Its not the presents; it’s all the decorations. The bright lights, all twinkly and sparkly, shining off the ornaments. I love driving around, looking at other peoples’ houses, their decorations, seeing how inspired (or uninspired) they might be. I love Christmas carols (unless they get stuck in my head) the crisp nip that should be in the air during December.
Usually by now we’re chomping at the bit to put the tree up.
But this year…not so much. This year, we have this:
He will climb the tree. He will chew the tree. He will spend as many waking hours as he possibly can trying to figure out how to turn a giant inside tree into his personal playground, and he won’t care how upset any of the people become. He will be filled with a joy unlike any other, and a glee that will have him hollering the feline equivalent of “Wheeeeeeee!” every time he goes near it.
Once that tree goes up, I will begin the slow descent into insanity, my days filled with “No, Buddah.” “Get off the tree, Buddah” “If you chew on that you will electrocute yourself and quite possibly burn the house down, Buddah.”
And Buddah will smile at me—as much as a cat can smile—and meow “This is fun!”
I have no hope of winning.
So if over the next few weeks my words become a meaningless jumble of babble, you’ll know why. We finally put the tree up, and the damned cat won.