My dog, cat and I went for a walk in the falling snow tonight.

Yes, that's right -- my cat goes, too.

George walks with Ally and I in rain and sun, dark and bitterly cold.

I used to shorten my walks when George first began accompanying Ally and me, conscious of his very short legs and a lung capacity I foolishly thought was compromised by size. Then, after several attempts to carry him in which he kicked and struggled to be free, I realized he likes our evening strolls. He follows Ally and me up and down the streets of our hilly neighborhood on walks that sometimes last 90 minutes.

Passers-by sometimes pull over, peering out of their car window to ask, "Is that your cat?" Yes indeed, I say, that's my cat. "He thinks he's a dog," I say this part in a loud whisper, so they understand how delicate is his image, and how deeply entrenched this conviction is in his wee kitty head. They laugh uproariously and pull away, shaking their heads.

Tonight's weather seemed to suit him especially well. I think it suited all three of us well.

We walked on sidewalks deep with snow, snow so fresh that almost no one had yet shoveled it. George alternated between lagging behind, sometimes crying piteously for us to wait, and sprinting past us, his tail fat as a bottle brush with excitement. He ran repeatedly off the sidewalk into the deepest snow -- more than knee deep on a cat. He chirped when I bent to pet him, so happy he didn't just bump his head against my hand but stood on his hind legs and arched his orange neck grandly to do so.

He's a strange little fellow, with an admirable and comedic spirit. I already know he's the best cat I'll ever have.

Ally loped ahead of us for the most part, sometimes giving short chase to nervous rabbits, sometimes dragging her snout through the fresh snow and snorting as it went up her nose. She dropped and rolled in it on her back, turning for a moment from black to white, two coal black eyes looking out from her snow-packed face.

She's a fine pet, too, with a serious and gentle soul. A dog trainer who met her told me she would kill to protect my son Robby and me. But I realize, with some measure of guilt, that she hasn't crawled under my heart like her quirky little brother.

Their antics were the highlight of the walk. But the snow gave its own strong showing. It fell lightly, undisturbed for this night by wind. It swirled in quickly passing clouds as overburdened tree branches let loose their load. It turned bare trees into works of art, and evergreens back into Christmas-card models.

We live in a dry climate with warm winters, a mere two hours from the mountains in which I lived for 13 years. I hated those 8-month mountain winters with a passion. But these winters, with their balmy December and January days, don't seem right either.

Yesterday, the temperature was above 60. My friend e-mailed, "What a stellar day for January!" I agreed for the most part - it was a stellar day. But not for January. January should be snowy, the air nippy, the roads a little dicey - if for no other reason than to make me feel extra-special smart for having studded snow tires. It should also be cold enough for me to wear the really cool, but oh-so heavy, sweaters I accumulated during those many years of mountain living.

But most of all, it should be winter because without it, the change of seasons is too subtle. It lacks drama, something I cannot abide. We pass from one beautiful day to another, days slowly growing longer, temperatures rising slightly. Summer is precious, and my favorite season. But it's precious because it feels fleeting. It's special because I just can't get enough of it. Without winter, it loses some of its golden glow.

George is curled up on the floor near my computer now, comfortably weary from our snowy trek. Ally is loudly worrying a rawhide bone downstairs. I'm snug in my bathrobe, looking out at streetlights turned pink by low-hanging clouds.

It promises to snow all night. I can only hope.