Page 73 of Falling for the Grinchy Bad Boy

“Let’s start with the basics and see where inspiration takes us,” Katrina suggested. She was already scooping up snow, packing it into what would become the base of our creation. “Three balls, stack them up, then add the decorations.”

The contest officially began with a cheerful air horn blast from the mayor and suddenly the square was filled with focused activity. Families bent over their snow piles, rolling and shaping and occasionally arguing about the best technique for achieving perfectly round snowballs.

Our first attempt at a base was less than perfect.

“It’s more oval than round,” Katrina observed, tilting her head to study our lumpy creation.

“The snow’s not packing quite right,” I said, which was my diplomatic way of saying that none of us apparently possessed any natural snowman-building talent.

“Maybe if we roll it more?” Matt suggested, and the three of us attempted to maneuver our misshapen base around the small area, hoping to achieve better symmetry through momentum.

The result was marginally more spherical but significantly more lopsided.

“This is harder than it looks,” Matt admitted, wiping snow off his gloves.

By the time we’d managed to construct something resembling a middle section and attempted to hoist it onto our base, our snowman looked less like the jolly figures at the neighboring stations and more like, well, something else entirely.

Maybe an ogre. If only we had green spray paint.

“Is it just me, or does this look more like a dog than a snowman?” Matt asked, stepping back to survey our handiwork.

He was right. Our lumpy, asymmetrical creation, with its elongated middle section and the way the head sat at a slight angle, bore a distinct resemblance to a large canine sitting upright.

“Oh my God, it totally does.” Katrina laughed. “It looks like a golden retriever or something.”

I studied our accidental sculpture, inspiration beginning to form. “Actually,” I said slowly, “that gives me an idea.”

Matt looked at me like he thought I might truly be losing it. “Yeah?”

“What if we lean into it? Instead of fighting the shape, what if we make it into a snow dog on purpose?” I gestured toward the decorating table. “We could make it a dalmatian. Use the coal to make spots.”

“A dalmatian!” Katrina’s eyes lit up. “That’s perfect! They’re like the unofficial mascot of firehouses.”

“Exactly.” I found myself getting genuinely excited about the idea. “We could add a fire hat, maybe fashion some kind of collar.”

“I love it,” Katrina said. “It’s creative, it ties into the fire department theme, and it works with what we’ve already built.”

“Plus, it’s probably a lot easier than trying to make this thing look like a proper snowman,” Matt added practically.

So we pivoted. Instead of trying to salvage our snowman, we embraced our happy accident and began transforming our creation into the world’s largest snow dalmatian.

I found myself taking the lead, which surprised me. Usually, I was content to let others drive creative projects while I focused on the practical details. But there was something about this challenge—the problem-solving aspect, the way we had to work together to achieve our vision—that engaged a part of my brain I didn’t use very often.

“The head needs to be more dog-like,” I said, reshaping the top portion to be longer and less round. “And we should add ears.”

Katrina was already scooping up snow to form ears, while Matt worked on refining the body shape to look more convincingly canine. I sorted through the available supplies to find items that would work for our new design.

“Hey, there’s a red baseball cap that could work as a fire hat if we position it right,” I suggested.

As we worked, I became aware that our station was drawing attention. Other families were glancing over with curiosity and amusement, and I could hear snippets of conversation about the “fire department’s snow dog.”

“That’s actually really clever,” I heard one father say to his wife. “Why didn’t we think of something like that?”

“Because we’re not as creative as they are,” she replied, which made me flush with unexpected pride.

Katrina was adding the final touches to our dalmatian, using pieces of coal to give the dog its signature spots, when she looked up at me with a grin.

“You know, for someone who was reluctant to participate, you’ve really gotten into this,” she observed.