it's too cold for snow people. they wouldn't stand. they'd fall to dust. but snow angels yes. i would make a snow angel, and mister would too, and his would look more like a snow dervish. when i carefully ascended out of my angel, mister would step in, sniff, take a mouthful of angel dust and roll his own angel on top. if i find a good clean angel i appreciate it borrow it like my own,

and mister steps in and sniffs around, the head the wings, the butt, 
 

and once he's read the angel imprint and inhaled the vaguely human pheromones, he starts to dig behind the wings with his hoof-like salt socked feet, and thus together we continue in the traces of passing humans and angels and humans passing as angels and adding to their beautiful shallow impressions pheromones of our own. it occurs that maybe mister really did register an angel in this winged depression and dug like a swoony fan to retrieve it from where it disappeared.