Let's put the blame where it clearly belongs, directly on the shoulders of the spousal unit.

Ever since he first brushed up against winter, our tiny gray cat Binky has had a thing about eating snow. The first thing he does when he hits the great out of doors this time of year is to rocket out down the walkway, throw on the brakes, skid to a stop and eat snow.

This eating snow business is odd, but fine.

We keep a small glass plate in the window beside the door we use to come in the house. From time to time, if it's extremely cold, we'll grab the plate as we're coming in, head outside briefly, scoop some snow into it and set it down for Bink.

Which officially makes us crazy cat people.

As if there was any doubt.

Well, this past week it's been outrageously cold. As in, open the door and hit cold so severe it feels like a wall. It takes some serious loin girdage to head outside. The spousal unit and I do it because we have to. The cats are a lot more choosy.

It's not that they *don't* want to go out. Every time we open the door the cats race to it and stick their noses outside. They all have severe cabin fever. They hope against hope that each time the door opens It Will Be Spring. Once they verify that nope, still not spring, still stupidly cold, they quickly spin around back into the house.

This leaves Binky with severe snow needs. Unwilling to brave the sub arctic horror which is our weather, he stands at the door and mews piteously at whoever is coming or going. He stares fixedly at the snow plate, because clearly he thinks we are too stupid to grok what he is thinking.

We fill the snow plate for him.

Do not judge us.

Well, late this afternoon it was my turn to get the Binky stare as I came in from shovelling the walk. Proving yet again that the cats are our Dark Overlords and we exist solely to serve them, I dutifully went back out and got Bink his snow.

That should have been that.

Well, about 10 minutes later the spousal unit came in from his workshop. Bink had been licking steadily on his snow, which had begun to change from light fluff to slush in the heat of our porch. In Bink's world, fluff is good, slush is inferior.

In my world, this is Tough Nougats.

From the kitchen I overheard the spousal unit talking to the cat. Clearly the cat had fixed him with The Stare. "What's wrong Mr. B?" he asked. "Is your snow slushy?"

I heard the clink of a glass plate being lifted, the sound of a door opening, footsteps outside, door re-opening, the clink of a glass plate being set down. You can well imagine my horror.

Apparently it will no longer be adequate to get the cat snow. Now we will have to get the cat snow which meets the cat's exacting standards. See, that's the thing with cats. They never forget anything. If you do something for them once, that becomes the new gold standard. Anything else is considered completely inadequate.

Well, I call shenanigans. Oh, I know, having a small gray cat sulking at you isn't the end of the world exactly, but believe me, when a cat is ticked off they can make you feel their pain. In the world of snit throwing, a cat is an Olympic class animal.

The spousal unit has created this situation, and the spousal unit will have to deal with it, at least until spring comes. I refuse to get the cat snow more than once. Really. I mean it.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

--Marn