Actually, it's more like an "ice and sleet and blowing, drifting, blinding, horizontal snow and falling temperatures and the county sheriff said that if he sees your sorry carcass on the roads he will personally do things to you with your transmission that not even Wikipedia readers would believe" day.
Naturally, Tria is out.
We figure in a couple of minutes, we'll haul her frozen little body back inside, using her tail as a handle, and plunk her down in front of a heating vent to thaw for the next few hours. It will be a new version of the "Cat-sicle" story that we tell about Grammy and Grandpop's old cat, Max - a boxed set of stories to be brought out on cold nights and followed by copious whiskey for all involved, even small children. Because that's why we love cats, that's why.
This is our fifth storm with measurable snowfall in the last nine days, there's already more than half a foot of accumulated snow on the ground and more coming today, and it's not even officially winter yet. But my tea supply is good, I've got a pile of books to catch up on, and there is nowhere particularly pressing for me to go.