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 !
Scottie's Playtime 