He rings the bell to go outside, again and again. Finally, exasperated, I flip the heavy blanket off my lap and rise from the warm couch. As I open the door, the snow and cold air make me silently curse as they hit my face and bare feet. He tilts his head, and gives me a look that says, "Well, maybe I should stay inside after all." I raise my eyebrows, and unceremoniously toss him outside by the scruff.
He runs frantically from one half-snow-buried squeaky toy to the next, grabbing each one lightly with his mouth for the half-second it takes for the cold to register on his tongue, then dropping it just as quickly. He's terribly upset to be leaving his best friends to perish, but unwilling to bear the freezing rubber long enough to save them. At last, after attempting to save each toy in turn, he scrambles back toward the open door knowing that, although this rescue mission was a failure, he'll try another as soon as he can convince me to open the door again.