Chris Moose has gone into hibernation.

Finally.

After all, it’s March, when a foot-tall figurine of a moose wearing a sweater, a wool cap, a holiday scarf and carrying a wrapped present really shouldn’t remain out for public display.

Chris … Moose. He didn’t arrive named, so we did it ourselves …. because, y’know …

Never mind.

The point is, Chris made it from Thanksgiving weekend to Leap Day because a body at rest — his, in this case, atop the CD tower — stayed at rest until an outside force (that would be us) gave enough of a fig to act upon it.

Fig … acting upon a body at rest …

Never mind.

He did not go willingly, pointing out a trio of snowmen that remain on the fireplace mantel, a two-foot polystyrene snowman still in the hallway, a centerpiece of frosted pine cones and red candles on the coffee table, a string of lights hanging from the window, faux-holly on the outdoor window ledge and a wreath on the front door all implying that someone (that would be us) acted as though it was still Chris Moose season.

“Besides,” he pleaded. “My sweater’s green. I can help celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.”

Nice troll job, but that and a dime won’t even get you a phone call.

Dealing with what needs to be done is a matter of whatever, whenever these days. I spent precious free time this past week plowing through a pile of papers we’d labeled “stuff to get to eventually” — a Herculean rigmarole that required logging on to this site to register for that form to fill out for some-such thing.

I entered serial numbers of losing scratch tickets into a Second Chance drawing, put our names in for a European cruise sweepstakes, and changed a password that was about to expire … the latter of which forced me to track down where’d I put the torn-off corner of a sheet of paper on which I’d written the existing password.

I also mopped the kitchen and dining room floors (which needed cleaning), then tweaked my bad back (as opposed to my good one) when turning the mop loose on the bathroom floor beneath the Head of the Household’s port-a-potty.

Don’t tell her — no, not the cat — but I actually like such days. I just putter about doing this, that or the other thing from the honey-do or must do lists … which, as anyone with half-a-brain knows, are pretty much the same list.

For instance, uprooting the forest of junk mail on the kitchen counter or breaking down a cardboard box that had escaped dismantling since it arrived with a thingamajig or whatchamacallit that I can’t remember — but we clearly needed, since we’d opened the box — inside.

Such tasks don’t require much thought, which makes me highly qualified to tackle them.

Let others be jazzed about politics or pop stars, but my mind has had its fill of each; so, when the opportunity knocks, I prefer to turn off, tune out and drop what needs to be done in favor of something that makes what’s left of my mind less leery about our little corner of the world.

Turn … tune … drop … leery …

Never mind.

My little engine that could sense of accomplishment, however, began leaking oil when I felt the eyes of Chris Moose — relieved that he’d escaped this round of honey-do, must-do tasks — upon me.

I, though, knew something his self-satisfied smirk didn’t know.

Company was coming and it wouldn’t be me taking him off to rest in a nice mothball farm upstate. She — again, not the cat — banished him quicker than Negan swung Lucille, heading off our visitor from noting our post-holiday procrastination.

Until, that is, the doorbell rang.

“Do you know,” she asked, “you still have a Christmas wreath on the door?”