Cold Snap

Newsletter 2023-12-01

Which one of you turned down the temperature on the earth? I’m not mad, just disappointed. Wait, actually I’m furious. Last week, it was jacket weather. Now, I can’t walk out my front door without Arctic survival gear. When I get home, I have to do an eyebrow check to see if they’re still there or if they froze off. For as thick as they are, you’d think they’d provide me with some protection against the cold, but it turns out they’re strictly decorative. So is the rest of my body hair. I might be as furry as the abominable snowman, but I have the cold tolerance of a reptile. When the temperature drops, I slow down until I finally just sort of freeze in place. Whether or not I’ll revive in the spring is anyone’s guess. Hopefully I won’t. I can only imagine the size of the chore list waiting for me if I come back.

No one in my house handles cold particularly well. That’s especially true of the pigs. They’re comfortable in the same temperature ranges as humans, but with the notable handicap of being nude. You might not think going outside in thirty-degree weather is all that bad, but you’d probably feel differently if you had to do it in your birthday suit. Or maybe not. I’m not here to lifestyle-shame anyone. Despite my best efforts, my pigs absolutely refuse to wear people clothes. A simple sweater could revolutionize their lives, but they’re not having it. It’s better to freeze to death than to look stupid. That’s the motto of the entire fashion industry. In better weather, the pigs spend nearly all of their time outside. They have twenty-four hour access to the backyard through a doggy door, and they use it liberally. When it gets cold, however, they turn into big babies, and this is coming from me, the biggest cold weather baby of all. Instead of going outside to rummage and make mischief, they stay in their room and bang against the baby gate that blocks them off from the rest of the house. They act like all they want to do is come in and hang out. I continuously fall for it. As soon as I open the gate, the big one launches herself like a rocket at the first thing she can destroy. There’s always something I miss when hastily pig-proofing the house. Most recently, Gilly put her front two legs on a dining room chair to grab an entire package of licorice off the side table. My thirteen-year-old, Betsy, bravely battled her to get it back, but the package was a total loss. Thankfully, it was peach flavored, so it was barely fit for human consumption in the first place. The only acceptable Twizzlers flavors are strawberry, cherry, and, if they’re the filled kind, lemon. Anything else is a crime according to the laws of God and man.