Dr. Spock and Root Beer

In 1966, the year I was born, the bible for raising children was a practical book titled: Baby and Childcare. My mother is reported to have read it cover to cover.
My bible is a small paperback titled: How to Raise a Well-Behaved Puppy. For more than five days, I have lived by the daily routine set by the author Dominique De Vito.
Puppy, says De Vito, is to rise at 6:00 a.m. and relieve herself.
At 6:15, she is supposed to eat, and at 6:30, I am supposed to play with her. Play time is supposed to last until 6:45 at which time puppy is to relieve herself, again.
Right. Somebody needs to tell the dog.
At 5:30 a.m., Root Beer started to whine in her crate.
Quick as an all-night server dodging the morning rush, I leaped out of bed, wrenched open the crate and lifted the whining puppy over the basket of dirty clothes.
I made it to the stairs. The whining stopped. "NO..." I screamed, hurrying down the 8 steps to the front door.
Root Beer landed with a soft thud in the snowbank. Dazed, she looked at me with reproach. She had been warm and content inside and now I was insulting her dignity by insisting she pee in the snow.
I slipped my cold toes into the slippers sitting at the door and grabbed my ski jacket with grocery bag stuffed pockets. I wore no hat and carried no mitts. According to De Vito, I wasn't going to be out long.
Root Beer and I did our morning dance.
She, with all the grace a three-month-old can muster, sat by the front door waiting to return to warmth, a soft carpet and if I was lucky, a puppy pee pad.
I, with the war wounds of a three-time mother, walked to our special "section" of the front yard.
"Come on Root Beer, it's time to go pee."
I think she laughed.
I paced the front yard in my slippers, flannel nightie, oversized sweats and ski jacket. My jacket did little to brake the cold that whistled through the gaps. I regretted not wearing a hat or mitts, it now seemed foolish to leave the house without them.
And still, Root Beer sat.
I tapped the newspaper Dave had placed in her special place in the snow. As a new dog owner, he didn't know what would enourage her to go pee any better than me. His theory was tap the paper and she'll think she's inside. Yeah, only if we don't pay our heating bill for 10 years. It has to be -45 this morning.
Finally, with great dignity, Root Beer stood up.
She looked around and then squatted. A small tear rolled from the corner of my eye. Was it the cold? I like to think so. After 15 minutes in a January morning, Root Beer went pee.
"Good Root Beer," I said with all the glee I could manage through frozen lips. "Good dog."
We went back inside and I returned to my reading. Root Beer plopped herself on the rug and started staring at the corner of my kitchen where four puppy pee pads and newspaper lay waiting.