I don't need to see the leaves change colors or drop off the trees to realize the average temperature is beginning to dip; I have a living temperature gauge in the house: my damn cat.
It must be fall because I have once again become her bestest friend.
As soon as the temperature in the house drops below 70 degrees, she is looking for a lap to fill. Because I'm the only lap in this house, it's mine.
This is true whether I am at my PC working, sitting in the chair in my bedroom trying to put on my shoes or lounging in my recliner watching TV.
Chillier temps turn her into a major league mooch. She is nothing if not a Florida cat.
She will sleep in my lap for as long as I am willing to sit and let her. Oh, she might hop down to get a drink of water or a couple of mouthfuls of food, but then she is right back.
If I get up to get something, she jumps down without complaint, but is standing at the ready when I return to my seat. If I don't come back within four or five minutes, she stalks me in the hope I have taken up residence in another chair somewhere else in the house.
Although I find it sort of charming for the first week or two, by mid January I am fed up with a fur ball lying on me nonstop.
Looking at the calendar, I calculate I have at least another 130 days of dealing with this.
It's going to be a long, long time until spring.