Goopy day

I shoveled the walk from the street to the house, for a change.  Good to know that I still can.
A kind neighbor with a snow-blower has been doing the sidewalk for years, G-d bless him.
Netanel would gladly do the rest, except that his doc has forbidden him to do any such thing until further notice.

It has been a cold grey day, which meant I had to make a good warm dinner:  baked fish, risotto, 
broccoli.  These winter nights I have been taking along a mug of warm milk (with a splash of vanilla or almond extract) when I go up to bed.  Mishka the cat often follows, and snuggles on my lap as I read or write, until she gets restless and goes back downstairs.  
She has adopted, as Her Place, Zalman's recliner.
I find her perched atop the back of it in the morning, meowing for breakfast. (A truly operatic meow.)
She has learned to wait just as long as it takes me to set water to boil for coffee, and to wash her plate from the night before.  I think, sometimes, that it is really the obligation to serve cat-breakfast that prods me to leave the comfort of the bedroom and the view of the mountains, to dress and come downstairs to greet the larger world.
If I delay, she comes upstairs and treats me to the full, indignant  opera-yowl:  ¿how can you keep me waiting so long?  It's fourteen hours since you filled my food bowl.  No mice around for me to catch and eat; I am unemployed through no fault of my own.  
I am dependent entirely on your sense of honor and responsibility.  (How humiliating.)  
But at night she is mellow, and purrs beside the laptop as I type this.  She will follow me upstairs and stay until she is sure I am going to sleep.  
Then she will go back down, and curl up in the chair 
where my imagination still sees 
the resting form of my beloved.