A Nasty Cold Start

My feet are cold. It's mid-afternoon in Maine and the sun is on its way down. The wind is howling and the weather people on TV insist on giving the temperatures based on the wind chill. I'm safely inside listening to the wind. But my feet are cold. A week ago, when the temps were about 60 degrees, I was saying, 'Hah! Wasn't much of a winter was it?' And now my feet are cold and my dog won't even take a walk. The closest to going out for young Baxter is to dash onto the deck in pursuit of the tree rat (squirrel) that's raiding my squirrel-proof bird feeders. The squirrel dashes to the spruce trees nearby, and Baxter proudly dashes back into the house to a thousand accolades for his work in behalf of the household. But my feet are cold and I must leave this place, this space in the house to find a warmer zone.