I absolutely love Christmas trees–they’re so shiny and gaudy and warm. Normally, I drag the Christmas decorations out right after Thanksgiving and spend a whole day Christmas-ing up the place. I’m like a Who down in Whoville: I like Christmas a lot.
I could now compare my cats to the Grinch, but that isn’t precisely true. I’m sure they love Christmas. I’m sure they love the Christmas tree. Of course they do–it’s the best toy ever.
This year, I’m admitting defeat before the battle even begins. Why? Well, her name is Winnie. Sweet, precious Winnie.
Winnie is the orange tabby that some stranger dumped on my porch last December (best Christmas present ever, even if it came from a horrible, cat-dumping stranger). She is simultaneously the best and worst cat I’ve ever had.
More than any of my other tabbies, Winnie is a whirlwind of destruction. She has demolished my curtains. Destroyed my clothes hamper. Tore up the lamp shade to my antique lamp. She even shattered the bathroom sink. She’s the reason I can’t have nice things. She runs up my closet door like a squirrel running up a tree. It’s mildly impressive.
On the other hand, she sleeps curled up next to my face. She sits in the sink (a new sink, not the old, shattered one) while I get ready in the morning. And she purrs. And her face! So cute! And did I mention she sleeps right next to my face?
I’m absolutely certain that Winnifred would love a Christmas tree–she would love it the whole time she was knocking off the ornaments, rolling them around the living room, chewing on the branches, and pulling the whole thing over. It would be the best Christmas present Santa Paws could bring her!
The idea of that much destruction makes me tired. And so, defeat. This year, I’m putting a Santa hat on my suit of armor and calling it a holiday.