The Polar Vortex

The serenade starts right after I crawl into bed and just begin to get warm, two or maybe more stray cats just under the front window, caterwauling as if it's the end of the world.  This operatic aria wakes and distresses the dogs who make a mad rush for the sunroom and begin to howl into the darkness in desperation.  The cats are not impressed and continue to sing - if this be song - and eventually I have to leave my warm bed and trudge to the front door to shoo them away.  I pray that they will find someplace reasonably warm and protected on this freezing night and I curse those who abandoned them. If anything in this life is true or certain, I hope that it's that there's a special place in hell for those sorry excuses for owners who neglect and abuse animals and children.  A thousand years of hellfire is far too mild and lenient a penalty.

Morning comes without much relief but the pipes haven't frozen and the car starts.  By noon, it's still bitter cold but not hurt-when-you-breathe, eyes-tearing-up, every-nose-hair-frozen kind of cold.  There's not much wind and the sun is really trying.  And there's nothing to shovel.  It could be worse, I remind myself, as I listen to a public radio story about a bike messenger.  In Milwaukee.  Where it's two below with 14 inches of snow on the ground and the wind chill is minus 40.  If you're a stray cat in Milwaukee, you're probably already dead.  It's warmer in Anchorage, Alaska then most of the midwest, the radio continues - something called a "polar vortex" is wildly out of control - and it's headed in this direction.  When I get home, I drag several of my dog and cat crates outside and fill them with old towels and blankets and some leftover straw and place them under the crepe myrtle, near to the heating unit and out of the wind.  I hope the strays will find and make use of them and with a little grace, survive the night.  Again, I think of hellfire.

Winter is a mean season, a killing season.  You save those you can, build shelters and pray for the rest.

Except for bike messengers who don't have the good sense to call in sick.