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Just as your toes are warming up beneath

the covers, the wife whispers “Darling,

America wants to come in out of the cold,”

so you grumble through the frigid kitchen

to the door, and there sits this orange cat

looking all matted and filthy from

who-knows-what rubbish it’s been poking in,

and when you reach for a towel it blinks

twice and darts off again into the darkness.