It’s been cold here on top of the mountain, and we’ve been setting the thermostat low to keep the electric bill down. With the chimney freshly swept, a brand new cap installed thanks to Pirate-Husband’s handiness and skill, and a sky threatening snow, I thought it was the perfect time to light a fire. (Even though this does very little to warm the house past a three-foot radius around the fireplace, there’s still something about a roaring fire on a cold night that’s quite comforting.)

Kipling had no idea what was going on. He sniffed at the new fire for about thirty seconds and then wouldn’t go near it again. I tried to convince him to sit with me on the hearth, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Even after the fire had been going for an hour and was putting out significant warmth, he stayed up on the coffee table looking from a safe distance. After about two hours, he realized that hey, it’s *warm* over there! and moved closer to the fireplace.

Sir Not Appearing In This Post, AKA Floyd, wouldn’t go near the fire either, even though I asked him to just pose in front of it for a moment. For the sake of a picture, of course. He said that he would do no such thing, turned up his nose, and stalked away. What kind of crazy cats don’t like sitting near a warm fire on a cold night? There really is nothing like it; I’ll sit on the hearth if they won’t! And I’m certainly not complaining that the house smells of woodsmoke now, either.

When I lit another fire the next day, Kipling didn’t hesitate to sit near it. It’s good to know that he’s got a few brain cells in his spotted head. Floyd, on the other hand, still hasn’t figured it out. He slept on the couch the whole time the fire was lit. Silly cat!

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