We braved the storm to take the cats to the vet today.
The storm, which rolled in from the North Pacific, was built up by the media as some kind of epic coming of the apocalypse, and it scared several school districts into pre-emptive cancelling of classes. Actually, it was just a normal California winter storm: a little flooding in low spots, a lot of traffic jams, and just sopping wet everywhere. (California rain tends to be what people used to cloudbursts would consider an intense drizzle: it just lasts all day.) The only difference is, this is the first one like it we've had in over two years, and folks forget.
[ETA: They even cancelled this evening's symphony concert. Is this kind of cowering the result of too much fear of terrorism or something? I've gone up to plenty of symphony concerts in weather as bad as this.]
Pippin remembered what it meant when we reached for him, and went to ground in the closet, from which he was easily retrieved. This was Maia's first vet visit, but, alas, she too could not be beguiled, and ran off to hide in various successive corners. We'd had all the room doors shut, but eventually opened a bathroom door, because a cat in avoidance of being caught can usually be counted to dart into a bathroom if one is available, which is a bad strategic move on the cat's part.
Nobody meowed on the drive, unlike the late Pandora who would wail piteously. They're healthy; we're going to try brushing Maia's teeth (as if she'll let us); and also try to teach her to eat regular meals instead of grazing.