It is freezing cold, but the day is otherwise delightful. Standing on the sunlit terrace of my house, we are surveying the Mirna valley. “Look,” I exclaim at some point and point at an almost white animal running along the edge of the scrub surrounding a large meadow on the left bank of the river. “It’s a horse,” she says. “It’s too fast for a horse,” I squint expertly, “and it turns around much faster than a horse ever could.” The animal disappears into the scrub, but it dashes out of it soon afterwards. “It must be a deer,” I conclude. “Get the binoculars,” she suggests. By the time I return to the terrace, the animal is gone. “It must be a deer,” I repeat, “and its light coloring must have to do with the winter.” After a pause, I explain: “It expects snow this time of the year…” As both of us are combing the area where we have last seen the animal, I keep embellishing my story: “I’m sure it’s a deer, and the only reason for dashing about like crazy is to keep warm on a day like this.” “You suppose this is so,” she reminds me, “but you cannot possibly be sure.” Just as I agree with her, albeit somewhat reluctantly, the animal reappears. And the binoculars tell us in a jiffy that it is a large dog, most likely a Golden Retriever, whose owners come into focus a short while later. “They look like an urban couple,” she says.