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December 26th 2010    Tim Candler

    The Grey Cat trudges around.  Perhaps there are bigger paws out there.  Or an Owl.  So he beats up on the decorative accents that this time of year also produces. Convinces himself there is a life form under the rug.  And for a while he thinks he might be a kitten again.

    We both know it's just the discomfort of outside.  Snow has been off and on since December eleventh.  Midday temperatures lazy around the thirty degree mark.  And the sun has been sulking.

     I too should be moving around a little.  Try hard to get out there.  Remind those parts of me which make up a majority that it's not enough to pant while climbing stairs.  Nor does it suffice to congratulate myself for being able to now wear trousers without a belt.

    Then somewhere around March, I'll hurt something.  Could be the knee, or the wing, or that part of my back that refuses to be stoic.  Could even be some completely new part.

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