There’s a small store off Highway 93 in northwestern Montana called Three Dog Down. In a nutshell, the store makes down comforters in one-, two-, and three-dog-down thicknesses. The old saying states, one sled dog lying next to you for warmth by the campfire means it’s about freezing. One dog on each side, it’s zero or around there. Having to add a Siberian husky to the top means the temperature is bone-chilling raw. The company and customers don’t need a weatherman, just different numbers of dogs. Simple.

Needing a new pair of Carhartt bibs, I thought a reasonable time frame for shopping and best selection would be a little after the first snowfall and well before the winter “deep freeze” set in. Wandering the bare aisles, I found a manager with star-struck eyes standing alone by the cash register and asked what the sam-heck was going on with his inventory. Wow… his explanation about blew me away! Corporate had only sent a third of the winter clothing they usually do because some high-up hot-shot from a southern state hired a million-dollar weather-advisory company to determine what our northern winter weather would be. They concluded from way down south that our winter would have above-normal temperatures and that stocking the usual amount would be unnecessary.

Again, wow! All they had to do was drive up here and look out their dang car window. If they arrived during the day, the freezing cold sundogs would be visible, easily placing an extra semi or two of Carhartts on the road north. After dark, the same large order would have been shipped after the bone-chilling moondogs spooked them.

Growing up, I had always thought sundogs were a rainbow gone haywire in the winter, but with age comes wisdom… cold wisdom. They are formed by ice crystals when you’re freezing your butt off. I still believe moondogs and vampires have something in common, though.

I get a kick out of the weathermen and their big bad wind-chill advisories. “Bundle up and add an extra layer – the wind chill will freeze you in place today.” Come on, your car doesn’t give a crap if the wind is 10 mph or 50 mph. It will start when it’s good and ready, and not a gust before.

Here’s an idea: All meteorologists should live on a farm and do live broadcasts via satellite. Simple: just look out the window at a horse – any horse. The tail will tell you which direction the wind is from and how strong it is. From the east – in the next day or two, it’s going to snow like cats and dogs. If the horse is all hunkered up, it’s pretty cold. When the horse has layers of frost on its whiskers and eyelashes, it’s below zero and a crapshoot if your car will start.

When the house walls “creak,” the noise will scare the heck out of the weatherman, but he’ll know it’s at least 20 below.

The cat will want outside. While you hold the door open, the cat will sniff the air and either duck and do a 180 (baby, its cold outside) or trot out into acceptable temperatures.

For gathering more official winter climate-related information, the weatherman can bundle up and take a hike to the barn.

The outside storm door will tell the temperature within a degree or two. If it takes more than five seconds for it to close on its own, the weatherman better find a couple of Siberian huskies in a hurry.

When the trees “creak,” the only thing he can do to save himself is make snow angels.

Not too cold – walking on the snow will sound like slippers on carpet. Really, really cold – it will sound like fingers on chalkboard and the weatherman won’t warm up until August.

If it takes both hands to lift the water hydrant handle, it’s dang cold. If the handle squeaks as he’s lifting it, he better make a mad dash back to the house, as frostbite is setting in.

The five-gallon water pail is a surefire thermostat. A thin layer of ice on top – it’s almost t-shirt weather. Three smacks with a hammer to remove the ice – it’s tolerable to finish chores. When the pail is frozen solid from top to bottom, the hammer will break in two along with the operator.

If the weatherman is still having problems with the daily forecast, he can jump in his car. If sitting on the seat compares to sitting on a wooden park bench, the car probably won’t be going anywhere. If his car does start and the tires rotate like cement blocks, he’d better turn off the security alarm and put on another parka.

Last but not least, the three-star meteorologist can stick his tongue on the flag pole. If it’s stuck and he has snow on his head, its still winter. If it rains on his head, it’s spring and he’d best go inside before a dog pees on his leg…