Ils Fait Froid

This is California. Only it's not really California--I've been told that often enough. The Bay Area is as different in climate as it is in politics and other essentials from its near neighbors. But in the last couple of days it has been, by local reckoning, seriously cold. Like: snow in Berkeley cold. No snow in San Francisco (though it's felt like it--that dampness in the air, coupled with real chill).

I know: you folk on the east coast and midwest may laugh at us, wussy Californians. But by local standards it's cold, dammit. And the houses out here are not well insulated because, well, California, right?

I've done my errands, dragged the dog, and now have a cup of tea and some work to do. In my room. Where it's relatively warm.

How're you doing?

The Hissing of Winter Dogs

I am lying on my bed typing. The Emily is lying on her bed next to my bed. She is in despair. I can tell she is in despair because a high-pitched whistle of dismay is issuing from her, sort of a cross between a whine and a sigh, but in dog.

Me: Emily, it's 3:22. It's not time for dinner yet.

Emily: **Despair.**

Me: I'm not going to feed you yet. You've been run and watered and squeezed. I'm working. Shush.

Emily: **Despair!!** (sucks in her cheeks to show how starving the dog is) **Woe!!** (the whistle becomes louder).

Me: Ignoring you.

Emily: (deep gusty sigh. Baleful look. Return to whistling.)

Cell Phone: (plays the Spouse's ringtone)

Emily: **Daddy would feed me! Daddy likes the dog.**

Me: Hello? (Several minutes of business chatter with the Spouse)

Emily: (Now whining loudly enough to be heard over the phone)

Spouse: She agitating for dinner already?

Me: How well you know your family. (To Emily) Ignoring you.

Spouse: Ignoring me? Hey--

Emily: **Help! I'm being held prisoner by people who do not feed the dog! Call the ASPCA! Call the ACLU!**

Spouse: Maybe you should just feed her?

Me: (Weakening): It's 3:35. The sun is over the yardarm somewhere.

Emily: (Dancing in premature joy) **COMPROMISE YOUR PRINCIPALS!**

Me: (Heading for the kitchen) Okay, dog.

Emily does the dance of dinner (I throw her a few kibbles to keep her eye-snout coordination sharp, mix in the wet food, and make her sit until released to eat) and vacuums up her meal.

Me: Happy now?

Emily: (Returned to her bed. Snores.)