Why Bacon Matters In An Ice Storm
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I know something is wrong the moment my human starts staring at her phone like it has personally offended her.
She isn’t scrolling aimlessly or looking at pictures of dogs who are clearly not me. She is frowning, tilting her head, and making those small concerned noises that mean the weather people have said words they should never say out loud in Mississippi.
Sleet.
Sometimes they add ice, which is worse, because ice sounds sharp and slippery and deeply untrustworthy.
My human says, “Well,” in a tone that suggests we are about to enter a historical event. Then she starts moving with purpose. Not calm purpose. Urgent purpose. The kind that involves grabbing her purse and keys and saying, “I’m just going to run to the store.”
I have lived here long enough to understand this ritual. The mere suggestion of snow or ice sends otherwise sensible Southern humans rushing to the grocery store to buy milk, bread, and eggs. No one ever explains what they plan to do with all of these things together. There must be a meeting I was not invited to.
They also begin speaking reverently of storms that happened long before my time. The storm of ’94. The one in 2014. Power lines down. People stuck inside for days. Some people walked home from work, and for reasons no one has ever adequately explained, it was uphill. This detail is always mentioned.
Apparently, this explains everything.
What it does not explain is why no one initially mentioned the most important item of all.
Bacon.
Milk upsets my stomach. Bread is not a priority. Eggs are only interesting if they fall on the floor, which my human works very hard to prevent.
Bacon, however, represents warmth. Bacon represents morale. Bacon makes mornings feel normal when the world is doing the most.
Eventually, bacon was secured. This detail matters, because now we are three days into the ice storm, and the power is still out.
I want to be clear: I am lucky. I know this. We have heat. We have food. I have my blankets, my couch, and my people. Many others have it much harder, and I understand that.
I am not complaining.
I am simply observing that being trapped indoors with your humans for three straight days is… a lot.
They keep pacing. They keep checking their phones. They keep trying to turn on the lights even though the power is out. They say things like, “Remember, it was off for two weeks last time,” which is the sort of information no one asked for and absolutely no one wants to hear.
They also keep talking to me.
Constantly.
“Sweetie, can you believe this?”
“Well, girl, we’re still doing okay.”
“At least we’re warm.”
Yes. I know. I live here.
I supervise from the couch, where I have established what I believe is a very reasonable command center. The yard, now littered with fallen limbs, remains under careful surveillance. I have no interest in stepping outside on ice. That is between the ice and someone else.
I nap. I wake. I nap again. I accept snacks. I tolerate commentary.
I remain calm. I remain grateful. I remain ready for spring.
Because while I am thankful, warm, and fed, I would like to go back to my regularly scheduled routine, which includes sunshine, dry grass, and my humans leaving the house occasionally so I can miss them just enough.
And if the power comes back on soon, I will consider this whole experience a valuable character-building exercise.
For everyone else.
