From the street, my small house looks lifeless. Inside, my old dog curls in an easy chair with one paw flung over the arm; she wakes, stirs, licks, shifts, sighs, and sleeps again. On a Boston rocker, my cat sleeps wound so tightly around herself that her head is tucked under the rest of her body.

I go to the back door to throw extra bird seed, suet, and fruit on the ground, lingering with the door open to the brown, wet day and speculating lazily about snow. The sun is an exploding flashbulb -- light without heat.

This day is the kind I remember from my childhood. Once again, the warm chill of reality defeats plans to test new skates and sleds. Against folklore, new bikes and basketballs make their echoing debuts on the streets.

The microwave bell summons me from my musing. I get the formerly frozen turkey dinner out, scrape its contents onto a plate of my best china, and take it to my large dining room table.

Crystal goblets of water and chablis wait on the linen cloth above the flatware newly rescued from the plastic bag. Piles of books, bills, magazines, and papers, shoved to one end, complete the table setting. The room has its few Christmas decorations, those strewn quickly about to satisfy the sensibilities of chance visitors.

As I make sure my dinner companions have food and water, the cat suddenly takes a consciousness break and sits up, but does not abandon her perch. Facing the back of the chair, she performs a cleaning ritual. Then she leaps down, stretches, critiques the dog's sleeping form, and targets her food dish.

To the accompaniment of brittle stars snapping under cat teeth, I wash my hands and go back to the table to find that the turkey dinner is now lukewarm. Dismissing the idea of reheating it, I take a long, slow drink of chablis and stare out into the rapidly dimming world in silent celebration.

After dinner, we go out for a little walk, the dog and I, then agree to an early bedtime. By accident, the cat arrives in the bedroom at the same time and decides to stay.

And to all a good night.

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