I have always hated bringing my pets to kennels, and also I have always hated leaving them at home alone, and also I've always hated asking friends or neighbors to come in and do the ugly litterbox or barn chore, etc.--in short, as The Reader's Digest Condensed Version of this endless dumb sentence explains, "I hate going away from my pets."

However, Chuck has not been invited to the hotel, and he is still too young to spend four nights alone, so he and I will be wending our sad way to the cat kennel this afternoon, possibly through snow and sleet. Naturally, just in time for holiday travel, a Yankee clipper is scheduled to whip through Maine today and tonight. I think we should be okay for driving tomorrow, though it's unclear how soon we'll be able to leave. T is supposed to pick up our Chicagoans at the Hartford airport tomorrow afternoon, which complicates matters. But I don't think the snowstorm is supposed to stretch that far south, so I expect things will work out.

This morning I'll bake a final batch of jam-filled cookies, and then my Christmas tasks will be done. I hope I can find an hour or so afterward to think about poems. I'd like to get started on my communal sonnet project; I'd like to work out some thoughts for the summer faculty performance. But who knows if my brain will agree to any of this? It knows the rest of this week will be a maelstrom of driving, card games, chatter, and extravagant culinary undertakings. It may insist on a mystery novel and a nap.