January 1st is my birthday, which means I am officially older, wiser, and entitled to lick cake frosting with diplomatic immunity. The humans put a hat on me; I accept this crown and immediately attempt to eat its elastic. I make a wish: infinite treats, fewer vacuums. We play musical chairs—I win by sitting on everyone. My cake is carrot-peanut perfection; I inhale it politely, like a gentlemanly tornado. Gifts include a squeaky steak and a mysterious box that smells like destiny. I thank attendees by distributing commemorative fur. After-party: zoomies, nap, encore zoomies. Best day ever. Same time tomorrow?