So we had a wee ice storm over the weekend. Saturday morning I took the dog out for his morning constitutional and we slip-slid our way along the treacherous sidewalks. Or at least I slid. The dog was steady enough on his feet but even so an occasional paw would fling out in a direction contrary to the body's inertia. At least the porch steps aren't frozen, I thought, assuming they were shielded somewhat by the overhand of the porch roof.

Saturday afternoon and it was time to exercise the dog some more. We walked off the front porch and I slipped on the first step and landed hard on my sit-upon. I didn't like the prospects of getting down the rest of the railing-less steps and so retreated back inside. A new route must be found.

Thus: through the house, into the back yard with loud crunching steps across frozen grass, around the side of the house, and finally back to the front of the house, where I cautiously crept down the second flight of stairs (with the only extant railing) to the sidewalk, where conditions were even more murderous than in the morning. But the dog needed walking, and had been a good sport about not getting his normal weekend playtime at the dog park so the hell with danger.

Odd how these short walks turned the insides of my thighs into ropes of pain. You'd think with all the dog-walking and bike riding of past months I would have accumulated enough fitness not to be so sore after such moderate if different exercise. Apparently the hunched, crab-like sliding motion I adopted to accompany the dog used muscles heretofore unknown, and said muscles felt insulted enough by this unannounced and forcible service to later complain most bitterly.