Cassandra is not a happy puppy. She wants to go outside on principle; all summer she and Bonadea have been allowed out as soon as either of us gets home from work, and she’ll still eagerly run up to the cupboard where we keep the cats’ collars and stand purring as we put it on her, then run meowing like crazy to the door. But then, when the door actually opens, she shrinks back and all of a sudden she’s not at all certain she wants to be outside in the nasty cold weather. But when the door is closed she makes up her mind: of course she wants to be outside! She’s a cat—she must go hunting!

Forty seconds after I’d closed the door behind her today, she was sitting on the windowsill meowing heart-rendingly. And once inside, she wandered around, telling me in no uncertain terms that she’s incredibly disappointed in me—why do I have to let it be so cold? No, not at all a happy cat.

I look forward to seeing what she’ll do when it starts snowing. . .