A chilly death

A snowy week. Some days have been frigid. But in the “Little House” books the prairie settlers do just fine at 20-below (°F). It’s at 40-below that they start to worry. Today I wore shorts to take Samuel to his bus stop. It was 5 °F. The bus was 10 minutes late. I barely felt the cold (there wasn’t much wind). Samuel and I joked around: I sang, he punched. On the way back to the house I passed the cardboard box containing the frozen cat I’d put out by the curb, on Monday. Karin found the corpse in our shed. The Animal Resource Center promised to pick it up but never did. It’s no longer so distressing. The cat is under a blanket of snow. I know to look for a single paw that sticks out of the box; that’s how I can tell the cat is still there. Children pass it trudging to and from school. Sorry about this bummer of an entry.