“Do you think?” I ask Sonny, who has now rolled onto his back so the sun can warm his tummy.

The hopeful lilt in my question causes Sonny to roll onto his feet, amble over to me, jump into my arms as if he were giving me a bear hug and emit one loud bark.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Sonny and I drive into town, windows down, and we both inhale the scents of and listen to the sounds of Michigan coming back to life after winter: the warming of the ground, the scent of fresh pine and lake humidity in the air, the birds chirping, chain saws buzzing. Saugatuck, too, is coming back to life: though it’s too early for the shops to plant their window boxes, cheery flags now flap in the breeze, storefront doors are open, tourists walk the streets and I can smell fudge being cooked in big copper urns in the local candy shop.

My heart quickens as I park on Water Street and grab Sonny’s leash. We walk down the street and turn into the alley. I keep my eyes on the ground, the anticipation almost too much to take.

“Is she there?” I ask Sonny, who cocks his head at me.

I look up and let out a little squeal of delight. There sits the mannequin—dressed in its summer bikini—its waffle cone legs jutting into the alley.

“Sonny! I knew I could taste summer!”

There is a little hitching post for dogs in the alley, underneath a sign that reads Pet Parking. I secure Sonny’s leash and say, “Wait! Back in a jiffy!”

Bells on the front door announce my arrival, and an older woman I recognize as the owner greets me.

“I knew it!” I tell her. “I had a feeling today would be the day.”

The woman laughs, her cheeks quivering. Her hair is white and pulled up under a pointy cap that features the store’s logo—a lake effect storm of white over the lake, the snow swirling into a perfectly formed ice cream cone over Michigan. She is very tan, almost the color of the saddle-brown leather seats in my car.

“Am I the first customer of the season?” I ask.