It's snowing. Again. Four inches plus predicted by morning.
I'm becoming one of those characters in a Jack London story who watches the wolves coming over the frozen wasteland while I hide in the cabin, banging my head against the wall and moaning, "my God, my God, the everlasting snow," and drinking water glasses full of whiskey while my faithful husky looks on, contented because he's chewing a half-frozen strip of blubber and he doesn't understand what the problem could be.
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