“So okay… okay, boy… so we get up in the morning
and the whole world’s covered with ice, eh? It’s as if
some primordial Canadian authority figure has pulled
a gun and hollered, "Freeze!’ or something, by the Jeez!
So okay… okay, boy, nothing’s moving nowhere and
our hands are up in the air, when the cat takes a
running jump out the door and just slides away…
must’ve took one look at all that ice, I guess, and
decided that she could probably make it to the barn
next door, wriggling and writhing on the slick, hard
surface of the ice, until she figured out how to sort of
skate on her tiny retractable claws… and the ice-broken
branches are crashing down all over the place!
So okay… okay, boy… so she then performs a few
fancy moves and disappears over the hill, headed for
the kitty-cat ice-capades, I suppose, along with a
couple of wild-eyed photographers and two or three
of those moronic criminals like they have on T.V. who
are trying to get away with some heavy equipment,
and a bunch of Mounties in big spiked boots, coming
over the horizon hollering, “Freeze!”
The descendants of Irish settlers who live in the Ottawa Valley in Ontario have their own distinctive accent and sense of humour, so I used one of their characters to describe an ice-storm there.