As I type this, my right hand is only beginning to warm up. It spent the last 45 minutes more out of its mitten than in, in a flat zero-degrees, fumbling for liver treats in a frozen plastic bag, being licked by warm dog tongue, fumbling for more treats.
There was one setback: He lunged and barked at that strange bicyclist who rounds the trails every morning, winter and summer, wearing a giant ballcap under his big white helmet. But the cyclist came around a bend rather suddenly and surprised us: I was too clumsy in trying to swiftly remove my mitten, fumble for the treats. By then it was all over. Bark, lunge. I made him sit afterward and treated him, but I'm not sure I was supposed to; was that rewarding him for barking?