I have a simple philosophy: if it jingles, crinkles, or smells like cinnamon, it belongs to me. That’s why Christmas is my Super Bowl of joy. The whole house transforms into a wonderland of twinkle lights and forbidden snacks, and I patrol it with the gravity of a decorated officer—one who occasionally forgets himself and zoomies under the tree.
First, the scents. Oh, the scents. There’s a pine forest living in the living room, a turkey spa day happening in the oven, and something called “stuffing” that smells like warm hugs. I station myself in the kitchen, offering moral support and strategic floor-cleaning services. If a roll leaps to freedom, I escort it to safety. Heroic, I know.
Then come the crinkly miracles: wrapping paper and ribbons. Humans hand each other boxes, squeal with delight, and I assist by transforming leftover paper into festive confetti. Enrichment is important during the holidays. Ribbons also make excellent seasonal neckties. I’m very dapper. The cat disagrees, but the cat thinks everything is “derivative.”
The music? Amazing. I add tasteful harmonies to carols with a soulful awooo at emotionally resonant intervals. My timing is impeccable. Occasionally, I am asked to “use my inside voice.” I counter with a wag that could power the Christmas tree lights.
Speaking of the tree: I admire it nightly, basking in its glow like a philosopher. I do not touch the ornaments. I merely… consider them. Growth is real.
The best part, though, is the cozy. Fireside naps, couch cuddles, small blankets tucked under my chin—this is advanced relaxation. And the people I love are home more, laughing, sharing, dropping snacks completely by accident.
Christmas is simple: warm hearts, full bellies, gentle lights, and a pack that feels extra close. If you need me, I’ll be by the tree, guarding the biscuits and believing in miracles.