Ten degrees above zero at 5:30 a.m.: a warm spell! The weekend afternoons were so mild (20 degrees or so) that Ruckus, Anna, and I went snowshoeing twice. Anna adores porpoising through the snow, stopping here and there to smell deer tracks, pee on small trees, and crunch up frozen deer pellets. Ruckus rides in my hood, but once the trail is broken, he gets down and stalks/scuttles along behind us--ears pinned, spine fur mohawked, tail bottle-brushed. Mr. I-Weigh-Six-Pounds-and-a-Squirrel-Could-Wrestle-Me claims that this look will terrify any wild animal that happens to bounce out of the underbrush. Hah.

Here is a fine and suitable poem about February and cats and exasperation. Margaret Atwood strikes again. I may spend some time copying out her poems today. I'll let you know what I learn.

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.