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Kate Gilpin's Xmas
I've been noticing something
lately: I get fatter in the winter. It's not just the
constant thrusting in my face of one sugar-and-fat goodie after another
during the holiday season. It's also some primitive, hibernatory
urge to pack on extra sustenance (hah! like we need it!) to make it
through the cold, bare season of hiber. Probably most of us have
some of this urge, buried deep in our genes, to store up all those nuts
and roots, to drag them back to the cave to roast over a roaring fire
while the snowdrifts pile up in the dark outside and our relatives gnaw
noisily on the bones of an old buck. Sort of a universal survival
technique back there in the collective brainstem.
my tender Bouvalo, joins in sweetly, wandering from group to group,
saying hello and looking expectantly at pieces of cheese drooping from
crackers. Duncan-the-fairy-cat does a nervous scamper through,
then retreats to a bush in the garden, where he watches folks who drift
out there from time to time. He'll be back in the house like a
flash as soon as the front door closes on the last departing guest,
giving a scratchy meow and demanding dinner. My house is filled with the
perfume of spiced cider and the sounds of friendship.
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