Walking through the frozen landscape of our neighborhood yesterday morning was like stepping onto the set of The Day After Tomorrow—except with fewer Hollywood stars and more chance of me slipping on an invisible ice patch and making a complete fool of myself. Everything was frozen solid. The trees looked like they’d been dipped in liquid nitrogen, the sidewalks were about as inviting as a skating rink, and the air had that special kind of bite that makes you question all of your life choices.

But not the lil dog. Oh no. My faithful little warrior was absolutely loving it. The moment his paws hit the snow, he was off—zooming around like a caffeinated racehorse, his little legs working overtime, his fur fluffed up to maximum capacity. He had a mission, a purpose, a destiny. He was here to hunt.

The neighborhood squirrels, his mortal enemies, his arch-nemeses, his Professor Moriarty, had clearly gotten the memo about the weather and were nowhere to be found. Probably holed up somewhere, sipping tiny cups of hot chocolate, laughing at us from their cozy little nests. But did this stop lil doggy? Did he take this as a sign to slow down, to reconsider his path? Not a chance. He marched on, head high, chest puffed out, strutting like he was the furry, four-legged version of Captain America.

Never mind that his “heroic stride” was occasionally interrupted by him getting distracted by a particularly interesting patch of snow. Or that he kept stopping to eat something I was fairly certain was just frozen dirt. In his mind, he was on a mission. A warrior. A legend in the making.

Meanwhile, I was just trying not to fall on my backside.