I found the snow sprite in my freezer a few days before midsummer, nestled between the frozen blueberries and some leftover rhubarb crumble. It wouldn’t make it to next winter in there, I was certain of that.
First I telephoned animal rescue: not their area. Then I tried 911: they told me off for making crank calls.
In the end, I packed the poor thing in an old thermos with dry ice and sent it to a random address in New Zealand. I never found out what happened, but the next winter the frost-flowers on my window-glass were especially fine.
Author’s Note: It’s always winter somewhere.