A bag of tiny chocolate chip cookies from the company who was here a few weeks ago working in my bathroom. I’m off cookies until my jeans are looser again like they were in November, so these will go into the freezer, but anyway, they still brightened the day!

Next, a cool Substack post from Worriedman. I’ve shared his posts here before. Today’s is extra cool.

In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not I’m dead.

Margaret Atwood – February

Worriedman Jan 31, 2026

The whole poem –

February

by Margaret Atwood

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

Presented complete for educational purposes. And because no page celebrating the work of the great Margret Catwood is complete without the phrase "Cat, enough of your greedy whining and your small pink bumhole."

It's the last Saturday before February. It's wicked cold  - 2 degrees with a breeze. 

It's Caturday, though Hello  Barncat!

Sam, in repose

Amos , paying attention!

Cold assed….ass.

One more ! 
Soon ...

That's all I got room for - Thanks for dropping by !

https://open.substack.com/pub/brawlatthepoetscafe/p/in-the-pewter-mornings-the-cat-a?utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web