In the mid-seventies Frank Zappa put out a tune with a cautionary lyric… Watch out where the huskies go, and don’t you eat that yellow snow.

I thought about the tune and had to laugh when I saw a patch of snow on the sidewalk melt after receiving a bucket load from my canine companion, India.

Ostensibly, she was relieving herself, but I was actually the one that experienced the greatest RELIEF.

Chicago was in the path of the great polar vortex that moved through our country last week. In a way, it was a nice change that my hometown earned a spot on the national news for something other than gun violence or corruption.

Aerial shots of the lakefront, the waters of Lake Michigan, uncharacteristically still with vapors rising, next to our iconic skyline, were otherworldly, sort of eerie.  Suitable for the cover of a sci-fi tome, for sure; a book with a title like FROZEN PLANET.

The extreme nature of weather and, to a lesser degree, its unpredictability, is humbling.   Even though technology has gotten very good at predicting things,  it’s hard to imagine the effects, the disruption and devastation to people and communities, until things are HAPPENING.

Here, in what became known as Chiberia, real temps fell to about -27 degrees F (I don’t even want to think about wind chill).  Over 1400 flights were canceled at O’Hare.  Schools were closed. Mail delivery was suspended, and people that could were encouraged to work from home.

But what about our pets?

Taking warnings very seriously — that pets and their people can suffer permanently after only a few minutes of exposure, I limited my walks with India to three or four minutes.

It was obvious, she didn’t understand the shortened version of our three-a-day ritual.

I’d bundle up, put on her little polar fleece jacket, rub paw balm on her pads to shield her from salt, walk outside and venture only a half block before turning around for the trek back to our front door.

She couldn’t seem to pee or poop – at all. I don’t know if the problem was the short duration of our outdoor excursions or simply the temperature.

She didn’t pee for almost 40 hours (from Tuesday night until Thursday afternoon) and didn’t poop for about 48 hours.

I tried various strategies to try to get her to do what would seem she’d want to do.  It was comical.  I rubbed her belly.  I suited up in my parka and leashed her up to take a walk around the living room, so she might be more READY when we hit the frigid air.

I spread old towels on the floor and talked to her in a very calm and inviting voice, telling her that it would be okay to let go in the house.

Of course, she couldn’t understand what I was getting at, why I was placing towels on the floor.  She learned not to relieve herself indoors and couldn’t understand why it would be okay to do this now.

I would take her out anyway, often at odd hours, for what turned out to be short fire drills, mistaking a bark or scratching or some type of behavior for a signal that she was READY.

On Thursday early afternoon, after walking her with her leash on around my living room couch about ten times before heading downstairs and outside, within a few feet of our building, she hovered down and let loose what seemed to be an endless stream.

I smiled.  I looked at the yellow snow.

My first thought was that I was happy for her.  Right away, I knew she was more comfortable.

Then I thought about the wonders of indoor plumbing, that the days of outhouses or chamber pots, thankfully, were over.

Then I thought about the little miracles of the body.  Quite a lot to think about.

I pretty much take for granted that I can urinate or defecate when I need to.  I don’t think about digesting my food, or cleaning out my blood.  For the most part, I don’t give much thought to breathing in…and breathing out.

My body knows what to do.  I don’t have to make decisions to keep things running. For so many automatic actions that take place in my body, I am very, very grateful!

Following this train of thought, sparked by the sight of yellow snow in the frigid air, is no small thing.