While Maureen knocks and puts on—he hopes—her friendliest smile for the neighbors, Jupe is otherwise occupied. In cold-numbed hands he grips a leash, and is doing his best to stop what looks to be an enormous roving mop from racing up and down the front porch. Or at least slow it down.

“Hey!” he calls over his shoulder, from where he's—literally, kind of—dug his heels into the snow, braced for another outburst of canine enthusiasm. He flashes a frantic smile. “Sorry to, uh, disturb you. We live a block over—” He drops a hand from the leash to gesture—and that's when the dog bounds toward the doorway, Jupe staggering behind until the leash slips entirely from his grasp.

The dog is friendly—friendly and ready to plant her snowy paws on whoever strikes her fancy.