In the caliginous twilight typical of this northern clime, spanning from the winter solstice to the vernal equinox, I am much aggrieved to have misplaced an eldritch squeaky ball of great value. It is with a monumental amount of self-objurgation that I admit to having been absent minded of the placement of said squeaky ball, when I was interrupted from my scouting mission by a lone pedestrian who happened to wander along the pathway in front of my vast demesne, to whom I gave forth a stentorian warning. Then, to my utter dismay, I perceived that the mantle of gelid and clinquant snow had swallowed the precious orb without a trace. Upon requesting assistance from my erudite canine associate, Joseph (Joey dog) Stephens, I was given a lugubrious frown, and an asseveration that the object of my desire was indeed effectively hidden, and would probably not appear again until the onset of Spring. Despite the exigency of the situation, I was summoned to return to the shelter of my humble abode, where I then paced in mounting worry and misery to the point of total prostration.