At first, Koda froze—not from the cold, but from disbelief. The yard stretched wide and white, untouched and endless. No fences pressing in. No barking walls of sound. Just space. Just sky. Just snow.
He stepped out cautiously, paws sinking into the powder.
Then something inside him clicked.
Koda leapt forward, bounding through the snow like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. He rolled onto his back, legs flailing, face buried deep in the cold fluff. He shoved his snout under the snow and wriggled until only the tip of his tail showed. When he popped back up, his face was dusted white and his eyes were shining.
From that day on, Koda discovered his favorite thing in the world.
Being buried.
Any snowfall turned him into a joyful blur of fur and flying powder. He would dig himself into snowbanks, shove his head under drifts, and collapse dramatically until his human laughed and called his name. Sometimes he stayed there, perfectly still, just breathing, like the snow was hugging him back.
It was more than play.
The snow was quiet. The snow was soft. The snow didn’t crowd him.
Buried in it, Koda felt safe.
