are large open places where the effect of the wind is even more injurious to one's sense of comfort. The icy cold creeps through thanks to the wind, wheedling itself into whatever layers of garments you're certain will keep you cold, and don't with exposure to the reality of the weather of this type.

We're gratified to see the squirrels and birds continuing to regularly take advantage of the seeds and nuts my husband is so careful to clean up and replenish more often than he really must. There's a regular coterie of squirrels; red, black and grey, and we believe some of them come over from the ravine to fuel up daily.

We're getting downy and hairy woodpeckers to the hanging suet, and bluejays, cardinals, juncoes, chickadees and mourning doves regularly make their daily appearance. For some reason the cardinals often appear as dusk begins to fall, though they also come along throughout the day.

The mourning doves this morning, at minus-25-degrees (with the temperature to rise gradually throughout the day), seem to like to rest on the porch, close to where we have an extended tray full of seeds and nuts, fluffing their feathers around their feet, head lowered into their wings, dozing.

We're getting daily dustings of snow requiring that the snow be gently removed from the feeding platforms. My husband took out a ladder two days ago to break the ice and packed snow off the high bird feeder and the squirrel-cone below it to enable the seeds to fall through as they should.

When the seeds scattered below had been covered with snow he noticed that the juncoes which are ground feeders flew up to the cone and sat there, also on the top of the bird feeder but seemed unable to figure out how to access the seeds even as chickadees kept flitting from the trees to the feeder, picking at the seed.

The weather has turned ferociously cold. And the wind has made its flesh-slicing entry, exacerbating the icy temperatures that have descended on the area. This, following on previously moderately cold weather that brought with it a 15-centimetre snowfall. But that wasn't enough for nature's mischievous purpose in our traditional winter weather patterns. The snow was followed by freezing rain, then a day of rain when the cold relented briefly.

On its return we discovered a remaining snowpack topped with a fairly thick layer of ice. So when we're trekking through the ravine, trying to remain in the narrow passage produced by a reduced number of ravine walkers, when our boots stray they break through a surface ice presence stiff enough to trip the unwary. It's an exercise just to forge through areas that haven't been trail-pioneered; like stumbling through deep layers of sand; maximum effort for minimum traction and momentum.

When we went out yesterday we were careful to layer ourselves; fleece and down come in quite handy at this time of year. I normally balk at wearing headgear, but no longer. A thickly lined wool Peruvian-made hat that boasts ear flaps and an underchin tie is now a staple on these days. Neck-warmers come in handy. Our son even brought along hand-warmers, and they work quite well. But not for me, since I need the flexibility to dig into my pack for peanut distribution.

It was bone-chillingly frigid, even though the wind had abated, but we were well wrapped and proceeded along our usual route. No birds to be seen, no wildlife of any kind.

But there were some people out and about, people walking their dogs. Mostly large-breed dogs. Dogs we're familiar with, delighted to see one another, still in their puppy-stages of socialization. It's nice to see them romping about, oblivious to the cold, delighted to be out, curious about everything and everyone.

While our daughter is a dog trainer, with an insight into how dogs think, communicate and behave with humans, our two sons are analytical in how they view the human side of the human-canine link. Our older son, as a historian, has his insights into the matter, linking his parents' love of their dog companions and our younger son, as a scientist accustomed to weighing the evidence gleaned by what can be proven of theories, give us his idea of why it is that his father and mother are so devoted to the care and companionship of small creatures.

From our fascination with wildlife and our satisfaction in seeing them about us, to providing sustenance for them during the wildly cold and inclement winter months in the Ottawa area, to our affection for the pets that people have accompany them through their lives. Not to speak of the matter at hand, our devastation of the loss through that most ordinary of events in all living organisms; life's span running its course into the inevitability of death.

We appreciate our little dogs for what they are and what they have meant to us; their traits and personalities, our shared experiences, and above all the care and affection shared between us. And, as our younger son pointed out, there is an obvious element of replacement, the little dogs as dependents in a proxy relationship with loving parents whose own children have gravitated into an independent life of their own. No longer in need of our presence to guide them, they now guide themselves through life and all of its encounters, positive and negative, each a learning experience broadening horizons and understanding of life itself.

Our small, dependent/independent-minded proxy companions filled a void for us that lingered with our children's departure from our most immediate intimacy. And so, once again, that void has appeared and it troubles us, as though a reminder that a vital element of our companionship is missing. We grieve together for our losses, but also come together in a common spirit of nurturance in the presence of a dependent.

While our younger son is with us, visiting for several weeks' break from his life in Vancouver, our mood is slightly lifted, with his presence ameliorating the immediate loss of our little Riley. We will always recall our time with that little scamp, just as we do our time with Button, but the adjustment is a trial, one that humbles our pleasure in life.