The lettering is cream against the shirt, split across two lines: I GOT THAT DOG above, IN ME below. Between them, or rather beneath the first line and before the second, sits a small tan chihuahua in red boxing gloves, forepaws raised, planted in front of a brick wall. Behind the dog, cast large across that wall, is a black wolf-shaped shadow. The shadow is not a second animal. It is the dog’s own, drawn at a scale the dog cannot occupy.

That is the whole design, and it is worth slowing down over, because the joke is not in the words. The words are a boast. The boast is a common one now, a phrase that circulates in gyms and group chats and comment sections to mean I have reserves you cannot see. Printed plainly, it would be a slogan. Printed over a chihuahua, it becomes an argument about proportion — and the argument is carried almost entirely by the shadow.

Look at what the shadow does. It is wolf-shaped, which is to say it is the shape of an animal that actually fights, that has a pack and a range and a reputation. The chihuahua is the shape of an animal that shivers. The two are the same silhouette at different scales, and the design asks you to hold both at once: the small dog is real, the wolf is projected. The boast — I got that dog in me — is spoken by the small dog, and the shadow is what the small dog means by it. The shirt does not resolve whether the shadow is a lie, a promise, or simply what confidence looks like from the inside. It just puts the two figures on the same wall and lets the brick do the rest.

I keep thinking about the boxing gloves. They are red, and they are the only saturated color in the composition besides the cream lettering. Gloves are equipment; they are what you put on when the fight is scheduled rather than ambush. A chihuahua in boxing gloves is a chihuahua that has agreed to terms. That detail matters because it separates the design from the simpler meme of the tiny dog who thinks it is large. This dog is not deluded. It has trained. It has shown up. The wolf shadow is not a fantasy of being a wolf; it is the shape the dog casts when it stands under the right light, and the gloves are the evidence that it intends to stand there.

The phrase itself is doing quieter work than it appears. That dog is not a breed and not a name. It is a disposition, an unspecified quantity of fight, and the grammar of the sentence places it in me — interior, latent, available on request. The design literalizes the grammar: the dog is in the shirt, the wolf is in the shadow, and the shadow is in the dog. There is a small regress here, and it is funny in the way that a mirror facing a mirror is funny. The boast is not that the small dog is secretly a wolf. The boast is that the small dog contains a wolf, and the wolf contains — well, the shirt does not say, and that is the right place to stop.

What I find most useful about the artwork is its refusal to choose between self-deprecation and self-assertion. A shirt that simply said I got that dog in me would be a claim. A shirt that showed only a chihuahua would be a joke at the wearer’s expense. The combination — small dog, real gloves, oversized shadow — is a third thing: a claim made by someone who knows exactly how large they are and has decided that size is not the relevant measure. The brick wall helps. Brick is the texture of a gym, a basement, a place where people go to become the shadow they cast. The wall is not decorative. It is the surface that makes a shadow possible.

I am not going to tell you the shirt is empowering, because that word has been worn smooth and the design is sharper than it. What the design does is stranger and more specific: it makes the gap between the body and its projection visible, and then it makes the gap the point. The wolf is not hidden behind the chihuahua. It is cast by the chihuahua, under a light the chihuahua chose. Whether that is courage or delusion depends on the light, and the shirt does not supply the light. You do.

If you want the object itself, it is listed as the I Got That Dog In Me Funny Chihuahua Boxing Meme shirt from Quirky Cotton Collective. The retail description matches what the image shows: cream lettering, a tan cartoon chihuahua in red boxing gloves, a brick backdrop, and a much larger black wolf-shaped shadow behind. The wolf is a shadow, not a second dog. That distinction is the design.

Editorial note: This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner.

The question the shirt leaves me with is not whether the small dog can fight. It is what we are doing when we wear a shadow larger than ourselves — whether the projection is a claim about the future or a description of the light we have arranged to stand in. The chihuahua does not answer. It just keeps its gloves up, and the wolf keeps doing the boasting.

GOT TOO SILLY. The words sit above a white, goose-like bird dressed in an orange prison uniform, holding a black mugshot board. The bird’s expression is not contrite. It is not even especially silly, in the sense of a child caught mid-prank. It is simply present, holding the board, waiting for the flash. The joke is not the crime, which is unspecified, or the punishment, which is a costume. The joke is the format: the mugshot, that most bureaucratic of portraits, applied to a creature whose only documented offense is having been too silly.

I keep returning to the board. In a real mugshot, the board carries a name, a booking number, a date, a charge. It is an instrument of record. Here the board is black and blank, or nearly so; the only legible text is the phrase above the bird’s head. The object that should identify the offender has been emptied, and the caption has taken over its function. The shirt does not tell us what the goose did. It tells us only the verdict, delivered in the flat, affectionate register of a group chat: got too silly.

That phrase is doing more work than it first appears. In English, silly is a word we use to soften. A child who has spilled paint on the carpet is silly. A friend who has sent eleven consecutive photographs of a dog is silly. The word carries no real censure; it is the linguistic equivalent of a hand waved in dismissal. But got too silly adds a threshold. It implies a limit was crossed, that silliness has a quantity, and that the quantity was exceeded. The grammar is that of a minor infraction: got too loud, got too close, got too comfortable. The shirt borrows the syntax of discipline and applies it to something that discipline cannot really touch.

The bird, as observed, is white and goose-like. It is not a cartoon goose with exaggerated eyebrows or a knowing smirk. It has the blank, slightly affronted look of a waterfowl photographed at close range. That blankness is essential. A goose is a creature of unearned confidence; anyone who has been hissed at by one knows that it does not negotiate. To dress such a bird in an orange jumpsuit is to impose a human narrative of crime and consequence onto an animal that has no concept of either. The humor is not that the goose is guilty. The humor is that the goose is indifferent to the entire apparatus.

I am interested in the mugshot as a genre. It is a portrait made under duress, but it is also a portrait made for a file. The subject is asked to hold a board, to face forward, to be legible. The resulting image is not meant to be seen by the subject’s friends; it is meant to be seen by strangers who need to match a face to a name. When a mugshot escapes into popular culture, as it often does, it becomes something else: a meme, a symbol, a shorthand for a particular kind of notoriety. The shirt participates in that escape. It takes the visual grammar of the police photograph and empties it of consequence, replacing the charge with a phrase that sounds like a parent’s gentle reprimand.

There is a version of this shirt that would be cruel. It could mock a real arrest, or a real person, or a real institution. It does none of those things. The goose is too abstract, the crime too vague, the phrase too soft. What remains is a small comic mismatch: the seriousness of the format against the triviality of the offense. That mismatch is the whole design. The orange uniform, the black board, the white bird, the three words above. Nothing else is needed.

The phrase got too silly has a particular currency online, where it circulates as a way of describing a minor social failure without assigning blame. Someone who has posted too many times, or laughed at the wrong moment, or made a joke that did not land, has got too silly. The shirt translates that online register into a physical object. It is the kind of thing one might wear to signal a certain self-awareness: I know I am a lot, and I am at peace with it. But I do not want to overread the wearer. The shirt is not a manifesto. It is a joke with a clear visual punchline, and it works because the punchline is visible from across a room.

What I find most interesting is the blankness of the board. In a real mugshot, the board is the point. It is where the information lives. Here, the information has migrated upward, into the caption. The board becomes a prop, a black rectangle that signals this is a mugshot without actually doing the work of one. The bird holds it the way a child holds a sign in a school photograph: dutifully, without understanding. The effect is not to make the bird look guilty but to make the entire apparatus of guilt look slightly absurd. The board is there, but it has nothing to say.

I think that is why the design holds together. It is not a shirt about crime, or punishment, or even geese. It is a shirt about the moment when a minor transgression is dressed up in the language of officialdom and found to be weightless. The mugshot format promises consequences. The phrase delivers a shrug. The bird, in its orange uniform, holds the board and waits, and the flash never comes, and nothing happens, and that is the joke.

The shirt is available through this listing, in the standard t-shirt format observed on the page. I have not worn it, and I cannot tell you how it fits or how the print holds up after washing. What I can tell you is what the artwork does: it takes a format built for records and fills it with a phrase built for affection. The result is a small, precise comedy about the gap between how seriously we take ourselves and how seriously anyone else does.

This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner.

I keep thinking about the goose’s face. It is not a face that has learned anything. It is not a face that regrets anything. It is a face that has been asked to hold a board and is holding it. The board is black. The uniform is orange. The words are above. And the question I am left with is not whether the goose is guilty, but why we find it so satisfying to imagine that it might be.

The garment preview shows four letters and a period: meh. They are set in a heavy, lowercase sans-serif, white against a dark ground, and they occupy the chest like a headline. There is no illustration, no animal, no secondary slogan. The word is small in meaning and large in type, and that mismatch is the whole design.

I want to take the shirt seriously as a visual object, because the word it carries is usually treated as the absence of an object — a shrug, a non-answer, the sound a conversation makes when it stops. Set in bold lowercase at chest scale, meh stops being a mood and becomes a declaration. The period is doing particular work. It closes the word. It does not invite a reply.

Finnish has a word for the condition this shirt dramatizes, though it arrives from a different direction. Myötähäpeä — literally “co-shame” — names the secondhand embarrassment one feels on behalf of another person. It is not the wearer’s emotion. It is the emotion the shirt anticipates in the room. A shirt that says meh. in large white letters is not asking to be liked; it is pre-empting the demand to be interesting, and myötähäpeä is the precise name for the discomfort an audience feels when someone declines that demand in public.

The design’s argument, as I read it, is about the cost of enthusiasm. Most slogan shirts perform a feeling: Good vibes only, Living my best life, the whole grammar of compulsory positivity. This one performs the refusal of performance. The lowercase letters matter here. Uppercase MEH would be aggressive, a shout. Lowercase meh. is flat, almost bureaucratic, the tone of someone filing a complaint they know will not be read. The bold weight contradicts the flatness, and that contradiction is the joke — or rather, the design’s small act of honesty. It is loud about being unimpressed.

There is a temptation to read this as introversion, and the listing’s own title gestures that way: Meh Funny Sarcastic Saying Introvert Dry Humor. I am wary of that framing. Introversion is a description of where a person draws energy; meh is a description of what a person thinks of the proceedings. The shirt does not depict a personality type. It depicts a verdict. The verdict is: this does not require my participation.

What interests me is how the shirt works in a room. A slogan on a chest is a kind of ambient speech, always on, addressed to no one in particular. Most such speech tries to start something — a compliment, a laugh, a conversation. meh. tries to end something before it begins. It is a boundary made of typography. The period is the closed door.

I do not know who wears it, or where, or whether it lands as funny or as rude. I have not worn it. What I can say is that the design is legible at a distance, which is the minimum requirement for ambient speech, and that its legibility is entirely carried by scale and contrast rather than by wit. The wit, such as it is, lives in the gap between the word’s smallness and the letters’ size. That gap is the design.

If you want the object itself, it is listed as the Meh Funny Sarcastic Saying Introvert Dry Humor shirt from Quirky Cotton Collective. The preview shows the large bold white lowercase meh. on a dark shirt; no animal illustration is present. That is the whole of what the image establishes.

Editorial note: This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner.

The question the shirt leaves me with is not whether it is funny. It is whether a refusal can be worn as a public statement without becoming, in the wearing, exactly the kind of performance it meant to decline. The period says no. The bold letters say it loudly. I am not sure those two facts can be reconciled, and I suspect the shirt knows it.

Editorial note: This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner.

There is a bell in the upper left of the printed banner, small and white against a white rounded rectangle, and beside it the sentence arrives in the flat register of a system talking to itself: There is motion at your front door. Below the banner, inside a circular frame, an orange tabby presses its face almost into the lens. The image is green-tinted, the way doorbell cameras render a porch at dusk, and behind the cat you can make out siding and a light. The cat’s eyes are wide. It is not doing anything. It is simply there, close, and the camera has decided that this constitutes an event.

That is the whole design. A notification and its cause. What interests me is not the joke, exactly — the joke is legible and warm and needs no defense — but the grammar of the thing. The sentence is not a question or a greeting. It is a status report issued by a device to a person who is, at that moment, somewhere else. The shirt prints the message and the messenger in the same frame, and in doing so it holds up a small mirror to a condition most of us have stopped noticing: we have built houses that speak to us in the third person, and we have learned to answer.

The sentence without a subject

Read the banner again. There is motion at your front door. Grammatically it is an existential construction — there is — which is to say it announces presence without naming a presence. Something exists. Something moves. The sentence knows this and declines to say what. The camera, of course, has already decided; the circular image below is the answer the banner withholds. But the banner comes first, and the banner is what the wearer carries.

I keep thinking about the order of operations. In the actual domestic scene, the phone buzzes before the person looks. The notification is the primary text; the image is supplementary evidence. The shirt reverses nothing, but it flattens the sequence into a single surface, so that the announcement and the animal arrive together, and you can see how thin the gap between them has become. The cat is not an intruder. The cat is a category error that the system has dutifully logged.

This is where the design earns its keep. A lesser version would print only the cat, or only the phrase. By stacking them — banner above, circular view below, the white rectangle and the green disc — the artwork preserves the architecture of the alert. It is a diagram of a perceptual event, and the event is: a living thing has crossed a threshold that was built to detect living things, and the detection has been rendered as data.

The circle as a frame of suspicion

The circular crop is doing quiet work. Doorbell cameras use it because a fisheye lens produces a round image, and the round image is then fitted into a square or rectangular app interface. On the shirt, the circle reads almost like a porthole or a peephole — a small aperture through which the outside is admitted on the inside’s terms. The porch siding behind the cat is visible but secondary. The lights are there. The world is there. But the world has been reduced to what fits inside the circle, and the circle is small.

There is a long history of circular framing in art — the tondo, the medallion, the mirror — and I do not want to overclaim a lineage here. The doorbell camera did not inherit the tondo. But the visual effect is similar: a circle concentrates attention and implies that what is inside it has been selected. The cat has been selected. The cat did not apply. The cat was caught in the act of being a cat near a door, and the system has promoted that fact to the status of an alert.

The green tint matters too. It is the color of low-light sensors, of night vision, of the machine doing its best with insufficient photons. It tells you the camera is working hard. It also tells you the hour is late or the porch is dim, and the combination — wide-eyed animal, green wash, circular crop — produces a mood that is funny and slightly eerie at once. The cat looks startled because it is close to a lens that has suddenly become interested in it. We have all been that cat.

What the shirt asks you to wear

I am not going to tell you what the shirt means about you, because I do not know you and the shirt does not either. But I can say what it asks you to carry. It asks you to carry a sentence that is addressed to someone else. Your front door. The wearer becomes the recipient of a notification about a threshold they presumably own, and the notification is delivered by a cat. The pronoun is the hinge. On the shirt, your points outward at whoever reads it, which means the wearer is both the person being notified and the person doing the notifying, depending on where you stand.

That double address is the reason the design works as clothing rather than as a poster. A poster is looked at. A shirt is encountered — across a table, in a queue, at the far end of a hallway — and the sentence on it is read in fragments, often before the image resolves. Someone sees There is motion and then sees the cat, and the two pieces click. The click is the pleasure. The shirt is a small machine for producing that click in other people, and it runs on the same logic as the device it depicts: something moves, a message is sent, a person looks.

I find that recursion more interesting than the meme itself. The shirt is a notification about notifications. It is a doorbell camera for the human chest, announcing that a feeling has crossed the threshold and would like to be acknowledged. The feeling is mild. The feeling is oh, a cat. But the structure is the same structure we live inside now, and wearing it is a way of admitting that we know the structure, and that we are not entirely sorry about it.

The porch as a shared boundary

A porch is a strange architectural invention. It belongs to the house but faces the street. It is private property that exists to be seen from public space. The doorbell camera inherits this ambiguity and hardens it: the porch becomes a monitored zone, and the monitor is pointed outward, at the very approach it was built to welcome. The cat in the design has crossed into that zone without permission and without malice. It is the perfect test case for a surveillance system, because it is harmless, and because it cannot be reasoned with, and because it will do it again tomorrow.

What the shirt captures, I think, is the moment when the system meets something it cannot classify as threat or guest. The banner says motion, not visitor, not intruder. Motion is the neutral word, the word that admits uncertainty. The camera does not know what the cat is. It only knows that the cat is not nothing. And so the cat becomes an event, and the event becomes a notification, and the notification becomes — on a shirt, months or years later, in a completely different context — a small comic emblem of the way we have taught our houses to be nervous on our behalf.

I do not think the design is making an argument about surveillance. It is too gentle for that, and the cat is too ridiculous. But the gentleness is what makes it usable as an argument. You can wear a joke about a cat and still be wearing a diagram of a threshold. The diagram does not stop being a diagram because the cat is funny. If anything, the humor is what lets the diagram get close enough to be seen.

The bell and the animal

There is one more detail I keep returning to. The bell icon in the banner is a small outline, the kind of glyph that has become so standard it barely registers as a drawing. It is not a real bell. It is the idea of a bell, the universal signifier of something wants your attention. And below it, in the circle, is a real animal — or as real as a printed photograph gets — with fur and whiskers and a specific expression that no icon could capture. The design sets the abstraction above the particular, the glyph above the cat, and the whole joke lives in the distance between them.

That distance is also the distance between the notification and the thing notified about. The bell is what the phone shows you. The cat is what is actually on the porch. The shirt prints both, stacked, and asks you to hold them together. Most of the time we do not hold them together. We see the bell, we glance, we dismiss. The cat goes unregistered as a cat and registers only as motion. The shirt is a small corrective: it puts the cat back under the bell, where it belongs, and lets you see what the system was trying to tell you all along.

You can find the shirt here, if you want to wear the correction. I am not going to pretend it will change how you answer your door. But I have been thinking about the sentence on it for longer than I expected to, and the sentence has not gotten smaller. There is motion at your front door. The motion is a cat. The cat is looking at you. The bell has already rung, and you are already looking, and the question the shirt leaves open is the one the camera cannot answer: when the notification arrives, who exactly is being informed — the person inside the house, or the animal outside it, who has just discovered that the door has learned to watch?

A surface that will not hold still

In the Bay of Bothnia, winter does not arrive as a single event. It arrives as a sequence of small decisions made by water: a skim of new ice in a sheltered bay, a night of clear sky and no wind, a morning when the surface has closed. The Finnish Ice Service’s own photograph of a sea-ice field and a ship track, taken from the bridge of the icebreaker Urho, shows what that surface becomes to the people who work it: not a backdrop but a document. The track is a line drawn across a page that is being rewritten underneath it.

This is the condition the Finnish word ahtojää names. In the operational literature of the Baltic, drift ice is described as having a dynamic nature, forced by winds and currents. Its motion produces an uneven, broken field: floes up to several kilometres in diameter, leads and cracks, brash ice barriers, rafted ice, and ridges. The field is never still. A chart of it is therefore not a map of a thing but a reading of a process, and the process does not pause while the reading is made.

The chart as a daily form

The Finnish Ice Service’s predecessor began operational ice charting in 1915 to provide ice information for winter navigation, according to the service’s own account published in Frontiers in Marine Science in 2025. The service typically operates from mid-October to the end of May. In recent years the start has been fixed to mid-October, when analysts begin monitoring the cooling of the sea surface. Daily chart production is typically triggered in mid-December, though it may begin as early as late November or as late as early January, when the icebreaking authorities issue assistance restrictions and the first icebreakers are sent out.

The daily rhythm is precise. Synthetic Aperture Radar satellite images, the main source of spatial information, are acquired in early morning and early evening orbits and are available to the analyst well before noon. The ice report is written before noon; the assisting analyst translates it to Swedish and English and publishes it around noon. The ice chart is finalized and published in the afternoon around 2 pm. Ice codes are generated at the end of the day. Darkness and cloudiness frequently prevent the use of optical satellite imagery until March, so for much of the winter the sea is read through radar and through the reports of icebreakers and coastal observers.

There is a structural resemblance here that I want to name carefully, because it is easy to overstate. A feed converts a moving world into a sequence of dated updates, each one superseding the last. The winter chart does something similar with a surface that cannot be assumed. The comparison is not causal and not metaphorical in any strong sense; it is a resemblance between two genres of attention. Both are attempts to hold a changing thing in a form that can be acted on before it changes again. The chart is the older form, and it is the one that has to be right.

Why the ice matters to the economy of a coast

The stakes are not aesthetic. Approximately 95% of Finland’s international trade is transported by sea, according to the same account, which cites Finnish Customs data. Finland and Estonia are the only countries in the world where all mainland harbours freeze during normal winters. Winter navigation is managed by the Finnish Transport Infrastructure Agency with support from Fintraffic VTS, the Border Guard, the pilotage company Finnpilot, and the Ice Service. The chart is not a scientific ornament; it is part of the infrastructure that keeps a country supplied through a season when its ports are closed by ice.

The ice season can last up to 220 days in the northern Bay of Bothnia. In the southern Baltic, along the German and Polish coasts and in the Danish Straits, the annual maximum level ice thickness seldom exceeds half a metre. The range across the basin is enormous, and the chart has to describe all of it, every day, in a form that a ship’s master and an icebreaker captain can use.

The season that no longer keeps its shape

HELCOM’s State of the Baltic Sea assessment states that the effects of climate change are evident in the Baltic Sea today: water temperature is rising, ice extent is decreasing, and annual mean precipitation is increasing over the northern part of the region. The European Environment Agency publishes a time series of maximum ice extent in the Baltic Sea covering the winters from 1719/20 to 2024/25, sourced from the Finnish Meteorological Institute and updated from the work of Seinä and Palosuo (1996) and Seinä et al. (2001). The series shows variability across three centuries; the fifteen-year moving average is the line to watch, and it is the line that has been trending downward in recent decades.

What the retrieved sources do not give me is a single number for how much the season has shortened, or a date by which a particular contraction occurred. I am not going to invent one. The documented facts are these: the ice cover usually begins to form in November and reaches its largest extent between January and March; normal break-up starts in April and the ice melts completely by the beginning of June; the service operates until the ice has practically melted from the northern Baltic, typically mid-May, varying from early May to early June. Those are the boundaries of a season. HELCOM says the extent is decreasing. The EEA series shows the long record. The precise rate of change is a question for the ice records themselves, and the records are open.

The labour question

Here is the argument I want to make, and it is an interpretation rather than a finding. The shortening ice season is not only an ecological fact. It is a labour question. A routine built around a season that reliably ran from October to May is being asked to serve a season that no longer keeps that shape. The analysts still begin in mid-October, monitoring the cooling water. The daily charting still begins when the icebreakers go out. The service still continues until the ice has melted. But the middle of the season — the long, cold, stable stretch when the chart described a field that stayed roughly where it was put — is the part that is changing. The edges of the season are where the work is most intense and most uncertain, and the edges are where the change is felt first.

I want to be careful here. The retrieved sources do not state that the Finnish Ice Service has changed its operational calendar in response to warming. They describe the calendar as it is. What they do support is the observation that the calendar is built around a set of expectations — freeze-up in November, maximum extent in January to March, break-up in April, melt by June — and that HELCOM reports the ice extent is decreasing. The expectations and the trend are in tension. How that tension is managed operationally is a question the public record does not yet answer, and I will not pretend it does.

What the chart holds

A chart is a compression of knowledge. It holds the analyst’s reading of a radar image, the icebreaker captain’s report of where a vessel got stuck, the coastal observer’s note of a lead opening, the model’s forecast of drift. It holds, too, the accumulated judgment of a service that has been doing this since 1915: which signatures in a radar image mean ridged ice and which mean brash, how a wind shift will move a field, where a track can be trusted and where it cannot. That judgment is not written down in a single document. It lives in the routine, in the daily production of the chart, in the handover between analysts, in the co-production with the Swedish Ice Service that has run on a week-to-week basis since the winter of 2017/18.

If the ice season contracts, the routine does not disappear. But the conditions it was built to describe become less frequent, and the knowledge that accumulates through repetition becomes harder to renew. A chart of a mild winter is still a chart, and the analyst still reads it. But the mild winter teaches different lessons than the severe one, and the archive of severe winters grows older while the archive of mild ones grows longer.

An open question

The sea’s winter is a material condition that has shaped a coast’s economy, its labour, and its forms of attention. The chart is one of the ways that condition has been made legible. As the season shortens, the chart continues to be produced, and the question is not whether the routine will survive but what it will be for. If the ice season contracts, what happens to the knowledge held in the charting routine — and to the winter navigation it was built to serve?

Sources

• Eriksson, P. B., Vainio, J., Tollman, N., Jokiniemi, A., Arola, A., Mäkynen, M., Karvonen, J., and Kangas, A. (2025). The Finnish Ice Service, its sea-ice monitoring of the Baltic Sea and operational concept. Frontiers in Marine Science 12. https://doi.org/10.3389/fmars.2025.1561461
• HELCOM. State of the Baltic Sea 2023 — Climate change findings. https://stateofthebalticsea.helcom.fi/findings/pressures/climate-change/
• European Environment Agency. Maximum extent of ice cover in the Baltic Sea, winters 1719/20–2024/25. Source: Jouni Vainio, Finnish Meteorological Institute, updated from Seinä and Palosuo (1996) and Seinä et al. (2001). https://www.eea.europa.eu/en/analysis/indicators/arctic-and-baltic-sea-ice/maximum-extent-of-ice