Guilt Trippin'

Some days are just made for cocooning indoors. I'm sorry if that makes me a wuss, it just happens to be true. The temperature never got above freezing, or not enough to matter. The wind isn't howling and hurling things bodily off the ridge like yesterday, but it's still blowing and a lot colder. You'd have had to set the lair on fire to get me out of it for more than the most momentary chore, and even then I might hang around a bit to enjoy the free heat.

Now, the older dogs really don't object to a day or two of this; they just snooze on the bed. Ghost, however, is not so patient. Already unhappy with me over the rushed, token walk I gave him earlier, he was up and down all afternoon. Around 3:30 Fritz started joining in. They wanted out. They wanted in. They wanted to be petted. They wanted to stand there and whine. I was thoroughly into this historical romance I'd swiped from my landlady's stash (Yes, I know, but I've read all my own five times and it's not a bad yarn) and truly not in a mood to be ganged up on over my shortcomings and those of the weather.

Finally around four, I spoke the magic words that really weren't due for another hour: "Who wants snackies?" They all but put three large dog-shaped holes in the door of the lair. Yeah, they either decided on the spot that that was what they wanted, or that actually was what they wanted. Either way, it would do.

It took me a bit to find the plastic dishes from the last snackie time, since the wind had hurled one of them halfway down the slope. By the time I got meds crushed and food distributed, the dogs had worked themselves into a rare state over the ritual. "Gluttony's a sin, guys," I said as I distributed dishes.

Ghost looked up from his dish and said, very distinctly, "So is sloth, Uncle Joel."

It's possible I've been alone up here a little too long.