It’s mathematically weird how cold it is. Like, it’s already cold at 27 degrees, and yesterday was 20 degrees colder than that. Seven degrees feels different than you’d expect—it’s not super cold when you first step outside. The feel of outside is still more powerful than the temperature. But the cold is there, and after ten minutes, even with a balaclava, tights, wool socks, a neck gaiter, a hat, and lobster gloves on, it starts to feel pretty fucking cold.

It’s not usually this cold in November and even in February, it’s rarely this cold for this long. In any 10-day period for Denver, there’s a Weather Channel sun icon somewhere in the mix. That weather pattern is almost a city ethos—or a city-planning ethos anyway. Whatever snow falls, the municipal response is that it’ll just melt away. Things can’t stay cold forever here. Except right now. It’s cold and there’s about an inch of snow on the streets that isn’t going anywhere.

Weather talk is boring, of course, for a million reasons, but two primarily: there’s nothing you can do to change it and it’s impossible to recreate. I know what that first warm night of spring feels like, but that memory doesn’t do much for me right now.

But Rex, the dog who loves being a dog more than anything, is loving the snow. She gallops through Cheesman Park and covers her nose in the stuff. Snow beads up in her paws, and after our romps, she lets me clean out her feet for treats. Right now, Rex’s treats are just her regular dog food, but given to her in small increments. She’s so eager for them, it’s like she doesn’t know there’s a half-eaten bowl of the same stuff available whenever she wants. I’d tell her, but she wouldn’t believe me.

It’d be great if all this weather and dog stuff were symbolic of something larger. I suppose it could be, but really, it’s just cold out and I still need to walk my dog.