First snow is, to Brandy, what Christmas was to you and me, growing up. Joy and excitement as pure and abundant as the driven . . . well, you know.
The real Christmas involves her dumbass master giving her some stupid, marinated-in-who-knows-what, Petco-originated, shrinked-wrapped remnant of a cow or pig that has been so totally post-processed that it doesn't even rustle one leaf of her genetic makeup. And then being stared at by same master for 20 seconds, in anticipation that she will flip out over this "amazing treat". Which she does not. And then it is over. Except for the noisy relatives, including sugar-jagged kids trying to "love her". To death.
First snow, though. Now that's a big deal.