Things suffer to please the eye. As I stood watering the burlapped rootball on our Christmas tree with its spiked fingers that peek out the window at sunrise each morning, I saw that many of its shoots had been trimmed. We danced around it, celebrated, then pulled its decorations off and stashed it here on cold floor tiles. This likely plump shrub was pruned and shaped with careful snips and cuts.

And down there by that tree ringed with dried and fading holiday wishes, I worked with the dog trainer today. Lily writhed and howled on the pronged end of a choke chain.

She doesn't like someone being in charge, L. said. She is used to being in charge. You have to be boss, she told me.

She said, sit. Following the command with a yank and attempt to reposition Lily into a sit, Lily just kept struggling. Soon she was promptly responding to her commands and as obedient as hell with the blunt, yet spiked links gripping her around the neck.

So it starts.

Lily's potential is currently asleep and I am the blindfolded and stumbling ass that needs to wake it up.

So, so cold outside. It slips in and finds my fingers and toes, drawing away their warmth. Cold. It's nothing really, but lack of heat.